"Friendship isn't about whom you have known the longest...it's about who came and never left your side."

Dear Oliver,

I miss you. I feel like a weight is sitting right on my top of my heart.  Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe and that pain takes me by surprise. I knew it would hurt, but I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Your absence is everywhere. And the silence is so loud.  Can silence scream?  Because I feel like it is. That silence, that absence is the loudest thing about you; and you were anything but a loud dog.  I feel like this whole house is mourning. The walls, the floors, even the woods outside.  Everything is in agony, waiting for you to come back.  But, you won’t.  And I know somewhere deep, deep, buried in my heart that you are where you need to be. 

I was 22 years-old and returning home from college when gg and Poppy finally said I could get a dog.   I had begged and groveled since I was five years-old.  On every birthday, on every Christmas I asked for a dog.  I remember driving down Route 152 with gg the day we rescued you.  We were on our way to Baltimore to pick out a chocolate lab pup, when our car just sort of veered left onto Connolly Road. We could not stop thinking about that beagle/hound puppy (seriously, we will never know what you were, but it didn’t matter) that we had visited the day before.  You stole our hearts.  Your mom was heartworm positive, you had mange, and a wrinkly body that had just started growing back fur; and you needed someone to love you.  And it was impossible to do anything but. You needed us.  And we didn’t know how much we would need you.

It kills me that I can’t remember every second spent with you.  Only snippets.  Flashing memories that make me laugh.  You jumping, bounding, LEAPING off the front porch or back deck when we would let you outside.  I swear you were the fastest dog in the world.  We could only describe you as a bat-out-of-hell.  Taking off in the woods to chase the squirrels and the birds.  You never caught them, but it didn’t matter.  The fun was all in the chase.  You loved dirty, smelly diapers.  I don’t get it and I never will and boy, did it make us mad.  But, now I just laugh.  When we moved into our first townhouse years ago, you peed in almost every single room.  Multiple times.  It was like you were staging your own sort of protest, exchanging picket signs for urine.  You wanted to move back to the country with woods, and acres, and grass that you could ruin, and squirrels!   How about when we lost you in Rocks?  You were only a puppy, barely 6 months old.  Five days you were gone.  I probably made 50 colored posters emblazoned with your poor puppy face, posted everywhere in northern Harford County. We got daily calls about Oliver sightings, but they never panned out.  And we lived in state of agony, losing hope each day. Then, on the 5^th day it was a like a miracle.  We were driving through Rocks looking for you and we got a phone call from your Uncle Ben.  He was screaming and saying that your Pop Pop had just spotted you on a road right next to us.  And then we looked up from our car and there you were.  Standing right in the middle of the road.  I got out to get you and of course you ran, again, like a bat-out-of-hell.  You were so scared.  gg took off after you in her car, throwing dog food out the window, yelling “Puppy treat!” (This reenactment always makes your sister laugh and laugh).  Somehow you stopped, and you got in the car, with your bloody paws, shaking like a leaf.  Of course, you always shook.  All. The. Time.  You were scared of something that haunted you.  I will never know what happened to you before we rescued you.  But, whatever it was shook you to the core and part of you never recovered.  But, I know you’re not shaking now.

It’s been an excruciating 4 weeks, maybe more, of watching your body fail.  We tried, buddy.  God, did we try.  Daddy thought it was “time” a week ago and I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t let you go.  I close my eyes and picture you going batshit-crazy in the woods, having the time of your life.  But, that’s the thing.  You haven’t been “that” Oliver in a long time.  When we took you last night, the vets were so busy and we waited for what seemed like forever in that little room with you.  We could have got frustrated but, we didn’t. Because in those 40 minutes of waiting, you were at peace.  It was the first time in 11 years that you didn’t shake.  Not once.  We held you and you were somehow telling us that it was ok.  I thank GOD that those vets were so busy last night.  That time spent with us loving you, giving only you attention, brought you a peace that I am so grateful for.  My hands are shaking as I type, buddy, because I have never felt such truth in a statement before.  And then you went. Just like that.  So quiet into the night.  And at that moment, I knew: we did the right thing for you.  Because now you’re in a better place, in a better state than what you were four days ago, four weeks ago.  Are you chasing that mythical cat that you could never find?  Are you running like a bat-out-of-hell chasing those squirrels that you could never, ever catch?  Or are you laying out, stretching all your limbs, and basking in rays of golden sunshine? That’s what I like to think and what I will believe.

