No more Jerry

Ok. It's been three days. Three days since my life has changed in a very significant way. I thought I would be depressed at the very least and a severe basket case at the worst. For the first time in sixteen years, I am separated from the child I gave birth to. And not just for a couple of weeks at boy scout camp. He's gone for good. Barring the occasional visit. He does not live with me anymore. Two years sooner than expected.

Now, I've always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who suffer from empty nest syndrome. God please deliver me from the full nest, was almost my mantra. But I don't think I believed it when it came to my youngest. And yet.......

I admit I was a bit teary at the airport. As was he. But the sense of calmness, and peace has been spreading ever since. Am I truly the horrible mother I always suspected myself of being? Shouldn't I be tearing my hair, wailing and wearing sackcloth and ashes? This slow building of euphoria must mean that I will rot in a hell designed for unfit mothers.

I love the child in question immensely. And I do miss him. But I realized the other night, that the child I miss, is not the child that has been living with me for the last eighteen months. I've already gotten used to missing him.

He is the third of four children to wrest his freedom from the evil clutches of his parents. And he's is the youngest of the four. My husband has mentioned more than once in the last six months, that he misses our oldest daughter who moved out on her own last July. I say nothing because I don't miss her. (What I really don't miss is the drama. Same goes for the oldest). But I really don't miss them. Any of them. I just feel relief.

I've already turned his room into a guest room. It's gorgeous. Anybody want to come and visit? You'll have your own room. Kind of cold hearted, huh?

I have friends just starting their families. And I see neighbors and others in my community with precious little infants or young children. And all I can think is, thank god it's not me.

So, I guess no more Jerry Springer. Cancel that appointment with the producers. And I don't need a raise. I just needed release.

Parenthood

exhaustion, relief.
amazement, joy and pride.
fear.

laughter, tenderness.
wonder, recognition and accomplishment
fear.

frustration, desperation.
relief, gratitude and humility.
fear.

hope, amazement.
worry, awe and love.
fear.

sorrow, betrayal.
guilt, anger and confusion.
fear.

how do i let go?

The New Living Will

I, _________________________ (fill in the blank), being of sound mind and body, do not wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means.
Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of ethically challenged politicians who couldn't pass ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it. If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to sit up and ask for a cold beer, it should be presumed that I won't ever get better. When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my spouse, children and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day. Under no circumstances shall the hypocritical members of the Legislature (State or Federal) enact a special law to keep me on life-support machinery. It is my wish that these boneheads mind their own damn business, and pay attention instead to the health, education and future of the millions of Americans who aren't in a permanent coma. Under no circumstances shall any politicians butt into this case. I don't care how many fundamentalist votes they're trying to scrounge for their run for the presidency, it is my wish that they play politics with someone else's life and leave me alone to die in peace. I couldn't care less if a hundred religious zealots send e-mails to legislators in which they pretend to care about me. I don't know these people, and I certainly haven't authorized them to preach and crusade on my behalf. They should mind their own damn business, too. If any of my family goes against my wishes and turns my case into a political cause, I hereby promise to come back from the grave and make his or her existence a living hell.

_______________
Dated


______________________
Signature


________________________________
Witness


________________________________
Witness

Jane's Addiction

You know, it's odd how the things our parents made us do as hated chores become some of our great loves when we grow up.

In my case you could take several things. Reading for example. There was a time when I hated to read. Some of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but it's true. Now, my mother is a serious reader. When I say serious I mean that there is always at least one book she's reading within easy reach. To say nothing of those she's writing, but that's for another posting.

The story goes that sometime shortly after my birth Shogun was published. Now in addition to her voracious reading habit, my mother has a deep love for both Japanese culture (she lived in Japan for several years) as well as history. Of course my mother didn't waste any time in procuring a copy of said novel. She continued to meet my infant needs, but woe to anyone else in the house or the house itself. Somewhere around the third or fourth day, when my father had picked up pizza or something, again, my brother asked if mom was ever gonna make dinner again. My father sighed, looked at my mom, (who had the book in one hand and was feeding me a bottle with the other) and said, not until she's finished the book.

