Happy Birthday to Me

With the Hil situation more or less under control, I attempt to resume a normal life.

As normal as it can be in a peri-menopausal world.

I have to admit I am no longer 25.  It is a sad, sad admission. Not that I was fooling anyone.

And as my birthday approaches, there are a million things to remind me that I am not 25.

Irregular periods, even on The Pill. (Though being on The Pill somehow makes me feel young and wild and free. No need to prevent a pregnancy put the sense of responsibility in life with Lars. A vasectomy made life with J. seem surgically altered. The possibility of a pregnancy out of wedlock and the need to prevent it makes it seem forbidden in some way with Scott. And much more enticing, to be honest. Go figure.)

And constipation. Nothing takes the spring from your step like a little plumbing SNAFU.  Talk about 10 pounds of you-know-what in a 5 pound bag.

And hormonally imbalanced bouts of irrationality are a blast too. I know the signs and mark the days on my calendar. "ND" means "no decisions."  I am not talking about little decisions like whether to cover my grey with Medium Brown or Dark Golden Brown (which according to the box will make my hair the same color no matter the starting point) or whether to pan sear or poach the salmon.  I am talking about real decisions. Like whether to inform my boss what a complete nincompoop my colleague (his subordinate) really is, or whether to tell her directly that it is astonishing to me that she is not ashamed to collect a paycheck for the minimal competent work she produces. Or whether or not to be really bothered by something I think Scott does that he may not do at all, but I strongly suspect that he does, and if I'm right, I need to rethink the whole thing. Those kinds of game changing decisions. The ones you have to go at great guns. No turning back decisions. I table them for times when cooler heads prevail. Literally cooler. As in not plagued by hot flashes, another nifty side effect.

Oh, and the new pain in my hands. The soreness from such things as turning the steering wheel or trying to open the pickle jar.  I am trying to convince myself that it is not the onset of arthritis (Arthur-itis) but instead carpal tunnel syndrome brought on by frequent and repetitive, very animated gesturing at other drivers.

In any event, my birthday has arrived, and with it, another show down with Estelle.

We blew each other off for Mothers Day. Well, sort of.

I had the kids make a card and sign it and sent it with only a picture (that I'd clearly paid to have made) and no message from me. Spent no more than the cost of the picture and the stamp.

She had not acknowledged me at all. Though when I'd returned from dinner with the kids that night, there was a missed call from an "unknown number."  If she were smart enough, and by that I mean, more technically savvy than I know she is, she could have called anonymously, and not wanting to leave any trace of the gesture, hung up, and left not a fingerprint. Dialed *67 and concealed her dialing identity and then quietly hung up when I'd not answered.

I guess I'll never know. But my birthday would be the real test.

And Your Little Job Too

A few days later, I get a call. The pediatrician has called ChildLine to see what if any issue needs to be reported. They don't let her off the phone without a complete report. They are going to file with Child Protection.  The D.A. will have the report on his desk in a matter of days.

Hil and I must simply go to the police. So we do.

The policeman is a young handsome man who at first is skeptical about the whole thing. But he and I listen as Hil painfully recounts the entire episode with Esther and then the other two girls.  I am cringing all the while. The officer is rapt. We have his attention now.  He talks to a superior. The Adolescent Detective Unit is assigned the case and it is issued a number. How official. 

Hil and I leave and go get lattes and hot chocolate for the road. She and Pat and I are headed to Scott's for the weekend.

But before we leave I ask Hil to compose the report to the school.  She has just very succinctly recounted it all for the officer, one more retelling and she can forget about it.

Monday, I scan the report bearing her little girl handwriting. Just seeing it makes me sad. And empowers me. I attach it to the email that I have composed the the School Board and other officials:

 Dear Sirs/Madam -

Attached please find a scanned copy of a true and original Student-to-Student Harassment/Bullying Complaint Document.

I am deeply disappointed in the school's response to my daughter having raised this issue. On Friday, April 27th, she complained to Mrs. Nilan of serious harassing behavior by Esther "X" toward her and two classmates.  I notified Mrs. Nilan e-mail on Thursday, April 26th after Hilary told me of the incident so that she could be prepared to handle the issue.

At first, Ms. Nilan was simply going "talk to Esther" about the incident and indicate how grossly inappropriate it was. I insisted that the complaint be taken more seriously. The behavior is not only harassment/bullying, the other factors in the situation suggest that Esther is likely a victim herself.