Oliver, I pray that you know how much you meant to our little family.  When “life” and your sister and brother came along and stole your spotlight; I hope you know that we never, ever stopped loving you.  Not for one single second. We never will.  Thank you, Oliver. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You were a good dog.  You were a best friend. You lived a great life.  And I will love you for the rest of mine.

Love,

Mom

"My heart is so small it’s almost invisible. How can you place such big sorrows in it?" “Look,” He answered, "“your eyes are even smaller, yet they behold the world.”

I am in a waiting stage.  Will I have another child?  Should I give away the baby clothes?  How much is too much of a gap between children?  My husband, on the other hand, is way past the waiting stage.  He’s over the fence, hopped on the train, turned a corner, and is headed straight to the nearest bar.  He’s moved on.  Ready for the next stage in life where we reclaim the “us”; and let go of the diapers and pull-ups and Sippy cups and a child laying between us in our bed (and that child on most nights is the almost 7 year-old, not the 4 year-old).  For some reason, I’m not there yet.  And I’m not quite sure why or what it is that I am still waiting for.

I always envisioned us with three children.  But, life is perplexing and unexpected.  I never, ever in my harshest nightmares could have anticipated the journey we have taken to become a family.  One day, when the moment feels right, I will “let go” of my story and my journey; this journey is what led me to writing.  But, now is not that time.  It is no secret that I have suffered from Postpartum Depression and Postpartum OCD; and have walked that barb-wire line where the term Postpartum Psychosis was a possibility (these things have become malicious beings and evil demons that are worth uppercase letters).  But the true story is something that even my dearest friends would read in disbelief and horror.  And I’m just not ready yet. Maybe, I’ll be ready to let go tomorrow.  Maybe a year from now.  But, not tonight.

So, why in the world would I want to go through it again?  Seriously, Kristyn, why?  WHY.  It’s a constant war between the right side of my brain, the left side of my brain, and my heart.  The left-side is screaming WTF.  That is all.  WTF. There is no need to say more.  While the right side of my brain is tugging at my heartstrings with future baby announcements and chubby cheeks and first steps and belly laughs and rice cereal.  The left-side of my brain is dropping the f-bomb likes it’s the only word in the dictionary and the right-side is off in baby-land with stars and moonbeams glowing in her eyes.

If I am being completely honest, and I am nothing if not honest…to a very big fault; sometimes, I think that maybe I want three children because time went so fast.  I had Maggie, then I had Harper, and then I blinked.  And that time that people said would go by so fast...really did go by so fast.  They weren’t shitting.  Sometimes I think that a third child would give me that time back.  But, it can’t.  It won’t.  I will never get that time back with Maggie and Harper.  And reality is that time with another baby will go just as fast.  It’s inevitable.  That’s the funny thing about time…it just keeps going.  And why do I want that time back?  There has NEVER been an age that I haven’t enjoyed every possible second.  Each stage brings new adventures and new experiences and new traits that I had never discovered in my child until that point.  It is true and it is cliché.  Every day I am in more awe of these two miraculous creatures than I was the day before; and every single day, I fall more in love. 

So, why am I still in that lingering, pausing stage?  That indecisive, make no decisions right now stage?  Well, maybe that last statement was just it.  I fall more in love every day.  Every second. In every moment.  During every laugh.  During every temper-tantrum.  During every sassy response, I fall more in love.  To think that there could be another chance to fall in that kind of love is intriguing and intoxicating.  My heart is doing cartwheels; while the right-side of my brain is eating cotton candy, sitting on top of the Ferris wheel, looking at the Earth below while Louis Armstong croons “It’s a Wonderful World”.

