It’s this crazy C-section awareness or appreciation or WHATEVER month. Who knew. And guess what, I had a c-section. So, because it’s C-Section Awareness month, you get to hear about my run in with a C-section. Blood, uterus on the tummy and all.

It all started back in March 1996. I was measuring HUGE. As in, I was the size of someone who was 15 months pregnant carrying twins. Seriously, THAT huge.

Not only was I huge but, the kid was breech. He was lying ribcage to ribcage. And to make matters worse, his head was under my right ribcage which was constantly vibrating from his bouts of hiccups. This kid had more hiccups when he was in my uterus. Once he was born, I couldn’t get him to expel any type of gas from his mouth. But boy, did he fart.

Anywhoo.

Because he was SO breech, the doctors decided to try to get him to go into position by loading my up with painkillers that allegedly don’t cross the into the placenta and then they proceeded to flip him around from the outside.

It worked.

But holy hell on a bicycle (I made that up) did that procedure hurt. I’d say worse than childbirth but, at the time, I didn’t have that to compare it to. So, I would probably have said it hurt worse than…nothing. It was the worst thing that I had ever experienced as far as pain goes.

OK, good. The doctors were able to flip the kid around and set him up for departure. So, I went home. Where I had to wait a good 3 or so more weeks until my due date. Which was April 21st, 1996.

A couple weeks later, after an ultrasound because the doctors were concerned about my girth, I was called into my doctors office to discuss a certain matter.

You see, the doctors determined that my child was measuring around 13 pounds.

Yes. 13 pounds.

Or so the G-D’s doctors thought.

I was told that, due to the mass vs. circumference, delivery via my vagina would not be the route the birth should take.

It was explained to me that, in the event of birthing baby elephants, there is the risk of shoulder dysplasia not to mention an exploding pelvic area. And that, they said, is not a good thing.

This was Thursday, April 18th.

The decision was made that I should come to the hospital the very next morning, at 7am where I would deliver my baby through an incision.

This was NOT what I had wanted to hear.

Having a C-Section was one of my greatest fears of pregnancy. And here I was, sitting in front of the doctor who was basically saying “welcome to your nightmare”.

I didn’t want anything bad to happen to my firstborn baby. So, C-Section it was.

When I got into my car and headed home, I started to shake and cry uncontrollably. I couldn’t call anyone because this is back in the day of cell phone batteries having no life.

A C-Section was not what I had wanted.

But quite frankly, I didn’t want the baby to come out of my vagina either. My fear there was that I’d poop on the table for everyone to see.

I actually don’t know which one I wanted less but this baby, that I wanted and waited for, had to come out somehow. And the doctors made my choice for me.

Sleeping wasn’t really an option. So many flooding emotions and a completely uncomfortable body kept me up all night.

Long story short.

I was prepped. Cut open. Heard the baby cry. Almost threw up from the tugging and pulling because no matter how much medicine they give you, you can still feel that and it’s SO GROSS.

Then, I looked up at the mirror and there it was, sitting on my stomach. This big, swollen THING. I was looking directly at my uterus. The space that cocooned my unborn baby for 9 months. It was almost awe-inspiring to see my own internal organ and to realize what a big, HUGE job it had.

Which makes me realize, I never told it “Thank You”. Thank you for keeping my babies, all 3 of them, safe and secure until my arms could.

But back to the C-Section thing.

No. It absolutely wasn’t what I wanted.

It was a means to an end though.

I never felt like I had missed out on having a vaginal delivery which, I went on to have 2 more kids, both of them came out the way they went in, if ya know what I mean.

When people asked me if I felt like a failure (they weren’t asking meanly), I always told them no. Because look, the major part was cooking the baby. It has to come out somehow.

The most important factor was that my baby was perfect, healthy and his shoulders were not dysplacia-ed. His head was perfect. He looked like a Shar-pei puppy. But more scrumptious. And I didn’t have to take him outside to pee. And…my pelvic bone area was in one piece.

I won’t mention the fact that, the first time the nurses made me stand up some hours later, I bled all over the room.

The other most important factor was…I didn’t poop on the table.

Actually, not ever.

So there’s that.

