Animals are People, Too

The other day I was sunning on the deck and I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A squirrel was making his way across our back yard with an hydrangea blossom in his mouth. I don't know much about the habits of squirrels, but from what I've heard their preferred foods run along nut-and-acorn lines... so I wondered what on earth he was planning on doing with it. As I watched, he made his way carefully across the backyard - the blossom was large, so it was slow going - and climbed up a nearby tree. He worked his way to the end of a large branch, where he sat patiently for ten minutes or so, the bloom perched delicately in his mouth. Was he trying to attract a mate? Did he offend Mrs. Squirrel in some way, and was trying to get back in her good graces? Were his reasons more practical - a good pillow, perhaps? After a bit he scampered away, so I'll never know.

One brisk morning I was sitting on the steps of our back porch, soaking in some late fall sun. My eyes were closed, and I heard movement directly in front of me, a kind of rustling. I assumed it was the dog, until I heard a low garbling sound, and I opened my eyes to see a huge wild turkey standing about three feet away. He was the size of a medium sized dog, and he was staring at me expectantly. "Hello?" I tried. Then, "Gobble?" He said nothing, just stood there, looking all superior. I waved my arms a bit hoping to shoo him away, he was freaking me out a little, and he took a step closer. It was awkward - he seemed to be waiting for something - food? a hug? an apology for the whole Thanksgiving thing? I got the impression he would have stood there indefinitely if the dog hadn't realized what was going on and come bounding out of the house. The turkey spread his huge wings - I didn't even know they could fly, for crying out loud - and soared up to the very top of a huge pine tree, where he resumed his hateful staring. I slipped back inside, feeling oddly guilty.

A few months ago I was cleaning up breakfast, and heard a loud, tinny sound from outside the front door - a ping.... ping.... ping. The noise would stop for a few moments, then from further away, like an echo, more pinging. After five minutes or so my curiosity got the better of me, and I poked my head out the front door to see what it was. It took me a few minutes to realize a little bird - no bigger than a sparrow - was perched atop the metal electronics box at the top of the telephone pole at the end of our driveway. He would cock his head, wait a bit, and the peck repeatedly at the box, creating a startlingly loud PING. Then, after 30 seconds or so, a distant answer ... another little bird was pinging back to him from a telephone pole up the road. Birdy morse code? A high tech way to attract a mate? Why wouldn't they just chirp to each other? It reminded me of the coffee-can-and-string telephones I would make with my neighbor when I was girl. We could totally call each other on the phone, but why do that when the other way is so much fun?

Last year I was sitting at my computer near an open window, and I heard a loud crashing sound in the woods. I looked out the window, and it took me a few minutes to see the large male deer standing about 25 feet away, slowing making his way through the woods - he was heading towards the road. Then, more crashing, and I realized there was an entire family of deer coming up behind him - a doe, and two smaller deer - not fawns, but more like teenagers. They cautiously worked their way right up to the edge of the road. Cars were rushing by, and my stomach lurched at the thought that I was about to witness something horrible. As I was debating whether to run out towards the road to stop any oncoming cars, the buck put one hoof on the road, stuck his head out and looked left, then right, then left again - as if he had been watching Noggin and knew the proper way to check for traffic. Seeing none, he huffed once through his nose, tossed his head, and the little family darted across the road and into the woods on the other side, with him following safely behind.

Check List

Let's see....


1) warm comfy bed? CHECK



2) favorite pillow? CHECK



3) sunsplashed room? CHECK



4) hand on kitty? CHECK



5) unwashed face? CHECK



6) cozy blanket in hand? CHECK



7) cozy blanket up nose? CHECK



Ahhhh .. just right....................

Dragging the Truth into the Light

One morning earlier this month, Diane Schuler, a 36 year-old mother of two, left a campground with her two children and three nieces. At 1:30pm she crashed her car headlong into an SUV, after driving two miles at high speed the wrong way down a familiar highway. She killed the three occupants of the SUV, herself, her daughter and her nieces. Only her 5 year old son survived.

Nobody who knew Schuler could understand what could have gone so terribly wrong.

Even in the face of irrefutable toxicology results, in news reports family members and friends insisted they had never seen her drink to excess, that she didn't have a problem with alcohol or drugs, they would have known.