But, that left-side of my brain.  It knows.  It remembers.  The hurt, the suffering, and the hell.   It wakes up every single morning and it always remembers.  And right now, it’s just not ready to let go.  Sometimes, I wonder if it ever will.

I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

I’m not sure where this post is heading nor where it will end.  This week has been surreal and head-shaking and numbing; and has left my extended family in a state of painful anticipation of the unknown.  And all the while the world has continued to spin, while our hearts are slowly at this standstill of constant ache.  Since our family is not ready to release this ache into the world, I won’t comment anymore.  But, my need to write about it is under my skin, gnawing away.  So, I will start with something that I know is real.  Something that is constant.  Something that will always be.

In most families mothers are everything, IT, the queen of the castle.  There is nothing like a mother’s touch.  Mother knows best.  All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my mother.  Home is where my mom is.  And so on.  Yet, mothers complain that they are underappreciated.  Sure, we hear the majority of the whining; we are the bearers of our children’s constant want and need of attention; if something goes wrong it’s always “MOM!!” and rarely “DAD!!”  My husband can take a shower for 20 minutes and no one would ever think to bother him.  And yet, I don’t get one foot in the water and someone is whipping the curtain open asking me for some apple juice or if I know where the missing stegosaurus we lost three months ago is and if I can find it at that very moment.  Today, both my husband and I went shopping separately.  And somehow I ended up with both kids in a chaotic Target before an impending snowstorm.  I am quite positive most people heard me tell Maggie more than once, “You’re either in the cart or you’re out.  And if you try to change your mind while I am moving the cart, I will run you over.  And not look back.”  True story.  So, do mothers have it harder than dads?  Maybe.  But if we stop to think, would we want it any other way?  Because on the flip side, mothers get most of the love.  And the cuddles.  And the ‘I love yous’.  And the credit.  And so we wholeheartedly accept our role without looking back.

But, the dads, where are they?  What is their role?  The structure and dynamic of American families is drastically changing in more ways than one.  So, I will speak for the men in my life; because I feel truly blessed to come from a family and have married into a family with generations of great fathers and grandfathers and husbands.  So, where are these men I speak about?  These men, these amazing people are quietly in the background.  Tirelessly working and providing.  Always there waiting for when mommy has had enough.  And when mommy needs a very tall glass of wine.  They don’t need the acknowledgement, just the love.  Husbands with unwavering devotion to their wives; and fathers with steadfast love and support for their children.  Ordinary men that can turn into superheroes or princes or dragons when asked without blinking an eye.  A constant rock of support for their wives.

Last night, I came home from another long day of waiting with another long list of questions that have yet to be answered.  When I stepped in the door, I heard the whirring of the vacuum and I started tearing up.  My husband had worked for part of the day, then picked up our kids from my father (can we pause for a moment and be thankful for the granddads that are willing to babysit), and never stopped working when he got home.  Because somehow he knew that a clean house won’t fix my problems, but would give me a chance to just be.  To sit and breathe and enjoy my children after a day of anxiety.  Sure, we mothers live this life all the time.  But, we get the recognition. We get more “I Love Yous” and more cuddles.  And my husband, my children’s father, is ok with being second fiddle when he is anything but.  He works just as hard.  And to say I am merely thankful for him is an understatement of epic proportions.  The same goes for all the wonderful dads and husbands and men that are in my life.  And today, I hope wherever they are, whatever they are doing, they somehow know how much they are loved. 

Take the time to tell your husband, your father, your boyfriend, or simply your significant other how much you love them.  How much you appreciate them.  One day you may not get this chance...and today, you do. 

"It seems to me, that we have a lot of story yet to tell." - Walt Disney

On the last night of our Disney vacation, I found myself a weeping mess.  I was in front of the mirror, trying to pull it together to finish my makeup, and I could not stop the tears. 

I wasn’t crying because we were leaving.  Nor was I crying because we were traveling back home to freezing temperatures (though that reason was a close second).  And I wasn’t crying because I was overwhelmed by the whole Disney experience; like many, many little ones.  I was crying because this was another fleeting moment in time.  Another flickering moment that I desperately wanted time to stop, just enough to let me breathe it in.