I have a scar above my pubic bone, a forever memory of how that HUGE baby, who’s now a surly, smelly 16 year old, emerged into this world, crying before he was even pulled from the incision.

Turns out though, the 13 pound baby that the doctors were expecting…

Yeah, he was 9 pounds 11 ounces.

I probably could’ve passed that pup myself.

Whatev.

Wounds kinda heal.

Memories sort of stay.

It’s all good.

I was 11 1/2 when I got my period. This lovely surprise visitor dropped in when I was getting ready for school one morning in November of 1980. My mom threw a pad on my underwear and sent me on my way, despite my complaining about the sheer bulkiness of the pad and the cramps that made me want to double over and moan.

Every 28 days, since that arrival, the visits have been regular. Minus pregnancy but I made up for it POST pregnancy, Flo made sure of it.

With my cycle came some reliefs and some disappointments that I wasn’t.

There was also some excitement when it didn’t show up. 3 times, precisely.

I always had cramps. Achey boobs. Exhaustion. Various strange ailments that would disappear when it appeared.

I hated getting it.

Despised, to be exact.

I would talk about how I couldn’t wait until I no longer had to worry about this womanly inconvenience.

Because, let’s face it, once you’re done having kids, there is no need for this mess anymore.

But, I would think, as long as I have it, I’m still in my childbearing years. And so, on that alone, it means I still have some youth left.

Despite that, I still kind of wished the darn thing away. It’s a pain in the ass to get your period.

Then, this past January, things started to change.

Mother Nature apparently started taking my wishes more seriously, even though I wasn’t sure I was completely serious.

It was the first month, EVER, that irregularity was a word pertaining to MY cycle.

I ran my butt to the doctor, convinced that I had something terribly wrong with me. After all, for the past 31 years, I’ve been more regular than a clock. I mean, so regular that I would even know what time of day to expect my little visitor.

Tests were done.

A REALLY uncomfortable one. But, my doctor wanted to make sure that there was nothing lurking in my endometrial tissues.

There wasn’t.

I just was lucky enough to get my period 3 times in January. Which means, I have no clue which one to count 28 days from to be prepared for February.

I’m a walking PMS mess, 24/7.

My boobs don’t know whether to hurt or not. So, they choose to hurt. All the time.

My uterus doesn’t know if it should be crampy or not. So it chooses crampy. You know, just because it feels that’s the best route to go.

My moods, well hell, I think I’ve become bi-polar.

And then tonight, when I was watching the Super Bowl at my sisters house, I experienced my very first hot flash ever.

Only, I didn’t realize that was what it was until I started asking my sister to turn down the heat because her place was like a sauna.

I mean, I was sweating.

She told me that it wasn’t her house, it was me.

Why yes. Yes it was.

I was having a freaking hot flash.

Which means, this period thing? It seems as though most of my eggs have left the basket.

Great.

Things I have to look forward to, instead of a regular period:

-Hot flashes. Like tonight. Only, more often. I need to lose weight so I can wear tank tops at all times.

-Sleep problems. Please, don’t take my sleep away from me. PLEASE!!

-Fricking mood changes mother fucker. I’m going to be one giant emotional roller coaster. Lovely. I already drive myself crazy when I’m PMS’ing. This is going to be fun. Wheeeee.

-Vaginal and bladder problems. Which can account for the sneezing/peeing problem I’ve noticed I’ve just started having. Actually, exertion/peeing is more correct.

-Decreasing fertility. That’s probably the only NON noticeable side effect of this process.

-Changes in sexual function. Terrific. Fantastic. And I don’t mean that in a terrific, fantastic sort of way.

-Loss of bone. Which sort of worries me because don’t we need our bones? And which bone am I going to lose first? I think I need to be prepared. Perhaps I should have a wheelchair or crutches nearby.

-Changing cholesterol levels. Whatev. I have high cholesterol to begin with.

-Weight loss or gain. I’m rooting for the loss. My luck, I’ll gain.

-Hair loss. I’m scared.

OMG. I’m getting old.

I’m out of my child bearing years. If I miss a period, I have no need for running to the store to buy a pregnancy test.

