best. vacation. EVER.

We've taken our kids on many vacations. MANY!

They've skied in three states. Screamed at amusement parks. Camped in National Parks.  Museums and road side attractions. Stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon and at the base of the Statue of Liberty.

They've been out of the country.  They've been on cruise ships, boats, planes, and trains. Road trips too numerous to list. "Are we there YET?"

But last weekend's vacation was different.

Not because a record setting heatwave was sweeping through the western United States and we were in Palm Springs. Expected high of 120. We've had our share of weather issues over the years - snow, rain, heat. No problem.

As we were heading home Saturday this happened:

Me: This was the best vacation in... I can't remember how long.
Anthony: You have got to be kidding.
Justin: She means because we didn't fight. It was my favorite, too.

We didn't go anywhere spectacular. Just the hotel pool and a few hours at the waterpark. But there were no meltdowns. No fights. Despite the heat and the sunburns. Not one.

What there was, was Anthony laughing. A dogpile on the hotel bed. Eric in the wave pool. And that moment... when Justin "got it".

It wasn't that long ago...

I vividly remember sitting in a rental car outside of Orlando while my 10 year old screeched at the top of his lungs for 2 hours because the Space Shuttle launch we were supposed to see had been scrubbed.

Just 2 years ago, Aaron bolted from a Mexican restaurant in Phoenix.

Photos of Justin crying uncontrollably in San Clemente. And San Diego. And...

Aaron, who won't go to the movies. Who wants to leave when he wants to leave - even if we just got there.  Who doesn't deal with surprise or plan deviations or impromptu well. Who expects chicken strips or macaroni and cheese nearly every meal. Who can throw a tantrum to rival any three year old. Except he's almost 14.

I suggest them. I plan them. I collect lists of amazing places to see and things to do.  We talk about them for weeks leading up to them. But still, after years of disappointments and yelling, I've come to dread family vacations. It's just one way parenting two special kids has changed me. 

The stress before.  The chaos during.  The guilt after.

Over the years, we've altered our destination choices and the length we're away based on what Aaron and Justin can deal with and, really, how much of THEM I can handle.  But, this weekend was different and it is a reminder that, on some level, it IS getting better.

Not perfect. But better.

I have no photos or souvenirs from this trip. Nothing to scrapbook. Just the memories. And that's ok.

I want

I want to be able to sleep through the night without waking. Nightmares of being suffocated. Then lying awake while my brain REprocesses all the pieces of my life. 

I want to be able to eat tomatoes and peppers and onions. To enjoy milkshakes and ice cream and the occasional beer without getting violently ill. 

I want to not look so tired. So defeated. 

I want to get through 24 hours without an argument. Without a fight. Without crying. 

I want to feel comfortable in my own home. I'm not. 

I run away. To work. To the store. Sometimes, I just drive as fast as I can as far as I need to. Until the urge to hurt someone or myself passes. 

Life has chewed me up and spit me out and sometimes I wonder if there is any of "me" still here. I want to find her. I just don't know how. 

liar liar

He calls me a liar nearly every day. One day I was even a "lying, liar that lies".  Last night he threatened me to stop spreading my lies to others.

For the most part he's wrong.  I don't lie. I'm brutally honest. If you ask me if you look fat in those pants, be prepared for the honest truth. It's just who I am.

But I do lie.  I lie to myself every time I say "everything is going to be OK". Every time someone asks me how I am and I answer "fine". The red, puffy eyes are just allergies. Behind the facade of the smile is a deep well of pain.  Behind the door is someone who can't stop crying. Who doesn't eat or sleep. A liar.

It's easier to smile and tell you "I'm good" than to admit to the world (and to myself) how utterly broken my life is. 

The truth is - this is kicking my butt.  I have gone through some stressful situations in my almost 44 years but  nothing compares to this.  Nothing has left me so bereft. So devoid of hope. So continually sad. So utterly angry.

I'm tired of lying. Honestly, I'm just tired.

I am an empty shell.  Gone is every ounce of strength. Every ounce of patience. Every glimmer of hope and joy and faith. Gone.

I have nothing left to give. To myself. To others.

I can't imagine a lifetime of this. I can't even imagine one more day of these feelings. I am dying on the inside. And yet, I keep smiling on the out. But even the lie is crumbling and soon all that will be left will be the dark truth.  My child is mentally ill.

I was wrong (the cube realized)

It happens. I am wrong. It has happened before. Not often. But it happened tonight.

The Cube.

After a 12 hour work day. After he'd been at school then tackled homework. Right before bedtime. This had disaster written all over it.

But I was bound and determined for him to have some role in this mindless exercise.

We picked out the paper and settled in at the table. iPad open to the 18 step "easy" directions.

And I started folding and he started creasing. And he said "I've made this before, mom. We've got this. Follow me." And I did.

And it was hard but doable. Together. Alone I'm not sure either one of us could have assembled the cube. But together, we proved, anything is possible.

And before long step one was step twelve and the cube was taking shape. And pretty soon we were both marveling at how awesome we were.