Earlier this week I was contacted by a reporter from USA Today who wanted to know whether it is really possible that Schuler’s family didn’t know. "It is possible," I told the reporter. "To understand what happened, we have to talk about denial.”

In order to slip into addiction, you have to tell yourself a lot of lies. In the earlier stages, the things you tell yourself are like the white lies we tell overselves: it has been an unusually hard day, I need a drink. I don't drink every day. I need my wine to sleep. I am a more patient mother after a drink. I can only compare it to dieting, something more of us understand: I was good today, I'll just have one cookie. One dessert won't hurt, I'll spend an hour at the gym tomorrow. I'll eat this today, and then I'll be good the rest of the week.

Like someone who somehow ends up heavier after a month of dieting, the alcoholic gets further down the path of addiction, and doesn't even know it. As the disease progresses - and it always progresses - the lies become more desperate: I can stop anytime I want to. I'm not hurting anyone but myself. Everyone drinks too much sometimes, right?

In the end game, when you can't stop, denial is in full bloom. Your rational mind says: I'm drinking at 10:30am, this is really, really bad. Your disease tells you: just have one to get the edge off. You can stop after one.

There is a complete disconnect between what you are thinking and what you are doing.

Your sick thoughts become your reality. You think to yourself: I'm not that bad. Your disease tells you: they won't understand how much pain you are in, how much drinking sustains you. Your primary objective becomes making sure the world doesn't find out. You carry breath mints, drink coffee. You stash bottles around the house, keeping one bottle "for show" in the refrigerator that you never touch. When you go out socially, you drink in secret beforehand, so you can do your "normal" drinking in public. You go to great lengths to ensure your secret stays safe. You are convinced you can stop when you want to, that you will stop tomorrow. Just one more, is the constant litany in your head.

When my drinking was nearing its worst, my house was always clean. The kids' hair was brushed, their outfits matched, their packed lunches nutritious. I tried to be on time everywhere I went. I made sure I always appeared put-together, neatly dressed. Any crack in this veneer terrified me, because I thought the smallest signal to the outside world that something wasn't right would reveal my terrible secret.

Towards the end, I was lying to myself almost all the time. One weekend, I was supposed to go away with some girlfriends. The morning I was to leave, I woke up and thought: I think I'm coming down with something, I'm tired. I shouldn't go. I called my friends and cancelled. The reality was this: I was afraid, because I wouldn't be able to drink like I wanted to around them. I was afraid I would expose my secret. But here's the rub: I believed the lie I told myself, I really thought I wasn't feeling well. To admit differently was to face my ugly truth - that I was in serious trouble.

The more the disease progresses the stronger the lies become, the more you believe them. You cannot possibly be truthful with anyone else when you aren't being truthful with yourself.

The emptiness of obsession and addiction crowds out your spirit – stamping out everything about you that is warm, loving, passionate, responsible and empathic until nothing but a tiny pilot light remains, barely discernible in the darkness.

So I understand how it could have happened. An alcoholic can no more control her own drinking than a diabetic can control the level of insulin her body produces. Being a mother doesn't come into play with late stage addiction, any more than being a mother would matter with Stage Four cancer. We can't know what Schuler's family knew, if or when they knew things were off. But it is clear from the news reports that they don't want to believe addiction could be at the root of it all. Alcoholics are masters at covering up their disease. Family and friends may see odd behavior, things may not all be adding up, but the hard truth is that - especially with mothers - addiction is rarely considered.

Nobody wants to believe the truth: not the addict, not the family. It touches on something too ugly, too frightening. Addiction is fueled by silence and denial. We can't prevent alcoholism or addiction from happening, we can't even cure it. But we can drag the truth out into the light of day, talk about it, and realize that in using our hearts and voices we can heal. In order to bust through the largest obstacle in addiction - denial - we have to talk about it. Even if it makes us wince. Especially if it makes us wince.

If you know someone you think may have a problem, speak up. And read this post by Damomma - she lived it firsthand. As she said to me once - you can have unconditional love, but you don't need to have unconditional acceptance.

