We spent an hour last night talking about a “perfectly square hole” in the ceiling tiles in one of his classrooms. He can’t help but think about why it might be there. It’s obviously intentional, based on the perfectness of it. It’s been there all year, why hasn’t it been repaired? Maybe it needs to be open. What goes in there? What comes out? Why? A camera? A sprinkler? An inspection port? What would they be inspecting?

His mind never shuts down…ever. We talk about this more. We talk about what distracts him from hearing what’s going on in the classroom. We’ve talked about how this makes him different from his friends. And how this makes him the same. Here are some things that I’ve learned from really listening to him:

He can’t not notice something…anything that’s different or unexpected in his environment.

• If he does notice it, he thinks through all the reasons it might possibly different or unexpected.
• He loves that about his brain.
• He feels his creativity and his ability to connect to seemingly DIFFERENT ideas are the center of who he is.
• He’s trained his brain to recognize when he’s NOT on Concerta, so that he can flag these thoughts and try to push them aside until school is out. This effort is exhausting to him.
• He wants sitting through school to be easier.

It’s amazing how self aware he is. I listen to him explain to his doctors what his days are like and how the medication makes him feel. His stories are detailed, specific and filled with emotion. And his doctors are patient because his stories are SO VERY LONG. But this path that I worried so much about taking, he’s storming it. My son has taken control of his life. He’s got nearly straight As again, he’s gained the respect and found the respect of teachers he battled so hard against earlier this year. I couldn’t be more proud of him.

Now, to push him to fix his one poor grade. In Art. How does one get so far behind in art? It’s rhetorical, one only needs to be Will. But with some creativity, some passion and a lot of love…he’ll catch up.

He’s got this.

1. My ex is a good guy.

2. He’s smart

3. He loves our kids.

4. I will go to no end, to make sure my kids are safe and loved.

The woman that is now his fiance has been in jail since late July, charged in a home-invasion-gone-wrong-killing from 10 years ago. She says she was attacked and did what she had to in order to defended herself and her three kids. Recently, they’ve found “evidence” that says she may have planned this “home invasion”/ murder. I don’t know what to think about that, and without the evidence, I just try to imagine being attacked in my own home with my kids there.  I’m sure I’d do almost anything to protect them. (I’m WAY afraid of guns, so my anything and her anything are vastly different, however. )

The scary part for me, lies less in the details of that night, but more in the details of her life that have been dredged up because of this trial.

She shot this man 9 times with two guns,  3 times in the back of the head while he was laying face down on the floor. (presumably dead) YIKES.

She’s been divorced twice.  Not in and of itself wrong, because who am I to judge divorces…but each time, she’s accused her former husband of awful, awful allegations that have never come to be proven. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, attempted murder.

She’s accused her dentist of assaulting her while she was under his care.

She’s changed her name and maybe even her children’s names to hide them from their father.

MY kids know all kinds of things about her divorces, her exes, and her emotions.

She’s used her children as pawns in her divorces.

She’s blamed a lack of child support payments on subpar necessities for her children, all the while carrying expensive handbags and driving a Lexus.

She has multiple passports, under multiple names.

I don’t like to judge people. I wonder, even worry to some extent, that all her stories and allegations might be true.  If they are, she’s had a HARD life…and I’d want all the right things for her. I’d want the insanity to stop. And if she’s really been treated this poorly her entire life,  she deserves someone as gentle and supportive as my ex husband.

But, I can’t help but wonder…what if he vexes her? What horrible thing will she try to pin on him?And what if after hearing all the evidence, what if I can no longer give her the benefit of the doubt? What if I become the person in her cross hairs in trying to protect my children? And what has she already done, that my ex is not asking himself these same questions?  I care about him, as the father of my children, he  NEEDS to be safe and sane. I don’t want to take my kids away from their father.

This woman they know as their future-step-mother is important to my kids. They want her to be safe and freed.  They have heard her side from their dad. This weekend, they asked me a lot of questions, many I couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.  I just stressed to them that their dad needed our support, to be there to lift him up during this time that would be really stressful to him.  I emphasized to them that there are two sides to every story…and just as the story they’ve heard from her, via their dad, was not 100% correct, neither would the prosecutions story be 100% correct.  I explained to them that it was merely a case of he said, she said…and he was dead.  And the trial would be similar to when I walk in to break up their fights, two very different stories would be told and the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

I’m trying SO hard to be open minded. I’m trying so hard to be patient, kind and supportive of their father, because that’s been the way we’ve dealt with this divorce from day one.  I’m trying to give this woman the benefit of the doubt.  But, I’m tired…tired of being nice, tired of being patient, tired of not screaming “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING?”, tired of worrying that in the future I’ll have a very scary “Now, what?” type of decision.

I’ve been sailing through these crap infested waters for months now, I just wish I had the paddle to get us all out of here safely.