Most days I'm dead on estimating my children's strengths and weaknesses but tonight was a reminder not to write them off. They have undiscovered talents. They have unique. skills. They are amazing in their own right.

Will Aaron grow up to be a master paper folder (if such a thing exists)? Probably not. But I hope he will look back and remember his tired, frazzled mom sat down after work and helped him fold an origami cube and told him, "I'm so proud of you."

the cube

easy 

adjective \ˈē-zē\ 

causing or involving little difficulty or discomfort

requiring or indicating little effort, thought, or reflection

hmmm. Easy?

What is easy anyway?  What is easy for me is not necessarily easy for you. And it is definitely not easy for Aaron.

The Cube. EASY Modular Origami Cube.

6 sheets of paper. 18 steps.  39 photos. 

A child with fine motor skill issues and the inability to follow a string of instructions.  A mother with limited patience.

Easy?

The Cube project is indicative of  the problems we are having at school.  Balancing the assignments Aaron is given with what can realistically be expected from him.  Questioning what the goal of EACH task is and where it fits into content mastery and academic standards. Is it truly designed to teach or reinforce a concept or simply a time waster that will surely throw us over the precipice we teeter on daily between sanity and a nervous breakdown? 

Easy?

Nothing is easy with Aaron.  Even the simplest tasks take forever and require multiple reminders and redirects. And most of the time, the assignment is not simple or easy.  All too often, there is yelling.  And frustration by everyone involved.  You can hear it in my voice.  You can see it in Aaron's clenched up fists and scrunched up face.  

Determining what he can do on his own, what we help with, and what we do for him. Easy? No.

Sometimes we let things slide - things like The Cube. Because when it comes down to it, building an insanely small origami cube will not teach him how to determine the surface area or volume of a shape.  It will only illustrate to him, yet again, his weaknesses, his disabilities, his failures.  And mine, too.

He will see that what is easy for others is nearly impossible for him.  So I will build The Cube and he will turn it in and get a grade on it. 

And instead of a lesson in futility and frustration disguised as geometry, he will learn that I will be there to support him and fight for him.  In the end, honestly, it's the easiest thing I can do.

smells like teen

Your modern teenager is not about to listen to advice from an old person; defined as a person who remembers when there was no Velcro.
Dave Barry

Loud. Smelly. Unpredictable.

Clothes on the floor instead of the closet or the dresser or the dirty clothes hamper. A room that smells like something died in there. Years ago.

Food that disappears as fast as it enters the house. No more kiddie menus.  Full size, adult meals PLUS "are you going to finish that" and "what's for dessert".

Light still on.  Not studying, but yelling at some random stranger on Xbox Live, half-way around the world. It's after midnight, go to sleep.

A mix of chlorine and sweat and dirt and body odor and body spray.  Shoes and feet that smell so bad I nearly throw up when I have the misfortune of being in the same room with them.

"Can I borrow your car?" Sure, but don't forget to leave the stereo at an ear-shattering volume.

Staying up late and sleeping all day.

No longer a child but not yet an adult. Stuck between what the world expects and what you want to do.

Stand tall. Pull up your pants. Wash your hands.

Roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders and assume that I know nothing about being a teenager.  Nothing about peer pressure. Nothing about dating and relationships and the drama that comes from teenage girls. Nothing about stress and a demanding schedule and choosing priorities and making time for what is important.

And then there are those times where out of nowhere you hold my hand in public or dog-pile on top of me laughing uncontrollably. Cuddle up next to me on the couch to watch a movie. Let me tell you that the fight you had with your girlfriend is not the end of the world (as you seem to think) but an opportunity for the two of you to grow.

Someday, you'll have a teenager, too. And you will understand that I did indeed know what I was talking about.  Until then, for the love of G-d, pull up your damn pants!

it's not you, it's me

Sometimes I have to take a friend-cation.  Not a getaway with my bests (I do that, too) but a brief break from the people around me.

I do it for my own sanity. And to make sure that my friends stay my friends.

Over the years, I've gotten pretty good at holding my tongue.  Keeping my inner voice silent. Most of the time at least.

So why take a break if I have it under control?

Because sometimes it is more than I can handle and I feel myself losing that inner battle. But it's (rarely) you that is the reason for the hiatus - it's generally me.  My jealousy. My inadequacies. My issues.

So I walk away.  I stop reading texts and posts. I find myself unavailable for lunches and outings. I just take a break.

Deep down, I am happy that your child is doing well in school and life. But honestly, it's hard to calmly sit back while you complain about your son having a B or your minor annoyances.  SAT scores, colleges, awards.  Those constant reminders of how much we struggle at home is sometimes more than I can handle. It is a reminder of our loss, our frustrations, our pain. 
 
I know you don't mean it maliciously or as a slap in the face.  It's not a competition - I know that - but it still hurts.  My insecurities.

So although I don't expect you to understand what we go through at home, I hope you understand why sometimes I just don't want to go to lunch and listen to how great your life is.  I want you to stay my friend and I'm afraid the inner voice will come out.

It's just a vacation not a permanent split.  Please understand, it's not you... it's me.