And if you are struggling with alcohol or drugs, if you are worried you may have a problem, or if you know you do, get help. If you are too ashamed to talk to family, friends or loved ones, go to an anonymous meeting and listen. Get informed. Try telling yourself the truth. As scary as that is, it isn't nearly as frightening as a life of secrecy and denial. Trust me.

Magic

Finn loves to talk to me when I'm reading. I guess the way he sees it, I'm immobile and I'm silent, so what better time to talk? Earlier, the kids were eating dinner and my work for the day was done, so I cozied up in a chair to read me some David Sedaris. I got two sentences in, and Finn wanders up to me. He is quiet for, like, fifteen seconds, and then off he goes.

"How come you can't light fireworks in the house?"

"Ummm, because the house would catch on fire."

"Are fireworks magic?"

I am still pretending to read, hoping this line of questioning won't last long. "Sure," I say.

"Maybe there's a magic crystal inside them, with a beautiful piece of gold inside. Maybe that is how they work."

"Maybe."

"Maybe the magic gold lights a magic stick and makes beautiful lights. Maybe."

I don't respond instantaneously, so he continues. "Outer space is cool. I wished I could go to outer space. Then I could fwoat."

I nod.

"Maybe I could build a rocket ship with sticks and fireworks. But if I did you might get mad."

He is quiet for a minute, swinging his hands back and forth.

"You need a rocket ship to go to outer space. I wished we had a rocket ship."

Again, silence from me.

"Are rocket ships magic? Do you know how to dwive a rocket ship? I wished I could dwive a rocket ship. But I'm only fwee and the policeman would get me."

I keep pretending to read.

"Did you know that baps are actually owls?" (baps are bats, for the uninformed.)

"Ummm - I think bats are actually flying mice" I venture.

He starts flying around the room, pretending to be a bap. "I can't believe baps are flying mice," he says. "I wished I was a bap. Do you wish you were a bap?"

I sigh.

"Do you want me to stop talking?" he asks.

My heart lurches a bit. "No, honey," I say with resignation, "I like it when you talk."

Then he says, "I could talk in a different diwection if you want."

I smile, and his cute little face lights up.

He starts zooming around the room again, and says, "Yeah, I think it is definitely magic that makes fireworks and rocket ships. Definitely."

Mad Skills

When I worked in Corporate America I thought I had mad skills. I could manage multi-million dollar accounts, give bad-ass presentations to Very Important People and not bat an eyelash. I could soothe ruffled feathers, politic and multi-task with the best of them. My plans for World Domination were chugging along nicely.

But, let me tell you, that was amateur hour compared to parenting. With apologies to those Very Important People who go through their business day thinking they are accomplishing a lot, keeping all the proverbial balls in the air - you ain't got nothing on me now.

If a CEO showed up at my house to apply for the job of being a Mom, I know exactly what I'd do. Forget your basic job application, filled out quietly while sitting at a tidy table. Step on into my kitchen around 5pm with the simple task of preparing dinner, and then we'll see what you're made of. Lets see if you can talk on the phone, cook mac and cheese, tie tiny string leashes onto the necks of dozens of Littlest Pet Shops, referee a fight between the kids and wipe up the spilled juice on the floor with a paper towel under your foot. Simultaneously. For starters.

The other day, I'm trying to get some work done, make some jewelry. By some cruel twist of fate, my kids aren't big television watchers. "Go watch TV, PLEASE!" I heard myself saying to my kids. "Or play a video game - or something!" No such luck. Greta switched on the TV, saw "Yo Gabba Gabba" on, put her hands to her eyes and said "It burns! It burns!" and turned it off.

"I need to do work now," I say patiently. "Please entertain yourselves for an hour, and then we'll go do something fun."

I settle in, and the kids retreat to the playroom and play happily for about five minutes. Then Greta wanders in. "Mom?" she says. "I'm a princess? In a castle? And I'm an orphan?"

"Mmm hmmm," I reply distractedly.

"And you're the Mean Orphanage Lady? Who makes us work? So you give us chores to do, and we don't like you?"

"Got it, right," I say, barely listening.