My childhood was spent vacationing in Walt Disney World.  I can remember moments from every trip, though the early memories are no doubt from photographs tucked away in my mom’s Disney albums.  Being terrified of King Louie the Monkey at age 2.  Meeting up with my childhood best friends in Epcot at age 5.  My sister’s moody, teenage, “I refuse to smile on this trip” vacation at age 9.  Getting sick on the Disney bus at age 12 and my mom resorting to using my new hat to “catch” the vomit.  Bringing a best friend with me at age 17; and wearing our Tigger and Eeyore ears throughout the entire vacation.  And then, at age 22, a new memory: On this trip, it was just my mom and I.  Two kindred Disney spirits, two best friends.  On this particular trip, I remember leaving the Magic Kingdom on our final night, looking over my shoulder for one last view of the castle, and completely breaking down.  I remember my Mom hugged me, crying as well, and she asked “Why are YOU crying?”  The crying was simple, the explanation was not.  I was finally old enough to see that my childhood was marked with these trips, these amazing moments.  I grew up there and that “growing up” was coming to an end.  I was crying because I knew time was passing.  And that the next time I visited Disney, it would most likely be with my own children.  And the tradition would continue.  Heavy stuff for a 22 year-old.

So, last Saturday night, my husband found me sobbing (poor guy deals with this a lot).  Because, this was another moment on my timeline.  Another moment that came and went, much too fast.  A moment that you want to hold onto; and make a movie in your head so you can revisit these feelings, this genuine happiness.  I knew that the next time we visited Disney would likely be drastically different.  It’s probable that my daughter will have no desire to wait in lines to capture Minnie’s autograph.  Will the awe and wonder be gone in my son’s eyes because he is now an ‘old pro’ at this?  Who knows?  And dare I say, that it could even be possible that another little one is there with us?  I can’t answer that right now, but it’s always a possibility.  Whatever the circumstances and whenever the time, all I know is that it will be different.  And this time, this moment has passed. 

So, when we got on the Magical Express on Sunday morning to take us to the airport, I watched my 6 year-old as she sat at the back of the bus.  My overly exuberant daughter was oddly subdued and quiet, staring out the window for a long period of time.  When I finally broke the silence and called her name, she turned to me with silent tears.  I kissed the top of her head, wiped away the wetness and simply said, “I know, Maggie. I feel it, too.”  A precious moment in time that twinkled and is now gone.  All that’s left is the memories.  Magnificent memories that I am immensely grateful for, but memories all the same. 

 “I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.” - Julian Barnes
 

"Good moms let you lick the beaters. Great moms turn them off first."

My husband got home from work today, sat down to eat lunch, looked at me with my greasy hair and holy sweats; and said with a smirk, “I know this sounds funny, but what can I do to help?  What still needs to be packed?” It didn’t even take us a second to start laughing.

We leave for vacation Monday morning.  We’ve been planning this vacation since summer.  And now, I have been packing and preparing for three weeks.  As an elementary school teacher, preparing sub plans for vacation is more work than actually teaching.  And of course, packing for myself and our two young children is RI.DIC.U.LOUS.  Four syllables.  So, when Larry asks “What can I do to help?”; we both know this is just a way of him trying to throw out support for his wife that has yet to shower at 3:00 in the afternoon.  Because we both know I’m going to say, “Nothing”.  However, it doesn’t help that he throws a suitcase on the bed, spends 10 minutes shoving in clothes, zips it up, and laughs, “Well, I’m packed.”  I was ready to tell him where he could shove that suitcase.

So, on Monday morning, we will lug 6 bags to the airport. We only have four family members.  May sound a bit off, but sounds completely normal to me.  I thrive on organization. My OCD doesn’t let me prepare otherwise.  Packing, making sure everything is “just right”, ensuring we have everything we could POSSIBLY need makes me feel calm.  Our medicine bag is filled to the brim.  Our carry-ons are jammed pack with anything and everything to keep the kids occupied on the plane.  We even have one duffel full of snacks so we don’t have to spend a fortune eating while we are there.  Rainstorm?  We’ve got rain jackets.  Cold weather?  We’ve got sweatshirts and pants.  100 degrees?  Tank tops and shorts.  Hell, I even packed magazines for my father.