Follow up to ensure Hilary's sense of safety has been lacking. Esther has not complied with instruction to have no contact with Hilary and the teacher has not acted to ensure that she have no contact. 

Dr. McDuff, when pressured to do so, appeared to take the situation more seriously, and in an e-mail to me on May 1, 2012, indicated that the school had at first thought the situation to be minor and then realized that it is much more serious. Yet his statements to my child demonstrate that he intends to mislead me and actually treat the situation as a non-issue.

Since that time, I have learned that Dr. McDuff has pressured, attempted to coerce, and harassed my daughter about filing the attached complaint form. He has spoken to her in such a way that she feels:

• That the school is protecting Esther X.
• That she is in trouble for complaining
• That she could be in more trouble if she makes a formal complaint
• Dr. McDuff is angry with her mother and she is vulnerable to retaliation from Dr. McDuff

His implied position of authority is being abused in this instance.

I have spoken to the Township Police and have filed a report. I have provided the attached emails as a matter of record.

Child Protection has been notified officially of the offenses.

Because Dr. McDuff's poor understanding of the seriousness of this issue prevents him from competently handling this situation I have asked that he have no further contact with my children. Mrs. Reitano has confirmed agreement.

 

Further, Dr. McDuff's deplorable conduct is such that it rises to the level of harassment. I would like to know how I may go about filing a formal harassment complaint on my daughter's behalf with the School District.

The courtesy of a reply is expected. I prefer to correspond in writing.

And I hit the Send key again.

I'll Get You, My Pretty

As incompetent people often do when they are frustrated with their lack of ability, McDuff gets defensive and in a poorly constructed email, insists that he is perfectly capable and more than willing to resolve this problem, but oh, go ahead, do what you want to do. 

There is a part of me that truly believes that he is hoping I do go to the police independently. That way he can wash his hands of it and won't be forced to demonstrate his complete lack of competence on a larger stage.  I am a little confused at his willingness to let another agency handle the matter, though.  I thought that in a job like his, there are certain obligations. A person doesn't get to choose what they'd like to deal with. You get what comes your way.  It's public school. You get what the public dishes out. And as such, sometimes you are the windshield, and sometimes you are the bug.

While I carefully compose my secret dragon-slaying email to the school officials, I decide to put McDuff in a flop sweat of my own creation.  Pee in his pool. Take no prisoners in comments about him. For if a disparaging comment is good for the goose, it sure as Hell is going to be just fine for the gander. I have Estelle to thank for that line of thinking.  Cross a boundary with me, and you better be prepared for a similar flagrant violation of your own. Put yourself between me and my child and I will hurl a flaming bag of turds right across your moat and land it squarely on your dining room table for your family to see. So let's not do that again, shall we?

Poison pen in hand, I flip open the laptop and put in some familiar email addresses. Those of the Superintendent, the building principal and Mrs. Nilan. I write:

Hil, returned to my home on Friday and we have discussed last week's events.

Mrs. Nilan, Hil is extremely uncomfortable with Esther's freedom to come and sit by her in Art class and engage the students seated around her and stare at her. I need to insist that other arrangements be made. Esther has a little too much freedom to move about the class and act out. My main concern is that this does not become a social issue for Hil. Please handle this in such a way that it does not harm her further. She is very appreciative of your continued support.

Mrs. Reitano and Dr. Klinghoffer, I must insist that Dr. McDuff shall have no further contact with Hilary and not discuss this situation with her without me present. Dr. McDuff has become part of the problem and is a harasser himself. Hil's perception, based on her interactions with him, are:

- He is protecting Esther and not her or the other victims

- He is pressuring her to not report this incident formally in order to cover it up

- He is upset with her for making an issue of the way she was harassed

In a conversation he had with Hilary in which he told her he had provided me with a report for her to complete, he told her that she did not have to complete it if she did not want to, adding "And I don't think that you do..."

How dare he try to pressure her? His duty is to protect her, not to try to assert influence over her decision about something this serious to meet his own agenda, and to coerce her to go against the advice of her mother. His behavior suggests to her that victims who report incidents can expect to be further victimized by the system.