The phone rings - a client I need to talk to about a custom order. So I'm beading, talking to my client and being the Mean Orphanage Lady all at the same time. Thankfully, my client is also a Mom, so she is completely unfazed by my periodic shouts of "Now wash those floors until they gleam!" or "Nothing but porridge for you!" while we're talking. Finn is potty training, every use of the toilet needing it's own parade - and so he goes a lot. So now I'm talking on the phone, ordering my little orphan princess around and smiling like a maniac in the bathroom and clapping for my son. The dog is barking - she needs to go out. Finn is saying "its a GOOD one, right Momma?" and pointing to the toilet, my client is talking into my ear and Greta is method acting, mopping the floor dramatically and singing some song of woe. I hang up the phone, let the dog out, give Finn a sticker for using the potty, give the Orphan Princess another chore. I wander into the next room, thinking "what was I doing again?" Only fifteen minutes has passed.

I saw a television show once, an experiment about multi-tasking, and how men and women are different (insert comment about gender stereotyping here). They took one man and one woman, and put them in their own glass room full of equipment and gave them each the same list of things they needed to accomplish. The man was an executive, the woman a mother (insert comment about gender stereotyping here). They gave them 15 minutes to accomplish every item. The list included: make a phone call, cook toast, boil water, send a fax, clean the counters and make some photo copies. The man picked up his list, and went through each item, one at a time. He got halfway through the list.

The woman set the pot on to boil, hit send on the fax, plopped the paper into the copier to copy, put the toast in the toaster, picked up the phone - all while wiping the counters. She was done in five minutes, looking at the camera as if to say, "is this all you got?"

Shortcut Ain't A Bad Word

An important caveat up front: I am totally copying Damomma's post idea. Go check it out, especially if you're having a bad day parenting-wise, and read the comments. Trust me - you'll feel better. And besides - she told the Universe that I gave her kid a hot dog for breakfast after her daughter slept over... so I don't even feel badly about my lack of originality.

Her post is about Mommy Confessions. I had been kicking around a few of mine in my head recently, and her post prompted me to share. I'm a big believer in getting things out - as a parent my day to day life is filled with tiny little decisions, and it is just not realistic that I'm going to make all the right ones. And, I have always been a shortcut person. So here goes.

I hate laundry. Like, really hate laundry. I wish there was a cognitive behavioral therapist who specialized in Fear of Laundry, because I have it. I have no problem washing clothes; I like clean underwear as much as the next person. It is the folding and putting away part that I detest - it just seems so pointless. Every now and then I'll get super motivated and fold and put away millions of tiny child sized tee shirts, shorts and underpants. I'll get all organized and put everything in its own drawer, stacked neatly and gleaming. It takes all of two days for everything to spill out onto the floor. It all seems so fruitless.

I spend much of my day saying "In A MINUTE!" to my kids. Of course, I don't mean In A Minute, I mean can you please go away for at least an hour? My daughter is on to this, and she will now say "Mom, do you mean in 60 seconds or in like two hours?" Both my kids now say it back to me on a regular basis, too. I was desperate for Greta to get dressed so we could go out the door to something we were already late for, and she was sitting on the floor dressing up her Webkinz. "In a MINUTE!" she said to me, when I asked her for the gadzillionth time to get dressed. "Pom Pom can't decide which shirt to wear!" All I can do is stand there and get a good dose of my own medicine.

Especially in these long summer days, I am desperate for the kids to go to bed at night. It was a dark day when my 6 year old learned to tell time. Her bedtime in the summer is 8:30pm. On particularly long days I will set the clock back an hour, just so she will go to bed. I tell her it is time for bed, and she'll say "but it isn't 8:30!", and I'll point meaningfully to the clock. I'm sure she's up there lying in bed wondering why she can still hear the neighbor kids playing, but I'm downstairs with my feet up and a cup of tea and I don't care.

My 3 year old son talks all day. I mean ALL DAY. He'll just prattle on with these statements, and he won't stop until he gets some kind of validation from me. Much of the time, his concepts make no sense, or are plain wrong. I am too tired to correct them, so I just agree with everything says, hoping he'll stop talking. I figure the school system can sort it out one day - that polar bears don't actually live in the jungle, that the moon isn't the size of a marble, that motor boats can't fly - all things he steadfastly believes to be true, because it was his idea so it must be true, right Momma? Right Momma? RIGHT MOMMA?

