Friday, February 28, 2014

It's been a really, really long time....

I know that sometimes I feel that I just can't keep the words and feelings inside my head and my heart. They come bursting out in the most inappropriate times and places and that's when I know I need to write it out. And when I write it out, maybe, just maybe, it will resonate with someone else and they will nod their head while they read my clumsy words or they will shake their head and say -- that girl?, that girl is CRAZY. Either way, the writing is somewhat selfish. I will admit. I had a very long conversation with school administrators this week at two different schools in regards to all three of my boys. You might think -- oh my, what has Robbie done now? ;) Alas, they were about Robbie's homework and how he can complete it with all of his doctor's appointments, etc,; about Jake's absences from when I wouldn't let him walk home from school in -20 degree weather and finally, about Brady's unhappy year at school. Mama Bear came to the first meeting and I'm sure that I scarred more than one person in that meeting. Because, you see, I had to advocate for what is best for my kids in the face of "THE MAN." I really don't like "THE MAN." I mean, really. Maybe I inherited the dislike from my introverted father who has never had a boss he liked or could work with for longer than what seemed like six months or maybe from my anti-establishment mom who yanked me out of school and then homeschooled my brothers K-12. I don't know. All I know is when my children aren't treated like individuals, I get this very uncomfortable itchy feeling inside that makes me want to use profanity all while I'm really thinking -- DO YOU NOT SEE THAT LOVE WINS?? THAT WE MUST TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER?? THAT WE SHOULD LISTEN MORE AND TALK LESS??? And so Mama Bear did not go to the second meeting. Melanie the Monkee (see Glennon, ie Momastery, ie "Carry on Warrior") went to the second meeting for my sweet Brady. My 9 year old blessing, my rainbow after the darkest days, my very smart little boy who has a new teacher this year and they just don't get each other. And actually, what I really mean by that is that Brady has zero emotional connection with his teacher. And you might be just about at the (that girl is CRAZY) portion of the show, but I think that at 9, when he spends more time with his teacher than he does with me, he should feel some kind of an emotional connection to his teacher and I think it just might be the adult in this relationship's responsibility to foster that connection. And I heard myself say in a voice that I did not even recognize as my own -- "You see, the religion at my home is kindness and I often say to my boys LOVE WINS when I don't know what else to say. I also say to my boys -- how do you think he/she feels right now? Have you attempted to put on their shoes? And if you have, have you taken just a tiny walk around in them? Because I believe that we need to take care of each other. I really do. I believe that my boys need to be LOVE NINJAS." And I think I saw a glimmer of...maybe she's not SO CRAZY in their eyes. And then I explained that Brady has had quite a year, really. His dad fell into a bottle of Jim Beam and got divorced again. His mom moved him in with someone the whole family loves very much and his dog died and he had his VERY FAVORITE TEACHER OF ALL TIME taken from him. And still, he smiles. And still, he thrives. And so I made it through THE WEEK OF MEETING WITH SCHOOL ADMINISTRATORS AND TEACHERS and then something happened that any bereaved parent will understand...A CHILD DIED. And it rocked me. It didn't rock me JUST because I was transported back instantly to the days after Lily died and caskets and endless flowers and endless cards and then endless silence. The numbness that happens after you bury your baby, when you realize that the first night it rains, you can't go dig her up to keep her dry. The realization that sleep is your best friend but it is elusive, always just out of reach -- especially at the witching hours of the night when everything is worse. And you can't sleep during the day because YOU HAVE OTHER CHILDREN WHO NEED YOU but you don't even know who you are. So after the transportation, I realized I was doing something so disgusting, I wanted to slam my own hand in a door. I was doing THAT THING WHERE NO PROBLEM IS AS BIG AS A CHILD DIED. I don't know if you know what this is but it's relentlessly evil. It means when your boyfriend tries to talk to you about something that is happening in his life, you think you have the right to say -- I DON'T CARE, DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND, A KID DIED!!!!! I don't know if you can recognize this at first glance but I'm pretty sure it's glaringly obvious that when I said that LOVE was not winning. I was definitely NOT being a LOVE NINJA. So I had to take a pretty HUGE step back and look at myself and shake my head and hope that some of the pieces went back in to the right places. And then I had to start planning how I would take action to change my attitude and I had to BE KIND to myself and then SHOW KINDNESS AND LOVE TO STRANGERS, but mostly to my family and the people I love because I know that is the best way not to fall in to the PIT OF DEAD KIDS. And so now you're probably back to thinking -- this girl is CRAZY -- because who even puts the words "pit" and "dead kids" in the same run-on sentence?? And I can only say...I'm so glad you don't know because if you did it would mean you are in the CLUB. And that CLUB is the CLUB of people who's kids have died. It's a fucking shitty club. And I think profanity should be used in that context. And so my friend (and if she reads this, she will know who she is) writes this morning..."Do seven random acts of kindness in memory of this beautiful soul who has left us." And I fell into her words and sighed....Ahhhhh. Right....Random acts of kindness and a NUMBER even!!! An assignment for the LOVE NINJAS!! And I will do that today and until I don't feel like screaming at people for laughing or going about their lives as if there is not a DEAD KID. But before I do that, I just want to say one thing that maybe someone who goes to dear, darling, sweet-faced Leah's funeral will read and think about before they dress up and dread the thought of that tiny coffin and her shell-shocked family (because it DOES NOT MATTER THAT SHE WAS SICK, SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO GET BETTER). Those parents are learning to do something they have never done before. They are learning to breathe again. They are learning to breathe without part of their very beings. They are grieving in different ways, even, and they are still being parents to their living children. And they are having to make such chilling decisions like, "what will she wear?" "what will her stone say?" "who will keep track of all of these gifts of flowers and food so we can thank people someday, maybe?" And then they will have, I'm sure, hundreds of people want to tell them how sorry they are and they will stand for hours, so grateful that their daughter couldn't possibly be forgotten but so overwhelmed. AND PLEASE DO NOT THINK THAT I SPEAK FOR THESE PARENTS BECAUSE I DO NOT. I SPEAK FROM MY OWN EXPERIENCE AND FROM THE HUNDREDS OF PARENTS I HAVE SPOKEN TO SINCE I BURIED MY DAUGHTER, WHO HAVE ALSO BURIED CHILDREN. And it all comes back to life is beautiful. But life is brutal. It really, really is.