Hil, in effort to shift pressure from herself, stated to Dr. McDuff that her mother is not taking this lightly. Dr. McDuff's misguided response was to make a comment about me to Hil, which she did not understand and perceived to be negative. Again, how dare he? He should understand that a child feeling as vulnerable as Hil is at this point should not have to also feel that her champion is being disparaged by someone with his perceived authority. How powerless she must have felt. Shame on him. Does he have any recognition of the boundary he crossed or the how abusive it was to do that?

This is a very serious, reportable issue and you are enabling the perpetrators. It is completely irresponsible not to have acted competently. The fact that McDuff has no comprehension of the situation compels me to seek disciplinary action against him. The school has completely lost my trust.

I have taken this situation to more competent authorities. They will contact you directly. Again I have to say, that if the district had more effective and readily available policies on such matters, these students would have known exactly what to report and how. Instead, they are left to wonder, and seek the poor advice of Dr. McDuff.

Please confirm that you have received this e-mail and that Dr. McDuff will have no further contact with my children, Hilary and Patrick Royal.

Hilary will be filing a formal complaint via your complaint form. I will be sending it electronically on her behalf, and copying other parties so that when Dr. McDuff loses it as he has lost other important reports, there is a way to recover it.

Please do not contact me by phone. I would like to maintain written record of all exchanges on this topic.

Send.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

In the meantime, McDuff has his rickety little wheels turning. I can only imagine his thoughts.

---Oh, crap. We've screwed up with the same insanely demanding parent. Damn her and her expectations.

---Wow. Cat's out of the bag. We have no idea what we are doing.

---Oops. Now everyone knows that one of our teachers has a deeply troubled, out of control kid, and what exactly does that say about her talent for handling the special needs kids she is supposed to be expertly teaching?

---Yikes. The po-lice. She wants to call the po-lice. Now they are going to want to go digging through my messy pile of files and they are going to find I am just a suit and my degrees were obtained online from Joe's College and Drive-thru Degree Mill. My cover is blown.

And after 5 or 6 emails back and forth with McDuff, most of which marked by a not-so-thinly-veiled threat to go to the police and "other authorities" because it is apparent to me that he is woefully underprepared to manage this situation competently, and he is egregiously ill-equipped from an emotional maturity or a skills and experience standpoint to handle it deftly, much less gradefully, and further, his enthusiasm for taking the matter seriously is underwhelming at best, all of a sudden he has what I am sure he thinks is a stroke of sheer genius.

All of a sudden he invites me, and Hil, natch, to participate in some kumbaya, touchy-feely dispute resolution pow-wow and sit around the camp fire smoking a peace pipe so that no one's feelings are hurt and everyone goes home friends.

My ass.

This is how sociopaths are made. Make the kid feel all warm and fuzzy with no remorse or consequences when they've done something heinous.

I think, in these situations, a little shame and humiliations are a good thing. No one has to be trotted off to the pokey in cuffs, but they should feel the natural consequences of doing something hateful. You lose a friend's trust, and maybe their friendship. You are embarassed that people know what you did. Your parents are disappointed. You get a detention and don't get to sit in Art class with the other kids who are making neat-o Aztec masks.

And oh, the best part is, the school's liaison at the police station participates, too! How convenient!

So naturally, I am skeptical. If police involvement were part of the routine when these things happen at school, why wasn't this nifty little process mentioned a week ago? I think McDuff cooked it up and pulled it right out of his sizeable ass and thinks I will be none the wiser.

McDuff seems to have forgotten that I am not that easy a customer. I want to lash out at him indescriminantly.

But I don't.

I'd rather back him into a corner and scratch his eyes out later.

I pretend to play along. I write:

Seems reasonable. I'd like to learn more about the process before committing to it. Can you direct me to the place on the website where I can read more about how this process is used?"

He writes back hours later. He clearly was pacing the floor wondering how to respond. He tells me it is something he instituted back in the High School (before you were demoted to the Hell that is Middle School?) He can't lay his hands on his literature (literature...there is no way he's published...he's a blithering idiot!) but here is a link you can review.

I click on it. It is a psychology journal on the process he is suggesting, wiht graphs and charts and studies on how it has been used to re-integarate hardened criminals into societies that loathe them.

I write back, "Thanks. But what I am looking for is how the District has been using this. I am skeptical, to be honest, that this is just one more tactic to handle this creatively to meet some agenda. I think you will understand that I come by my skepticism honestly. When I first mentioned involving the police, why wasn't this practice involving the police brought to my attention?