It’s time to start getting used to the fact that my girl parts have gone past mature women parts and are now headed into the granny bit arena.

Me and my constantly achy boobs and crampy uterus are going to have to get used to this new stage of the game.

I read the rules. I guess I know what to expect when I’m expecting.

It just kind of sucks.

Not sucks in a I’m sad I’m not going to get my period sort of way because, well, I don’t really need it anymore.

I just kind of wish Mother Nature skipped me for a little bit longer and left with with my false sense of youthfulness.

The worst part of realizing that I’m starting to go through peri-menopause is, I also have to start realizing that my youth has left the building.

And that…is what REALLY sucks.

It dawned on me that, if you don’t follow me on Twitter and Facebook, you don’t know that since I wrote this post, so much more has happened.

The whole thing took on a life of it’s own online. But also, in real life.

I’ll start with real life.

After I wrote the post, I emailed my son’s 2nd grade teacher again. Well, I finally heard back on Thursday after school from the art teacher herself. She explained that my son didn’t follow her instruction, he was supposed to choose a color for the multi-cultural marker pack, one that was closest to his own skin color. She had a particular artist that the class was learning about (no, I have no clue which one) and there was particular lesson she was trying to convey. My son allegedly didn’t want to use the colors offered so, he chose grey. His defiance and lack of listening angered the teacher and she, admittedly, used words she shouldn’t have. In her email, she writes that she is very sorry for hurting his feelings. I wrote back, to the effect of, it’s all good, thanks for the response and sometimes adults need to watch what they say and how they say it to children because of the profound effect it could have.

I thought it was over and done with there.

I received an email later that evening from the principal of the school. My blog and the comments had come to their attention and, well, pleased wouldn’t be the word to describe what they felt.

OK, fine. I have a blog, I use it.

After a couple of email exchanges between the principal and myself, I agreed to come into school the next day, Friday, and meet with her to discuss the whole incident.

Imagine my surprise when the art class incident was overshadowed by something else entirely but, I’m still trying to figure out a way to write about that particular doozy.

BUT…

We did discuss the whole art class thing. And, the art teacher feels horribly that she hurt my son the way she did. She will, most likely, be formally apologizing to my son this week. I told the principal that I don’t, personally, need an apology because it had nothing to do with me, I was just advocating for my child.

As far as the school goes, we are moving forward with this particular incident behind us. I’ve been told that the art teacher feels my son has some untapped artistic talent (he gets that from my side of the family) and she’s been watching it begin to emerge. My parting words to her and the principal were…Let’s develop those mad artistic skills because I need someone to support me in my impending decrepit old age.

The most AMAZING part of this entire story though?

YOU. All of the internet. That blogpost about my son called Art and Judgement made it’s way all over the internet. Facebook, Twitter, fabulous blogs my comment section…you were all as angry and hurt for my son as I was.

Some of you, my fellow bloggers, asked if you could buy his picture. Some of you sent him emails.

YOU WERE AMAZING. You took a personal interest in this story, as though he was your own son. It moved me to tears.

The morning after I wrote my post, I let my son read the tweets and comments. The happiness and excitement he felt spilled out all over. He flew. All day. And nothing could bring him down. NOTHING.

This one amazing blogger in particular, who I can NEVER, EVER convey what she has done and who, in no words or gestures or gifts, I can ever repay…

She placed a matted and framed photo of my son’s picture in a N.Y gallery show.

And it sold.

A wonderful woman, an art teacher, bought it.

And then, another fabulous blogger who had wanted to buy this picture the night before but we weren’t thinking about selling it…

She commissioned him to create another picture.

When I told him that he had sold 2 pictures…aside from it confusing him because there is only one…

I can’t even describe to you the look on his face, the tone of his voice and the bounce in his step. And, he had already decided that he is going to buy K-mart out of their Lego Ninjagos. He figured that he doesn’t need to purchase more art supplies, he has parents to do that sort of thing for him.

You, my wonderful friends in my computer, have made a kid who originally thought his art sucked…

You’ve made him feel like a top notch, rock star artist. You’ve made him feel so good about himself. You’ve lifted him up so high that I’m going to be turning to you again to help me bring him back down soon!

My village. My friends.