Baseball season is a true commitment, even for me. Practices, games, driving here and there. Laundry three times a week to be sure his uniform is always clean. It’s a commitment for Will.  When other kids are going to the pool during they day, he stays home on game days so that he’s not too tired to play. When you get to the field, you have to be up. You have to be ready. The heat can’t hold you back. Rain can’t hold you back. You have to have desire. He does…every day. Every year, I wonder, will he not want to play this year.  Is this the year he grows tired of the commitment, of the rigor, of the effort…and every year, he’s eager and excited to sign up.

This year was no different. He played hard. He improved.

I was proud of him.

I was proud of the team.

I was proud of the coaches.

Until last night.

The head coach was out. The team was playing for third place against a select team. They’d beat this team before and could do it again. They were up 8 to 3 at the top of the 4th inning. My son rode the bench. By the middle of the 5th inning, he came over to the end of the dugout and asked the crowd if he was “the worst baseball player ever” and broke into tears. This still breaks my heart.  This team is a pay to play team. They are not select. It’s about teaching young men to learn and love baseball. Sometimes winning happens, sometimes it doesn’t.  But the back-up coaches didn’t get that last night.  They failed to play about 4 or 5 of the boys fairly, because they’re not the STAR players.  They took a time out and removed a player from right field when a left handed batter came up. They broke the spirit of the boys that had gotten them to the semi-finals.  Even the good players, saw what was happening and weren’t happy about it.  They went too far for the win.

I know some people wished all season long that the head coach had done more reprimanding or held more practices, to make the boys EVEN BETTER.  But this coach understood that his job was to keep the boys improving, interested and enjoying the game. He taught them that they win as a team and they lose as a team.  These other coaches forgot that.  These other coaches, in a few thoughtless actions and words, crushed the dreams of impressionable boys on the verge of becoming men. Through their actions, they taught the boys that you can sacrifice anything as long as you want to win enough. That’s not why my son plays baseball. He plays for the uniform. He plays for his team. He plays for the love of the game.   I love seeing him in his uniform. I love watching the boys learn over the course of the season how to play like a team.

Go Royals!

When my kids began to reach school age, it was important for me to find a good, safe school district. I moved back to Omaha to for this reason.  The Millard Public School district is the school district that I grew up in.  It’s a good school district, in middle class and upper middle class neighborhoods. It felt safe.  I grew up here. I was always safe, or felt that way. I was fortunate.

Today, both of my kids’ schools went on Code Red lock down.  They were in the situation where they had to lock the door to their school room, hide in cabinets or by cubbys and remain quiet. Read that again. My children who are 11 and 8, hid from unknown dangers in their school rooms. I am weepy and in disbelief as I type that. The schools reacted appropriately and my children knew exactly what they needed to do. It absolutely BREAKS.MY.HEART. that both the schools and my children NEED to know this. I got an email from my best friend asking if I knew that my kids schools were on lock down.  I immediately quit working and started searching the internet.  I got a call from the school on both my work and cell numbers apprising me of the situation. I should say, the school system handled this in a VERY VERY responsible and appropriate manner.

As I dug into the details, I found out that the principal of Millard South was shot. His name is Dr. Curtis Case. He is the father of my son’s best friend. I hurried home to meet my son at the house, once I knew the lock down had been lifted. I didn’t know what he knew, but I knew enough that if he HAD heard the news, he would need reassurance. This is where parenting gets hard.

I can’t explain school shootings. I can’t explain wanting to kill another person. I can’t explain life being so hard that drastic measures must be taken.  All I can tell my kids is that no matter what happens in their lives, I’m here and I will listen to them.  I can tell them that I will advocate for them, if they think they are being treated unfairly and I will expect them to always do their best and give their all. I can tell them suicide is NEVER an answer, nor is taking innocent people with you, no matter how fairly you feel you’ve been mistreated. But, I can’t tell that this will never happen again.  I can’t tell them that they will be safe when I’m not around.

It’s an unsettling feeling when your children’s schools are put on lock down, even when you know their safe.  It’s so much worse, once you learn that things have hit even closer to home.

This kid is brilliant.

This kid is loving.

This kid is wise beyond his years.

This kid is hilarious.

He can tell a story like only his grandfather can.

He loves learning about historical things.

He loves math.

This kid loves science.

This kid has never met a book he didn’t love.

This kid is a black belt.

This kid is a pretty good baseball player.

He has developed into a strong runner

He loves our dogs.

He loves our family.

He takes care of his sister.

This kid helps his mom and his soon to be step dad.

This kid admires his dad and his step-siblings.

This kid is unorganized.

This kid is a master negotiator.

He doesn’t understand that he can’t negotiate with adults.

He doesn’t know when to quit.

He is still young and immature and sometimes I forget that.

He is frustratingly slow.

And he is SO hard to parent.

This kid is so much like me and so much like his father…and I just wish it was easier to make life easier for him.

My mom was not overly political with us. She was neither conservative, nor liberal. She let us make up our own minds. She took us with her many times when she voted. She practiced what she preached. From the time my son was born, he’s gone with me to vote. I’ve tried to share this same legacy with my oldest, just as my mother did with me.

