Poop in the Pool

The following post was a story I told at a "Listen To Your Mother" event earlier this year.  So, just imagine it with hand gestures. ;)

When my son was 4, I enrolled him in swimming lessons at the same time as his older sister.  It was a small class, taught by an energetic, one-legged young man whose personality filled the room.  He would get distracted talking with the other parents while the kids swam, so it was bound to happen that one day, my son took one too many laps, and just got plumb tuckered out. When the instructor pulled him out of the pool and saw a tint of brown mixed with the water running down his leg, he immediately screamed, “That’s poop!”

In sheer panic, I scooped up my son and raced to the bathroom, where, yes indeed, he had gone #2 in his pants.  He was crying, I was panicked, and the next few minutes were a blur of cleaning him up, watching the evacuation of the pool, making apologies, negotiating with the manager, and sitting in humiliation as my daughter finished her lesson in the now overflowing second pool.
My son and I were completely mortified, and I believe I drank my weight in tears that evening.

And although I tried to put on a brave face, I felt so horrible about what happened, that I never took him back to the swim school, and even today, I still avert my eyes when I drive past it.

Boy, did I feel guilty.  I was supposed to protect him from such disasters, and I let him down.  But it toughened me up for the next crisis, right?

Wrong.

When my daughter was in 7th grade, she became ill and just couldn’t shake it.  So, we went through a battery of tests, which, you guessed it, involved poop.

The doctor wanted to test her “business”, so I collected it, put it in a baggie, and drove it over to the lab.  I hustled to the door, and just my luck, they were on a lunch break.  This meant that I had the distinct pleasure of standing for an hour in front of a locked door with a clear bag of poop in my hand, nodding hopefully at the employees as they came in and out with their sandwiches. When I was finally granted entry, I received a look of horror when I explained what I had (which had now gotten a little warm) – and I found myself, once again, apologizing for my child’s poop.

As my kids have grown up, they have dealt with increasingly larger and more complex issues. Some of them have been typical teenage challenges, like puberty, friend drama, and the pain of first heartbreak.  Others have been completely overwhelming mental and physical setbacks that have taken our family in directions I could never have anticipated nor prepared for.

Sigh.  I miss the poop.

The guilt that weighs on me, and has kept me up every night for the last 16 years, is the difficult acceptance that I can’t bubble-wrap my children to protect them from the unpleasantness of life.  They will often face problems that I can’t solve.  Sure, I can give advice, buy the medicine, get the best books on the subject, but sometimes – well, many times – I have had to confess to them, “I can’t fix it.”
It has been frustrating, to say the least.  But it has also opened up a new chapter in my relationships with my son and daughter.   They are learning, albeit the hard way, how to stand on their own two feet, how to weather a storm, and how to accept the bad but keep looking for the good.  And slowly, vey slowly, I am learning how to support them without taking over, and giving them space to find their own way.  Will I ever stop worrying?  Nope.  Will I ever not feel guilty when I can’t save the day?  Probably not.  But, what I can do is hug them and kiss them, and laugh and cry and yell with them.  And I can stay just close enough so that they know they only need to reach over and my hand will be there, ready to hold, the next time the poop hits the fan.

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Until next time, keep crowin'

We Came Home

It was the morning of our 20th anniversary trip, 6 months late.  We had been trying to find a free-ish weekend, and my mother-in-law happened to be coming to town, so it was perfect.

I stumbled outside with the puppy to make sure he made his one outside poop of the day.  He refused, and raced back into the house.  I ran after him, lost my footing on the deck stairs, and ripped a few holes in my right leg.

The pain was excruciating, and panic flashed through my mind - what about the trip?  But, after I wrapped my leg in paper towels, and  made sure I couldn't see bone, I resolved that this was not worth cancelling our big weekend.  This was just one little thing.

So, I settled in to my day, and waited for my son to get home from basketball training.  When he walked in, I could feel the heat emanating off of him.

"Mom, I think I have a fever."

Definitely, he did.  This was a larger problem.  I could hobble my way through the weekend, but could I really leave a sick child behind?  My mother-in-law assured us that she was fine with it - he was just going to lay in bed all day anyway. So, this was just a second little thing.  We had not hit the "bad luck three" yet, so we were still good to go.

Thus, with reluctance and a dampened mood, my husband and I set off for the hour-long drive to our little oasis.

We made it about 5 miles.

Cell phone rings. It's my daughter.

"Mom?  We were leaving the restaurant and trying to turn but someone hit us and I need you to tell the EMT that I am fine and don't need treatment."


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We pulled over into a parking lot, where I tried to come back down to earth and have a lucid conversation with an affable, deeply Southern, paramedic. He cheerfully assured me my daughter was 100% fine.  Walking around, talking normally, all good. I made her FaceTime us to show us her actual body.  She told us that everyone was intact, that they were just a little shaken up. She insisted she would feel miserable if we cancelled our trip.

My husband and I sat in the parking lot debating what to do.  We called his mom to tell her the news.  Within minutes of hanging up, our son texted us:

"That was number three."