And then it hit me.  When did I turn into THIS kind of parent? 

Facebook has been bombarded with those quizzes: If you were a dog, what breed what you be? Golden Retriever.  What career should you really have? Humanitarian.  Which Disney Princess are you? Belle.  And then…What kind of parent are you?  I was seriously expecting something like “Realist” or “Hipster Mom”(well, I hoped for that).  No.  I got “Helicopter Parent”. Wait. Shut the mother lovin’ front door.  Helicopter Parent?  HELICOPTER PARENT? My husband and I pride ourselves on being real with our kids.  Letting them take chances.  Letting them get hurt.  Letting them eat potato chips, just as long as it’s in moderation.  Learning from experiences. “You scratched your knee? It’s cool, walk it off.”  “Someone was mean to you?  Stick up for yourself!”  But, HELICOPTER PARENT? WTF.

I sat on that for a little bit.  And then I packed. And I packed some more.  And I organized and compartmentalized and I made lists.  I made sure every shirt matched with every pair of shorts and every outfit of Maggie’s had a matching set of earrings.  And then it hit me.  Well, shit.  Maybe there is a small part of me that is a helicopter parent (I’m sticking with small).  So, I did what any so-called Helicopter Parent with OCD would do.  I asked Google.  Apparently, helicopter parents are known for over-parenting, over-protecting, and are overly-involved in their children’s lives.  Overly-involved? I think I get an A+ in that category.  Over-protecting? Nope. Not me.  But, my duffel bag full of the entire medicine aisle from Target begs to differ.  On the contrary; “Free-Range Parents” allow their children to learn by making mistakes and foster their child’s need for independence.  Yes! This! This is the answer I was holding out hope for. This was me!  Right? Maybe? Maybe not.  It’s a fine line between these two types of parents.  And that gray area is most likely the best place to be.  Either way, I’m just doing my best here. So, when we step on that plane Monday morning, I will have my anti-bacterial wipes ready for Harps after he uses the airport bathroom.  But, if he’s screaming because of his ears and drops his much-needed lollipop on the dirty plane floor; you better believe I’m licking it clean and shoving that thing right back in his mouth.  Because, that’s me.  Always walkin’ that fine line.

“You're only human. You don't have to have it together every minute of every day.”

Yesterday was just one of those bloody, blah days.  The house was an absolute tragedy.  Report cards needed to be completed.  I needed to attempt to start packing for our vacation.  I went for a run in the 22 degree weather; and 5 minutes in I was about to start googling symptoms of frost bite because I was absolutely sure I was going to lose both thumbs.  And…can I just go back to talking about the house?  I can’t remember the last time I vacuumed, the laundry was an endless pit (seriously, I was sure I would find dead animals in that pile) and I felt like I should just hover over our master bathroom toilet as opposed to sitting on it, in fear of God knows what.  It was one of those days where I couldn’t keep up.  I felt myself drowning, choking on everything that seemed to be weighing me down.

When the evening started to roll around, I was suddenly aware that my children had most likely watched TV all day.  While, I was running around trying to be “mom”, they sat and watched TV.  And they desperately wanted their mom with them.  They would have killed for 20 minutes of attention, not just the 5 or 10 minutes I was willing to give up every hour or so.  Larry came upstairs when I was putting laundry away and he stopped in his tracks.  He could see the emotion on my face.  I was two seconds from breaking down, throwing in the towel, and ugly crying all over his shirt.  I wanted to go to Harps who was calling from my room asking for his “cuddle”.  I wanted to lie with him and just "take him in".  I wanted to lean in and smell him like I just can't get enough.  Because, sometimes I do just that.  I wanted to sit with Mags as she showed me one of her genius creations, whether it was a lunchbox turned into an “apartment for her toys” or a story she wrote about her mother who farts (both very real creations from yesterday).  But, my mind was telling me I HAD to clean.  This was non-negotiable for me.  And on this day, two very tiny hearts suffered.  As did one big heart...mine.