Where is this in the District's policy and procedure, and what confidence can I have that this is not the first time this is being done and has no hope of being successful? I am inclined to handle this independently."

Let the tap dancing begin.

No He Di-in't!

Little by little I find out more and more from Hil.

It is so refreshing to have a young person in the house. A detail that would send an adult into a full on tailspin gets casually mentioned while I am helping her shave her legs.

While I am trying hard to squeeze the highly sophisticated student v. student form out of the damn school, evidently, McDuff is working over my child. My impressionable, waif-like, feeling-like-a-victim child.

While in his office one day, McDuff, the 7th grade principal and the building disciplinarian, decided to use his position of authority, and his 6 foot 4 frame and booming voice to pressure Hil into NOT submitting the form.

Advising her to go against her mother.
Suggesting that she ignore the thoughtful advice of her champion and others who care about her and do what he suggests.
Filling her head with competing thoughts.
Making her feel as though she might be in trouble if she goes through with what I've been telling her is the proper way to handle the situation.

According to Hil, when he said that he'd given me the form (so basic and uncomplicated my cat could have composed it) he also added that she does not have to fill it out if she does not want to...adding "AND I DON'T THINK THAT YOU DOOOOOOOOO...." Also added that it is totally unnecessary, that talking with Esther will make the problem go away. That's really all there is to it. And don't you want to be done with all this?

That's right, moron. Let's coach the little girl that when you are victimized in some way, the best thing to do is to just do nothing and let some half wit who has his own agenda handle it. Just do nothing. Doing nothing has such great results so often. Apathy. Complacency. Good stuff.

But feeling the pressure, Hil decides to deflect a little on to me. She says, "My mom is taking this very seriously."

And McDuff, incredulously, replies, "I know. Your mother is a ________." Yes, blank. Hil has never heard the word and has no idea what the word means. So she assumes the worst. That the disciplinarian was disparaging me. Now she'd be in more trouble because McDuff is mad at her mother.

Hil tells me that he asked her if she knows what the word means. She said she didn't really answer because she didn't want to know for sure. McDuff had replied that she'd know the meaning some day.

Yes, he did.

I want to scratch his beady little eyes out of his nearly balding head.

Instead, I do two things. I call the police to inquire about filing a report on the whole Esther incident. And then I take to my email and begin to look up the email addresses of the Superintendent, and all of the members of the school board.

So the whole week goes by and I hear almost nothing from Hil. I think Lars has her on lock down. The less she talks to me about the problem, the more we can pretend it does not exist.

But on Friday, when the kids joyously return to me, I get the skinny.

While I have been playing a game of semantics all week with McDuff, who has this supremely annoying habit of inserting statements within the text of the email he’s received and then replying to it, making it very hard to understand what on Earth he’s babbling incoherently about in his pseudo-intellectual game, Esther the Molester was temporarily removed from class.

But two days later, with Hil’s chutzpah back up to normal levels, we all agreed Esther could return to Art class so long as the teacher kept them separated (no joint mosaic projects, for instance) and there was no contact during class time.

While I was searching the school district website for the elusive student-against-student harassment/bullying complaint form or the electronic submission system McDuff “had in the works” 8 months ago, or some indication where at school Hil might grab a few of these forms, (one for now, and a few for the situations that are bound to happen later…) Hil was sweating it out in Art class evidently.

Seems either the teacher was not apprised of her role as traffic cop when Esther returned to class, or she was incapable of performing the role. And perhaps Esther did not get the memo, or simply chose to ignore it. Because for two days in a row, Esther came and sat next to Hil and talked to everyone around her for a few minutes during some free-for-all period of time in class. And on another day, simply asked the other kids are Hil’s table if she could join them and pulled up a chair and studiously attended class elbow distance from Hil, who felt powerless to object.

Finally, after several emails back and forth, I get the form in a pdf attached to an email. The email, incredulously references the insipid poster I railed against last year. It apparently leads the kids down a trail of breadcrumbs to the idiotic form.

And I in turn, send my own email to the Principal Short-timer and Mrs. Nilan, in response to the one where Mrs. Nilan had told me about the plan to reintroduce Esther to civilian life:

"My impression from this email is that Esther would understand that she is to have no contact with Hil and her admission to Art hinges on that agreement.