You have outdone yourselves.

My gratitude runs so deep and so eternal.

You are a forest of Momma Bears and our children, ALL of our children, are so lucky to have that. This community.

My little artist and I say thank you. THANK YOU.

He drew one, just for you, as a Thank You note.

It’s called…Big Foot is Real…C. By: R. (created in pen on paper)

A few weeks ago, I picked my son up from school. He was visibly upset, trying SO hard to hold back the tears until he was within the privacy of our car.  Before he could shut the door, the dam broke.  In-between sobs, he choked out a story about what happened in his 2nd grade art class that had made him this upset.  That actually seemed to have crushed him a little.

He had to draw a picture of a person

He worked REALLY hard on his eyes, he stressed to me.  He was enjoying this art project, which is a rarity for him, he’s never been an arts and crafts type of kid.

He worked on the shirt.

He worked on the background, needing help with the swirls that he was having a hard time with.

Then it was time for him to color the skin.  He couldn’t find a skin color he wanted, or so he says.  He was looking for white or tan.  They were being used by his other classmates.  So, he chose grey.  To him, it didn’t really matter what color the skin was, after all, his entire class didn’t just have white skin anyways.

The teacher, when she saw how he had completed his project,  got angry with him.

So angry because she didn’t like his color choice.

Not only did she humiliate my 2nd grade son in class but she also refused to hang his picture that he was fairly proud of, in the school hallway.

He was the ONLY child in his class whose picture she outright refused to display.

Because she didn’t like the color my son chose for the skin on HIS picture.

Which really, on so many levels, does not make sense.

The color of paper he chose for the entire person…it’s yellow.

He worked hard on two different colored eyes…just like he has.  Something he is so proud of.

She also didn’t like the hair he drew so she made him redo it.

And isn’t the beauty of art in the eye of the creator anyways?

But forget that she is imposing her views of how art should be onto my child.

She REFUSED to hang his picture in the hall.

He’s in 2nd grade.  8 years old.  A BABY.

That made such an impact on my son.  She made him feel that he was worthless, that his picture was a disgrace not fit for human eyes.

After he told me all about this incident, he never brought it up again, it seemed to have been forgotten…

Until today…

When he brought the ostracized, rejected picture home with him.

He held it, crinkled in his hand, and thrust it at me.

“Here”, he said angrily, the upset resurfacing,  ”This is the ugly picture that my art teacher wouldn’t hang with the rest of my class.  I suck at art Mom.  Duh”

I looked at it and all I saw was this…

A picture fit to hang alone on a fridge, displayed for everyone to admire; not hanging in the school hall, lost amongst the other students pictures.

A creative, beautiful masterpiece, created by my child.

For an art teacher, she seems to have no appreciation for originality and creativity.

No wonder he doesn’t like her art class, he’s too advanced for it.

It was just yesterday I met her. Five year old, wide eyed exuberance. Bursting with energy, bubbling over into laughter. Hair thrown into lumpy, lopsided pigtails. Gaping holes where baby teeth once were, waiting for their permanent arrival. Scabbed knees and runny nose. Oblivious and carefree, crawling affectionately into laps.

Eleven years later, the five year old is gone but not forgotten. Hair neat and straight parted. Permanent teeth pulled straight by braces about to come off. Faded scars, the only thing left from scabs. The wide eyed exuberance is now focused on music, boys and fashion. Hot isn’t a temperature, it’s a guy.

The girl has become a young woman.

Sixteen is the magic number. Drivers licenses and dates without parental chaperone.

Today, is her first real date. We are sending her off with a boy she’s had a crush on and apparently, he her. The minute she turned sixteen, he asked her on a date. She asked permission, we gave it, she accepted.

And now begins new and unfamiliar parenting territory. One that our parents went through with us and now it begins in our lives. We are on the other end of the interrogation.

Now is the time, as a mother, that I am going to have to really stress to my daughters that they must never define themselves by the boys they like or date and they must never let the boys define who they are or what people think of them.

I am going to have to start stressing, once again, the importance of reputation protection, along with other sorts of protection.

I’m going to have mourn the loss of flying braids and freckles, cuddles and surprise kisses.