My son still needs to nap on occasion. He is less than enthusiastic about this idea. So a few months ago I pretended to call the doctor and ask if he still needed to nap. I hung up the phone and told him "the doctor said you still need naps"... now when I tell him it is time for a nap, he says "Doctor said, right?"

To cut down on the bickering between my kids, I started a Yelling Jar. Anyone who yelled had to put in a quarter. So far, I am the only contributor.

Some days are just worse than others. Some days we spend the day in a cycle of frustration, pleading, whining and bickering. After days like this, after the kids have been asleep for a while, I'll sneak into their room, look at them all curled up together looking adorable, and I'll feel like a terrible Mom.

In the summer, running through the sprinkler or going in a pool totally qualifies as baths.

I can only sit and play a game with them, or do a craft, or read a book, for about half an hour and then I want to tear my hair out.

If I'm short on money and don't want to go to the ATM, I'll raid my daughter's piggy bank, telling myself I'll replace it before she notices. Then I always forget to replace it. This caught up to me on a girl scout field trip - she was perusing the gift shop and literally shouted to me over the heads of all the other mothers that she "can spend the eighteen dollars you stole from my piggy bank - you OWE me."

Anyone else want to share? C'mon - you know you want to....

731 Days

It is early morning on August 16, 2007, and my eyes open a crack. I hear a faint snoring coming from my right - my husband? - but somehow the room feels all wrong. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping to fall back asleep, and it hits me. It's over.

I open my eyes fully, and I know where I am. I stare at the pockmarked, stained ceiling tiles and my thoughts race. I think: why me? I think: how could I? I think: I'm so, so tired. But one phrase goes over and over in my head: it's over. It. Is. Over. Please God let it be over.

I move my head slowly to the right, and see a middle aged woman in the twin bed next to mine, sleeping deeply with her mouth hanging open. Her dishwater grey curls are a mass of tangles, her face ashen. If it weren't for the faint snoring, I would think she was dead.

I am at a detox facility. I had left this very place two days prior after a ten day stay. I thought I was ready for the real world - I took lots of notes. I paid attention to everything the counselors told me. I listened to all the stories of heartache and pain. I promised everyone that I was okay - that I was ready to leave.

I wasn't.

Home less than 48 hours, and the Disease got me by the throat again. I know how it happened - I still thought I was in control. I still didn't believe. I still thought I could have "just one" in safety. I have never been more wrong.

I'm too tired to cry. I'm too tired to fight anymore. I thought I was strong, I thought I could beat this thing. I can't. I roll carefully on my side, and slide off the bed on to the floor. I try the one thing I haven't tried.... I get down on my knees, lean my head against the side of the bed. And I pray. I don't know who or what I'm praying to, not yet, but I know what I'm praying for. I'm praying that I will get out of my own way. I don't know it yet, but I'm finally, finally giving up, I'm finally letting go.

After a 30 day stay at a treatment center, I am told I am ready to go. I do not feel ready to go. I am terrified. This, I am told, is a good sign. It means I have surrendered - that I understand that left to my own resources I am in trouble. I am told to go straight to a meeting, put my hand up, and ask for help, so this is what I do. And help comes.

I know now that my recovery is not my doing. Sure, I'm the one putting one foot in front of the other, putting the advice I'm given into action. But I have learned how to put Faith in front of Fear, and to let go. I do not walk alone. Today marks the two year anniversary of my sobriety. But it isn't about years - it is about putting together 24 hours at a time. It is 731 days, because 2008 was a leap year - an extra day in February. In recovery it is said that the person with the most sobriety is the person who got up earliest that day. I do not project too far into the future, I do not look too far into the past. I do my best to stay in the moment, because each sober day I have is a day I couldn't have dreamed of only 731 days ago.

This morning I open my eyes early - I want to see the sun rise. We are out at our beach camp, and the sun rises up over the lighthouse next door to our cottage. I hear the faint snoring of my husband sleeping beside me. I peek out the door to the next room - at Greta and Finn, their little limbs all tangled together in a heap, sound asleep and dreaming.

I slide off the bed and get down on my knees. "Thank you," I say softly. As the first beams of sunlight stream through my bedroom window, I say it over and over. Thank you, thank you, thank you.