So, with that, it caught me off guard this morning, as I was driving my daughter to school and we had the radio on the local college station.  The DJs were discussing voting. Their tone was cynical and negative. If it was satire, it was so thickly veiled that I was struggling to know if they were serious or not…and it hit me.  My daughter was listening to this. My daughter, was hearing how these local “celebrities” thought voting was stupid. These celebrities that talk daily about her favorite bands, that announce concerts she can only dream about for another decade or so. And my heart cried, I was physically saddened by the thought of this and as we parked the car.

After what seemed like minutes of trying to remove the lump from my throat and the tear from my eye, I told her that voting is important. That when she gets older, it’s not only her right, it’s her job. And today, I will leave work early enough to pick her up and take her with me to vote. She needs to see the practice in action. I won’t allow someone else to let me children decide what’s important.  I’ll never tell her how to vote or what to think, but I will teach her to exercise her right…and do what is right. It’s not only my responsibility as her mother, it’s my right.

I do not shelter my children from EVERYTHING. They were there when we had to put our beloved lab down. But, I allowed them to chose when and how they wanted to participate.  Life is hard, but children are innocent and I believe they should be allowed to be that way as long as they’re willing.In my house, for now, my middle schooler still believes in the tooth fairy, the easter bunny and santa claus. I know that he knows better, but he wants these things to still be magical and real and he’s 11, I’m not ready to tell him he can’t have that.  He has lots of years left for life to real, non-magical and, quite frankly, hard. My daughter is a natural worrier. If there are storm clouds in the sky, she’s concerned about tornados. She tells herself that if the clouds are in certain areas of the sky, that means the storm is not going to come our way. I don’t always correct her, if I know it’s just going to rain after she goes to bed, what’s the harm in letting her feel comfort.

But at his house, my son is allowed to play Call of Duty and see Resident Evil, because her son does. In my house, this is a no-go. Who needs to see the digital representation of war or truly horror filled moments when you can play baseball with guys with no arms. At his house, my daughter was told that she will get breast cancer some day because my maternal grandmother had it and eventually died from it.  In my house, they know that Grandma Birdie taught me how to quilt and sew, made them so many things in their infancy, and loved them more than they will ever remember.  At his house, my children were told that nothing “Australian” could come into the house, because her ex is from there…and they hate that. In my house, we love and embrace truly Australian things, like koala bears, kangaroos, and Crocodile Dundee. At his house, they know that their dad and his girlfriend met on Match.com and that they will likely never get married again, because that just ends in divorce and divorce is ugly. In my house, they learn that Mike loves them as if they were his own children and that he is committed to both them and me. They know that we will plan the wedding together and that we will all go into this relationship knowing that divorce is not an option.

It breaks my heart to hear some things that my children hear or know or do when they are not with me.  And it’s so hard to choose which battles are worth fighting and which are better left alone. All I know how to do is love them fiercely when they’re with me and do everything I can to let them be little.  I regret that I cannot protect them as often as my heart desperately wants to.

Some days, that bar I set seems so far out of my reach.  I lose my temper.  I yell when I should just walk away.  I don’t leave us enough time and get all panicky and shouty when we’re running late.  I CAN’T. STAND. THEIR. FIGHTING…and so I send them to their rooms for alone time, or make them sit on the couch and hold hands until I’m no longer frustrated.  I forget things…lunches, bookfair  money, early school dismissals, you know the drill.  My biggest regret in my children’s life is that they will, for the rest of their lives, have two homes.  In the days when my divorce was imminent, I don’t think that in my mind, I could even see the bar from where I was. But I made sure that I found a place that would be home for them.  They each had their own room with their name over the door.  There would be no mistake that they belonged and that it was home.  It seems that it never gets easier, sharing custody of them.  I never want to see them go.  I call them every night they’re with their father.  I regret not being able to read to them before bed (yes, even at 11 and 7 we still do that) tuck them in those nights and kiss my daughter’s head or ruffly my son’s hair.  I am sad because I know that their father does not do these things with them. 

What I have learned is that in this quest for the perfect mother award, I have tripped and fallen on my face more than I care to admit.  I regret that I have to share my time with them and them with me.  I have to be careful not to let these small moments keep me down.    Because, what I do know is this…

I am the best mother for them that I know how to be.

I love them unconditionally.

Children need both a mother and a father…and while he may not nurture them like I do…I sure as hell am not going to pick up a snake and teach them all that I can about it.

No matter how much I want it, I will never be perfect;  no one is.  But I do know that I am the perfect mother for my children.

I may never win Mother of the Year accolades, but when my children look back on their childhood, they will remember me.  Always by their side. Cheering them on. Teaching them right from wrong.  Holding their hands.  Treating their wounds. Laughing with them.  Loving them wholly for who they are.  For that, I will gladly accept an Honorable Mention.