My girls and boys are becoming men and women. Their journey is just beginning as we watch from the sidelines trying not to prompt them too much or impose our opinions too heavily.

No, I don’t think tatted up guys with cigarettes are cute but if that’s what you like, then fine. Just don’t expect us to let them in when they show up at our door.

No, I’m not thrilled about the fact that most of the guys you like are ones I’d never pick for you.

But yes, you’re 16. You’re learning who and what you like. Your taste will change so often, the same as it does with perfume and clothes.

On to the next seasons styles.

First five. Then 16. Next, you’re my age.

Every step my children take in this life makes me realize how unprepared I am for the next step because I’m still reeling from the last.

I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for them to grow up.

But I have no choice, just like my parents and their parents before them.

Here we are, we’ve met at the same crossroad. Getting ready to leave, slowly. Getting ready to let go, maybe a little slower.

Teary eyed, looking at the past while tiptoeing toward the future.

Trying, unsuccessfully, to slow it all down while they are trying to speed things up.

High five-ing at that cross-road, best of luck, love you. See you at the next one.

Being a parent is NOTHING like I expected it to be. Although, I’m not EXACTLY sure what I was expecting to begin with.

Yes, I love my children more than life itself. These people are the most important and precious humans on the planet to me.

So why is it that sometimes I feel like running away and leaving them all behind?

Sometimes, I just want THEM to just shut up and disappear and leave me alone to do my own thing.

Looking at those words makes me shudder because really, the thought of them not being there is horrifying.

But still.

I find myself getting jealous, sometimes, of the non-custodial parents in our families equation. They can come and go as they please and our house is the child depository. They go on vacation or just don’t feel like being a parent that day, no big deal, we are here. The constant.

We can’t do that. EVER.

But what if?

When the kids come home from school and each, with individual needs and immediate wants, get in my face at the same exact time. The only thing I can do is sit there and listen, trying to focus on whose need and want is most immediate. While wishing them away. Because otherwise, I get lost. My voice, my entire being. I disappear as a mom and become the life complaint center with very dissatisfied customers.

I get overwhelmed in them and their issues. I’m their mom, they expect me to, IMMEDIATELY if NOT SOONER, make things happen for them that they want to happen. Taking no for an answer doesn’t always seem to be in their realm of reality.

I can’t afford something. They want to know when it is that I’ll be able to afford.

I can’t do something immediately. They want to know when, as close to immediately, I can do it.

And all I do during this bombardment is wish them away. I wish them to be somewhere else. Demanding, needing, wanting from someone else. Because, at that particular moment, the only thing I wish for is to be gone. I picture myself in a little cottage overlooking the Mediterranean, perhaps the South of France. Or a villa in Tuscany looking at the rows and rows of grapevines bending and twisting toward the sun. I sigh, content in these fantasies.

But what if?

The trouble is, I’d never leave. That is never even close to being an option.

But still.

They take turns, my kids, being havoc wreakers. If it’s not one, it’s another. Or another. And the other.

I. Just. Want. QUIET.

I want them to UNDERSTAND.

I want the to give back, in some way, the way they expect us to give. Even 50% to our 100% would be nice.

I wish they would understand that life doesn’t alway revolve around their needs and wants, other things factor in. Perhaps it’s my fault, I let them think the moon rose and fell around them when they were little.

They were easier then.

The problems were as little as they were.

Their needs were more manageable.

I never, ever thought they wouldn’t be easy still.

I never thought their needs would become so BIG.

So overbearing. So emotionally toiling.

I don’t remember being like that as a teenager. Perhaps I was. And if I was, I owe my parents so much more gratitude than I ever thought I did. Because I don’t know how they lived through being parents. Being Mommy and Daddy 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Without losing themselves or their sanity.

I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t. Because I love my children with every single beat of my heart and every single breath I take.

But sometimes I wonder…

What if it were just me.

Just for a moment.

But still.

Being a Mommy was something I had dreamed about as far back as I can remember.

My favorite thing to do as a child was to play with my dolls. They were my first babies. I dressed them, fed them and loved them for many years, just like any good mommy would do.

Dolls decorated my bedroom probably far longer than what would be considered socially acceptable.