There's an old story about a man stuck on his roof as the flood waters swirl around him.  A rowboat, motorboat, and helicopter all come by, but the man refuses, saying that he was praying to God, who would save him.  Well, he drowned, and when he got to heaven and asked God why He didn't come to his aid, God explained to the idiot that he sent three pretty big signs of help.

Despite knowing this story, and The Rule of Three, my husband and I took a deep breath and continued our trip.

I know we shouldn't have.  I know we should have turned around and gone home. But with the assurance from both kids that they were fine, we made the selfish choice.  We never have date nights, we never go away together, and the next opportunity wasn't even on the horizon. So we went.

It was a lovely little modern dwelling, courtesy of AirBnB, set amongst a green, organic, artsy-fartsy, farm-to-table settlement.  We enjoyed a drink on the porch, and a delightful dinner at a charming restaurant.

Then we came back to our love nest.

The first sign of trouble was dog poop on the walkway.  Then, upon opening the door, we discovered that the unit above us was now inhabited by some type of monstrous creatures, clearly engaged in an angry ritual dance that likely involved dead bodies.

I contacted our host, who was super sorry, who had received complaints from other visitors, and who had now updated the listing, and said - I quote - "But that doesn't really help you, does it?"

The noise died down that night, but picked back up again with an impressive fury the next morning at 7:00 a.m.  I complained again, and received an auto-notification of a partial refund.

My husband asked me, "Is this number four?"  To which I replied, "No, we have started back over, and this is number one."

We called home and turns out, the kids weren't fine.  My son still had a fever, and my daughter confessed that she had lied, that the accident had been very traumatic, she actually had to help pull the driver from the car, another friend might have a broken bone, and she was sore and scared.

We weren't going to wait for number three this time.  We left immediately.

But not before I bagged up all the dog poop and left it in a Kroger bag on our neighbors' steps.

After the dust settled, and my kids were on the other side of these setbacks, I needed time to process everything.  I was very disappointed in how the trip turned out, and in myself for even going in the first place.

But then I realized, this is exactly what it means to share a life with someone for 20 years. It can be messy and stressful and the hits just keep coming, but my husband and I can take a look at these two decades and feel extraordinarily lucky that we made it through together.  And we can remind each other of the happy stuff too --- our kids are in good places right now, we just had a wonderful family trip out west, and my husband and I still love each other.

The anniversary may have sucked, but this life does not.

Until next time, keep crowin' and watching for signs!

Pink Toes

The boys are away at a basketball tournament this weekend, so my daughter and I decided to get our nails done.  She said she "knew a place," and after a bit of a wander (typical Carolyn, saving that for another blog post), we found it. We walked into the biggest nail salon I have ever seen, but were greeted within minutes and sent to our respective stations.  I was matched with a lovely man for a pedicure, but no sooner had I sat down than I realized the lady sitting next to me was engaged in a loud conversation via headset.  

"Mark, you told Steve you didn't want primary custody.  Are you telling me now there is a disconnect?  very brief pause  "But you don't do all the technical things with the kids - Lori does all that.  Are you going to start doing them?  very brief pause  "Well then you can't leave the house if you want primary custody.  Do you understand what that means?  Mom and Dad and I have talked about this."  very brief pause  "Mark, I can't hear you.  It's not you, it's me.  I have mitts on and can't turn up my ear buds. Ok, bye."

Deep breath, and peace was restored.  I reminded myself of the importance of being patient and empathetic with my fellow human beings. That lasted for three minutes, until MARK CAME INTO THE SALON.

He walked up, his sister invited him into "her office" and he sat down on the swivel chair in front of her. They proceeded to discuss the terms of his custody arrangement, Lori's credit card debt, the fact that he was much older than Lori and now had a girlfriend, how karate wasn't working out for his son, how his daughter needed counseling, how Lori had grabbed Mark during an argument, and the fact that their father played racketball the morning of my new pedi friend's wedding.  This conversation was made more difficult by the fact that Mark appeared to be hearing impaired, so his sister had to be loud enough, and enunciate well, so he could understand her.

This lasted through the entirety of the best pedicure I have ever had, hands down.  The man gave me a neck massage that changed my life.  He insisted on scrubbing my callouses.  And he pretended not to notice that I needed to shave my legs.

Mercifully, the embattled sibling duo finally got up and left the salon.  At which point, I involuntarily blurted out to my pedicurist, "Oh my God!  Talk, talk, talk!"  

And then, deliciously, he nodded enthusiastically and said, "Yes, she start talking the minute her foot hit water."  At the same time, an impeccably dressed young woman, seated nearby, who had been very attentively overseeing the mani/pedi of her elderly mother came over to me "I felt so bad for you!  I was just hoping that you were ok!  I mean, some people come here to relax!"

It was a connection that completely made up for the disruption.  I sat down next to the dutiful daughter to dry my toes, and we talked about being "stuck" in awkward situations.  Then we talked about her mother and how she brings her to the salon once a month, and makes sure the technicians know not to give her a massage or rub her feet, and which colors she likes. We parted ways wishing each other well, the pedicurist gave me a loving pat, and I knew I had had a moment.