I have a dish towel that hangs on the handle of my oven.  It says “Good moms have sticky floors, dirty ovens, and happy kids.”  While I get the intent of that message, it’s not always that easy.   I would be happy with just a sticky floor.  Hell, I have NEVER cleaned my oven.  Ever.  I don’t even know how.  In actuality, that towel should say: “Good moms have naked children because the laundry is never done, ants because spills are never cleaned, bed bugs because the sheets are never washed, an endless supply of paper products because washing dishes takes too much time, no job because putting in extra hours at home is inconceivable, no social life because the house is not a place to entertain…and happy kids.”  This is reality.  And a really big dish towel.

Not every day is like this, not even close.  Thank God.  And this day shall pass.  It already has.  I have to remember that my good days as a mom, the days I am proud of the wonderful mother I have become, overshadow these bloody, blah days.  But when you’re stuck in this kind of day, all you see is the things you AREN’T being and the things you AREN’T doing.  You just don’t feel like…enough.  Days when I just can’t get my shit together and days when I can’t keep my head above water.  Days when my children fall asleep at night, each possessing and clinging onto their side of Mommy because all they really wanted was me and the time that I had so much trouble sharing with them.  These are the moments and feelings and these are the days that weigh heavy on my heart.

"I don't know where I'm going, but I'm going. Are you coming with me?"

I'm a bit of a social media fanatic. I don't see this as a good thing; in fact, it’s a little nauseating.  I tried to take a break from Facebook for the month of January.  Sort of a New Year's Resolution, if you will.  Mostly, I knew deep down that my children didn't want nor deserve to see their Mommy with her face buried in her smartphone.  (Cherish that last sentence.  It may be the only time you find anything profound written here).  But, to say that I didn't miss it would be a lie.  I never had that "Come to Jesus" moment when I finally found the meaning of life while removing myself from the evils of today’s technology.  Did I enjoy my children more? To be honest, not really. I’m that annoying mother that could NOT enjoy my children any more than I already do.  Even that last statement was irritatingly annoying, but it is the truth.

For me, Facebook has always been a way to share moments with my friends and family.   All 729 of them (totally joking, its 728).  Mostly, moments of hysterical, ridiculous things brought on by my children. Or my husband. Or me. Some families thrive on schedules and routines. Specific naptimes. Baths and stories before bed.  Every night.  Homemade baby food.  Gluten-free and BPA-free and vegan, oh my!  And God bless those that do.  Our family?  We thrive on laughter. On no routine, even though my husband desperately tries.  We thrive on unexpected fits of gut-busting belly laughs at 9:00 at night, an hour after we said the children "had to be in their beds and asleep".  On fast-food runs. Yes fast-food runs when Mommy or Daddy is running late from work. On pizza on Friday nights. On chicken nuggets and hot dogs.  Those moments, that laughter, that “You get on her homework and do the laundry and the dishes, while I make tomorrow’s lunch and help him wipe his hiney”, that frenzied pace…that's what we thrive on.  Sharing those moments with my friends and family, just seems natural.  So now, I might as well just share them even more through this blog.  Doesn’t hurt that it makes my heart happy and puts my mind at ease to write.  In my unorthodox style, naturally.

If you're reading this and expecting every post to be funny, please don't.  If you're reading this and expecting every post to be about my two reckless children, than stop reading right now.  If you read the last paragraph and thought “Well, I have to stick to a schedule.  She must have been insulting my parenting!” Please don’t read anymore. Do yourself a favor.  But before you go, please know that I believe good parents do the best they can with what they have.  We parents (ok, we moms) need to stick together and support each other no matter our parenting style.  But, I may make fun of other parenting styles; although, not as much as I make fun of my own.  And, dear God, if you're reading this and are offended by sometimes crude and vulgar language; for the love of Channing Tatum, please press the arrow in the top left corner. Go back. Leave now.  And after all that, if you're still with me...well, welcome.