Toy highchairs, cribs and strollers mixed with posters of my pre-teen and teen crushes bombarded anyone walking into my private quarters. My bedroom screamed confusion; wanting to grow up yet wanting to stay young.

By the time I reached 6th or 7th grade, my friends no longer wanted to play, they wanted to gossip and talk about boys. My dolls sat, eavesdropping, taking it all in. Completely ignored by the world around them.

I think that I was in 8th grade when I realized that my dolls had been sitting, lonely for human touch, for quite awhile. So, instead of having them napping, eating and waiting for walks, I put them on my dresser for display and removed the rest of the toys from my room.

I was now a teenager. My love was transferred from dolls to Duran Duran. My room redecorated into a typical teenage hangout with adolescence tucked into storage bins or locked away in closets.

But always, I knew that I wanted to have living versions of the toys I played so longingly and lovingly with.

When I was 27, my first living and breathing doll was placed in my arms. I was now, officially and forever, a Mommy.

All my dreams had come true and was lying tightly bundled in my arms, looking into my eyes.

I became a mom to 3 children, my dolls. Real replaced play.

Then, these babies got bigger and just like I did with my dolls, I had to remove some of the clutter. Although, with my real babies, I didn’t put them on display on a shelf.

Here I am, almost 16 years after giving birth for the first time. Middle age is here, smacking me upside the head. Dolls and babies both a distant yet vivid memory that I take out and revisit, remembering the smells and sounds of childhood play and early motherhood.

Today, I went to my gynecologist. I’ve been having some girl bit issues that took me by surprise. I won’t get into those just yet, that’s another post, another subject matter for another time.

During our discussion, she asked me what contraception my husband and I have been using. I shared that information with her. She asked if we used it religiously and I said…um, pretty much, yeah.

She looked at me and asked me if I was done having babies. DONE. As in, never again would I feel a baby move inside me. Never again would I give birth. Never again would I be awakened in the middle of the night, numerous times, to nurse.

I said…Hell yeah I’m done.

And I meant it. Despite the lurch in my heart and the lump that formed in my throat when the reality hit me that I am now way past the age of having babies. My children are getting older, some of them will be going off to college in a couple years. My youngest is growing quickly and steadily. They all are. And my dolls remain, forever babies, on a shelf in my closet.

All those years of hoping, wishing and longing for babies has come to an end.

Instead of talking to my Ob/Gyn, she is now just my gynecologist. There will be no OB.

Instead of discussing Lamaze, hospital visits and pediatricians, I am discussing getting my tubes tied to prevent any unwanted pregnancies.

Because I don’t want any more pregnancies.

At least, not my own.

I now have to wait until my children are at that stage in their lives, the one I waited patiently for years to be at, to be able to hold my own flesh and blood babies once again.

It’s such a strange feeling. To realize that life has so rapidly come and is so rapidly zipping by. While I’ve been watching my children hit their milestones and stages, mine have been passing, virtually unnoticed.

Until today. When I really paid attention to where I am in my life. When I was really honest with myself. Having a baby, at my age, isn’t where I want to be. I am beyond that in so many ways. My life is starting to be my own. I’m becoming the person that I want to be.

So, after my next doctors appointment, which is next week, I will be making an appointment that I never foresaw myself making.

Permanent sterilization.

I will never again have a baby.

As bittersweet and momentous this is, it’s what I want.

It’s just shocking that this is where I am when I feel like I should still be where I was.

My son has been living with chronic pain. He’s been battling a horrendous beast.

When he was in 2nd grade, the doctor told us that, at some point, medication WILL be necessary.

The last 8 years, I’ve let him deal with this pain in his own way, allowing him to slap away my helping hand. There is, after all, only so much a mother can do.

These last 8 years, I’ve watched him struggle with this pain, this beast. There have been days where he has been able to force it away briefly but, lately and more often than not, the beast, so strong, is winning.

That beast, the one I’ve had to let my son struggle with…is depression.

Yesterday, it came to a head. He was so miserable and sad. I ached for him. I wanted to hug him and transfer this horrible beast onto me. Let ME deal with it. I’M the MOM. Leave him alone!