So, when I was in the third grade she decided that I needed to read. I didn't want to. Not like I had a choice. I was handed a large, hardcover, orange (to this day I hate the color orange) book and told I had to read a chapter a day and report it to her. Damn, this meant that I couldn't close my door, pretend to read and then be free. I actually had to know the material.

What's so bad about a chapter a day? The book was about Cowboys and Indians. It was pulled from the shelf because my brother had enjoyed it. Now, I was a nine year old girl. I was a bit of a tomboy, and I absolutely worshiped my brother, but this was going too far. Oh how I hated that reading hour. It dragged on interminably. I remember laying on my bedroom floor under the windows and studying the wallpaper much more industriously than that book.

And then, epiphany! My mother took me with her to the bookstore. Now, I'm sure I had been to many a bookstore with my mom before that fateful day. I mean, how could I not? But I have no conscious memory of ever being in one before. I, of course, was whining about not wanting to read the dreaded chapter that day. I wanted to do something with my friends. So mom tells me if I don't like the one I'm reading, then while we're here pick out something else. I started wandering aimlessly through the stacks, rather grumpily I might add, when I see a title. The Haunted Bridge.

Now, I loved scary stuff. Movies, stories (my brother told great ghost stories) whatever. So, not knowing how to judge a book except by it's cover, I bought it. And discovered Nancy Drew. Couldn't get enough of them. They were like candy to me. I stopped watching TV. I stayed up late reading with a flashlight under the covers. My friends came by and I blew them off. I hardly even got into the pool.

Of course, all good things must end, even my affair with Nancy Drew. Once again my mother stepped in. She banned Nancy from the house. Told me I needed to broaden my literary horizons. Which led to my lifelong affair with Stephen King. King was eventually followed by John Saul. At some point I discovered Sci-Fi then fantasy and so on. Now, I read anything I can get my greedy little paws on. I've outdone my mother in the bookworm category. I usually have at least three books going at one time. One on the nightstand, one in the car, one in the living room...

Some well meaning individuals have voiced the thought that perhaps I need help. Some kind of intervention. I've never argued my insanity. I'll check into the rubber room any time you like....as long as it's stocked with books.

Jerry Springer - Me?

Now, I don't really watch Jerry Springer. Have seen bits and pieces while channel surfing. Can't stand talk shows and DETEST what I call tabloid talk shows. But suddenly, I find myself living in what could be a Jerry Springer ongoing serial.

Don't get me wrong. I never thought adolescence would be easy. My own journey through that mine field was enough to warn me. But this? Never would have imagined it.

I was not the easiest 15 year old on the planet at the time, but I'm sure I wasn't the worst either. And there were plenty of arguments and differences of opinion between myself and my parental units. But there were limits. Certain things I might have thought, but would never dream of saying. Things I thought of doing, but would never have actually done.

You see, no matter how much they pissed me off, they were my PARENTS. Underneath all the angst and posturing, I loved them. Was conscious of an invisible line I didn't want to cross. Never wanted to hurt them. And I had a certain amount of respect for them. Of course, at the time, I often felt they were monumentally unfair. And I was going to be different with my kids. Well, the best laid plans.....

But how did my life with my son get to this? When did it become ok to heap verbal abuse on your mom? When did it become ok to threaten her? How did the norm become holes in walls made by angry fists, broken doors and windows? When did saying fuck off to your parents become an accepted means of communication? When did we start having to call the police to discipline a child? (When he grew to be over six feet tall and outweigh you by eighty pounds, I suppose).

This is so foreign to me. I did not live like this growing up and neither has my child, until recently. But last Monday, I realized that in three short months, my child has turned my home into a Jerry Springer show.

I want a word with the producers. I know Jerry gets paid more than me. I want a raise.