Should I have leaned over to the Mouth Of The South and said, "Please excuse me, but I am afraid I can hear your personal business.  I hope you don't mind waiting until I leave so you can have some privacy."

Maybe? Probably? I don't know.  The entire section was held hostage by this woman's personal drama.  I have never heard of divorce mediation taking place in a massage chair, but perhaps they were oblivious.  Or, perhaps they were just obnoxious narcissists who assumed we were all on bended ear.

There were two types of people in this story.  Those who spoke without listening, and those who listened without speaking.  Mark and his sister failed to hear how their noise was disrupting the silence of the salon, and my fellow sufferers and I failed to tell them to shut up.  

We can't change people, but we can change how we react to them.  I am glad I didn't make a scene, and I am equally glad that my pedicurist, the good daughter, and I turned that mess into a truly human moment together. That is what we should seek out --- connection, not conflict.  

Until next time, keep crowin', and treat yourself to some pink toes like I did!

Alison Paul

Listen to This

I hear a car pull up the driveway, and soon the kitchen door slams.  A familiar voice calls out to me.

Daughter:  Mom, listen to this.
Me:  (deep breath as I swivel around in my chair)  Tell me.

There are three things I know when it comes to my daughter:

1.  Never take my bra off  - she hosts guests without prior warning.
2.  Always have cash - there is usually an immediate, dire need.
3.  When she says "listen to this", be ready for anything.

Sometimes, what she asks me to listen to is how she got a good grade on a test she thought she'd bombed, or the latest shade on Instagram.  Many times, however, it is bigger, heavier stuff, so I have to be on my toes.

Listening is easy.  Hearing is much harder. 

When my daughter talks to me, sometimes she is drowned out by the dialogue going on inside my head, "We need to get a tutor ... she can never speak to that person again ... I'm calling the doctor ..."

I have to constantly remind myself to really listen - to receive the information before I notify the authorities and the local news.

There is a proper way to listen to a person, to hear their words and find a way to connect, appreciate, and communicate back.  And I had the most profound opportunity to listen with that type of purposeful intent this afternoon.

It was my first rehearsal for Listen To Your Mother, a show where 13 women from all walks of life will take the stage and open a brief window into their world.  I got glimpse of that world today --- and the energy, the emotion, and the pureness of our time together deeply affected me.  Of the seven readings given, all I can say is this - I heard you.  I heard the deep, expansive, deafening cry of women as single mothers, adoptive mothers, daughters and aunts.  I heard the struggle of women trying to connect with mothers long passed, or mothers whose choices were a mystery until we were old enough to understand.  I heard the pain of raising children in a world that can be volatile and cruel.  And, I heard the joy of memories that comfort us on tough days. 

And that was just part of the group.  I read last, and let me tell you, I was completely intimidated, but at the same time, honored to share the same energy with these beautiful women, and for them to hear my words. 

Listen.  Let someone hear you.  We all have a really good story to tell.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

The Year of the Rooster

The other day I was looking up rooster graphics - because you can't have enough - when all of a sudden I discovered that 2017 is The Year of the Rooster.  Clearly, the universe is speaking to me with a rousing cock-a-doodle-doo.  If you have noticed my blog background, or visited my kitchen, or even browsed my Pinterest Board dedicated to this magnificent bird, you will know that the rooster is no small fowl in my eyes.

Subsequently, I found out that I was born in The Year of the Rat.  But, never mind that - I am Rooster all the way.

I think it all began when I inherited a grandmother's rooster trivet, and then another grandmother's rooster bins.  With the addition of a grandmother-in-law's rooster salt and peppers, a collection was born. From those humble beginnings, I have filled my house with ceramics, hooks, rugs, and chalkboards, all in homage to the feather and comb.

I like roosters because they are loud and colorful.  I like that they come in all shapes and sizes.  I like roosters because they often take center stage in art, literature, and even religion.

And, it turns out, they don't need nests. 

This is particularly important to me as the empty-nest chapter of my life is rapidly closing in.  Granted, I still have a little more time until the last chick flies the coop, but once the first one takes off next year, nothing will ever be the same.

I was talking to a friend recently about prom, graduation, college, and "letting go", when she made a kind remark about this blog.  She asked me if I still wrote here, and I confessed to a long stretch of writer's block.  I explained that since my kids were never home, I didn't have as much to write about.

Later, it hit me that I am entering dangerous territory. Did I really mean what I said, that I have nothing to say if it isn't about my kids?  When they leave, is my life just going to be a black void until they come home for a visit?

Cluck, no!

This is where The Year of the Rooster comes in.  Although its significance lies in Chinese zodiac, I am taking it on as a sign from my spirit animal.  The rooster often is referred to as a symbol of strength, confidence, assertiveness, pride, and hard work.  It is a herald to a new day, a fresh chance to strut your stuff. It is a bold call to action to show the world how unique you are, both with and without your chicks.

So, that's what I am going to do.  The longest and most vibrant feather in my cap is the one named Mom.  But there are lots of other feathers in there too, and I can't wait to give them a fluff.

Until next time, keep crowin' and growin'!