This time though, he came to me. My son lead his beast to me and asked me to help him so that he’d be able to lock it in a cage.

He told me that he doesn’t remember a time where he ever felt any true emotion other than sadness. The other ones, he learned to fake. He knows how to pretend to be happy but his incredibly beautiful smile never really reaches his eyes. Any positive emotion that many of us take for granted, he doesn’t. Because they rarely touch him.

It was something the rest of us already knew. We were just waiting for him to come to us, hoping that it wouldn’t be already too late.

I’m so thankful that my son was brave enough and strong enough to admit, through his intense stubborn side, that he is depressed and needs me to help him. So many children never come forward and where they end up is somewhere I don’t want to think about. Especially when it comes to children.

I don’t know what chemical depression feels like. But I know what it looks like. I’ve watched it grow for 15 years. I’ve opened its bedroom door in the middle of the night, held my breath, and made sure it was still breathing. I’ve monitored how long it goes into the bathroom, or how long its shower is only to feel relief when he reemerges in one piece.

For so many years he has refused any help. Constantly swatting away ANY hand that wants to help. Trying to find blame in other people instead of really looking to the real root of the problem.

Until last night.

The depression was too much for him. He told me that he kept waiting for it to pass, to subside, to release its grip. It was too tight and it hurt.

His pain was all over him. I saw it. I watched it.

I promised him that he was done dealing with this himself. I wouldn’t allow it anymore.

He is finally allowing me to take on that beast. Mommy style.

I called the doctor this morning.

My son WILL be going on meds, just as was predicted by our psychologist 8 years ago.

Beast be warned, my son will be armed and dangerous. A war has just been waged.

And I’ll make damn sure that my son comes out the victor.

I ask myself what I’m doing. Often.

I run around, chasing after something that doesn’t have a shape or name, I just know I need to catch up to it. To grab onto it. Maybe then, I’ll know what this elusive something or other is.

That encompasses so much of my life; career, family…you name it. Knowing I want something more yet not knowing exactly what it is or how to get there. It’s quite frustrating.

When I sit down at the kitchen table, my desk, in order to “work”, I spend much of my time staring out the huge kitchen window. I’m not really seeing anything, I’m simply staring. It’s funny because, when I was in 7th grade English, we had to write a paragraph about a person in our class. The girl who wrote about me, Debbie, mentioned how I sit and stare as though I’m deep in thought.

I’m not. There is no deep. Just thought. And I have no clue half the time what I’m even thinking about. Daydreams, maybe?

Sometimes I play a scenario in my mind. I was “discovered” via my blog because of my writing. And I was invited to be on a talk show to discuss my success and how I achieved it. Ha.

I think about all the stories I have written. And unwritten. All of them have beginnings and they are waiting, somewhat impatiently, for a middle and an end. Yet, I don’t know what keeps me from finishing them…or anything else…other than myself. Fear? Of failure? Gah, who knows.

I seem to do that a lot. Throw up my hands, shrug my shoulders and walk away. Especially when I don’t know what to do or what to say. So, I give up.

It’s an annoying trait that I have. It’s been with me for so long that it’s interwoven within my DNA structure.

Right now, I’m in the process of the whole giving up thing with my oldest son. I don’t want to. But I don’t know what else to do. It’s the whole “horse to water” thing. I can only nudge him so much but I can’t make him care. I wish I could. I wish I could make him really understand that his not caring will dictate how the rest of his life goes. I’m met with very familiar shoulder shrugs, eye rolls and whispered “whatever”‘s.

My lack of control over my children has me doubting my parenting. I thought I was a good mom. By showering my children with love, letting them know how wonderful I think they are and all the other things my heart tells me to do, I figured they would thrive. I assumed that they would have the confidence to know that they were amazing and therefore, they’d want to DO amazingly at whatever they chose to do.

I was so wrong.

My children, my dreams, my goals…they are all interwoven. And I feel like if I am not successful at one, how can I be successful at any other?

I’ve never been THAT parent, the one that lives vicariously through their own children. I mean, yes, I had high hopes that one of my daughters would grow up to be a Prima Ballerina…or at the very least, love ballet the way that I did.

Now I’m just hoping that they get through high school with good enough grades to get into a decent college. My fingers hurt from keeping them crossed so tightly.

When my parents always told me that life would be hard, I really wish that they had prepared me for how hard it really is. I mean…EVERYTHING about life gets hard. Especially once you move out of your parents house and are set free to make it on your own.

Then, I watch all these horrible tragedies unfolding. Family friends losing spouses at young ages. Parents dying too young. The worlds economy crashing. Life stories that actually read more like horror novels than chick lit. I wonder why.

So maybe, in the recesses of my mind, as I’m staring out the window and daydreaming from my kitchen table, I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m trying to figure out how to guide ALL OF US from point A to point B successfully…without any road map. But goddamnit, it’s hard. I get turned around when I’m walking out of an elevator at a hotel, how can I be expected to guide people on this crazy life’s journey?

I really wish that life came with a road map and a handbook. Because I could really, really, really use one right now.

Dear Teenagers,
We parents know you hate us. It’s what teenagers are supposed to do, hate their parents. On the most part, we’re OK with that because we used to hate our parents too. Funny how, when you get older, you actually love and respect them again.

In my day, when a parent said “NO”, it meant the same as it does today. NO. I’m thinking that this generation must have a misunderstanding as to what the definition of NO actually is. Let me explain what NO actually means.

-NO MEANS you may NOT leave the house until your room is clean.

-NO MEANS you may NOT go on your various electronics until your homework is done.

-NO MEANS you may NOT stay up until all hours of the night, on a school night. Go to bed means go to fucking bed. Lights out, including the illumination of your cellphones and computers.

-NO MEANS you may NOT have friends over at 9pm on a school night or leave the house.

-NO MEANS you may NOT have privileges if you’re an asshole, your only privilege is looking at your disgustingly messy four walls.

-NO MEANS I am the parent. YOU are the CHILD. I WIN. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Even if you think it’s the most UNFAIR REASON YOU’VE EVER HEARD.

-NO MEANS NO because you haven’t earned whatever it is you’re asking for. Grades, attitude or failing to unclog your ears. Even for the most simplistic of all tasks.

NO doesn’t mean we don’t love you. Not at all. So stop acting like you’ve been abused by drunken parents. Believe it or not, we aren’t trying to hurt you when we tell you no. We are trying to make you understand the importance of certain things.

YES is something you have to earn. Your entire life. YES doesn’t fall into your lap, it’s a struggle. It takes work. From something as simple as an allowance to something as big as getting and keeping a real job.

We aren’t torturing you the way you seem to think we are. We are trying to do this crazy thing called…RAISE OUR CHILDREN. We are trying to help you along so that you may have successful and fulfilling lives. We are trying to steer you away from major mistakes we see you beginning to make and guide you toward the other path we see you eyeballing.

When you say your petulant NO’s, crossing your arms and stomping your feet in response…it’s NORMAL. We did that too. And just like us, our parents wanted to beat the stubborn resolve out of us too.

Nothing you are doing in response to anything we are doing is close to being unique.

You aren’t the only children who have ever hated their parents.

You aren’t the only children who have ever hated their homes.

You aren’t the only children who have ever wanted to run away from home.

You aren’t the only children who have ever acted and responded the way you do.

Therefore, understand that we understand. We TOTALLY GET IT. We were once you. And yes, we do remember, all too well, what it’s like to be your age.

SO…get over yourselves. Understand that your stubborness, your defiance, your attitude…will get you nowhere. Quick.

You are going to be told NO a LOT in your lifetime. For many different reasons. Learn to deal with it. It’ll make you appreciate when someone smiles and gives you a sincere yes WAY MORE.

Until you understand the benefits of NO and the benefits of following rules, you’ll never appreciate the freedom of a YES.

To my teenagers and teenagers everywhere…

Stop acting so entitled, we don’t owe you anything. In fact, it’s quite opposite. You owe us. And the only thing that we expect, as our payment owed, is for you to do what it is we ask of you. In fact, you owe yourselves that, too.

We always love you. No matter what. There are times where we hate what you are doing or how you are acting but always know…

You are loved deeply.

Forever.

No matter what.

Love,

The Mother of a few teenagers