She evidently is unaware or has no intention of complying, as today, she asked to join Hil’s and table in Art class and one of the kids agreed to have her join them.

Hil felt unable to object. The teacher should have.

Please remove Esther once again from the class. She can not be trusted to comply and the school is not capable to ensure that that she does.

Please confirm your understanding of this request."

In the mean time, McDuff is hatching a plan.

You've Got Hate Mail

I decide to set some ground rules.

I do not return McDuff's call. I send an email instead.

I tell him I got his message. I'd like to hear what the plan to handle this situation may be, especially given his botched execution last time we had an issue. I tell him I'd prefer to do all of our corresponding in writing, on the record. I ask him to send me details of his plans to take care of this situation. Today please.

The building principal writes back about an hour later, verbally wringing her hands. Understanding of my feeling that I need to go to the police instead, but full of woe that anything like this has happened. Probably more filled with woe that it happened within weeks of her retirement and thus threw a speed bump into her smooth ride across the finish line. I can practically hear pounding her head on her desk.

It is not until nearly 10 pm when McDuff replies. He is nearly panicking that he let the close of business slip by and never saw my email. And I'd threatened to go to the police unless he could convince me that he's competently handling the matter, which as you know, would take some pretty flawless proof. He's probably home in his underwear having a daiquiri and just realized all hell could be breaking loose in his little imaginary fiefdom.

He tells me he completed his investigation as though it is some complicated, secretive ritualistic procedure. I am in Human Resources, let's not forget. I could have wrapped this thing up before lunch with one ear tuned to the the reruns of Glee.

He tells me that what they'd at first thought was just kids being kids had actually turned out to be something more sinister and troubling and he's elevated it to the building principal. (No shit, Edison, check your OTHER emails. I already got one from Mrs. Short-timer and you were copied.)

He said that Esther will be removed from Hil's Art class for now and will be subject to disciplinary measures, though I am not allowed to know what they do (Again, I know the Rules, moron, I am in HR-What you don't know is that Monday afternoon the whole school, including Hil, will know exactly what if any punishment has been meted out. And Hil will tell me at the dinner table before her napkin is unfolded on her lap. So go on and on. If you want about confidentiality. We all know the rules don't apply to 7th graders.)

He also says that he's notified Esther's parents and informed them that I may go to the police. I am sure that was said in a way that disparraged me. I couldn't care less. Esther's parents are the ones with the Big Problem on their hands. The police will just make that ever more abundantly obvious.

I forward the message to Lars. Hil is with him. I offer to talk to them both about it over the weekend to make sure Hil is comfortable with what is being done.

It is Sunday night before I talk to Hil. Lars hasn't talked to her about any of it.

Oh, good. Another idiot that needs to pretend that it didn't happen. Thank God we're not talking about Cancer.

Here We Go Again

I write to Mrs. Nilan and to Dr. McDuff, the worlds biggest idiot school administrator, but the next one on the food chain.

Good morning-

Now that I am no longer in traffic and can process our conversation, I need to be clear about something.

This incident needs to be made a disciplinary matter and a matter of record. I have consulted a professional about the details of the incident and has encouraged me to take it to the police, and is prepared to get involved on Hil's behalf. She has described it as "reportable."  Do you have any idea what that means?

I need to be assured that your reaction will be swift and decisive, regardless of how "easy" Esther is to work with. If this were a boy who did this to these young girls, I am sure you'd be taking a firmer position. Your responsibility is to take a firm position of zero tolerance. I don't care to "wait and see" how Esther responds to the discussion you intend to have.

Please advise as to your plan of action before the weekend commences, as I will file a report with the police over the weekend in the absence of decisive action on your part to protect my child. That is your job while she is at school.
The whole freaking day practically goes by. By the time McDuff emails me back, it is clear that he is caught off guard.  He writes me a short note saying that "his counselor' (His counselor? Wow. Ownership. How quaint.) has already started an investigation and evidently I am not happy with it. (Really? What was your first clue, Einstein?) He will follow up at once. (Sure, with the same sense of urgency that you responded to this email?)

By now, I am at some moronic community event for work that I have absolutely no genuine interest in attending. I simply reply, in a veiled reference to the prior bullying investigation that he botched, "Thank you. I don't think this should be taken lightly and will see that it is not."
He writes, "Yes, after I review statements and conduct further investigation I assure you that it won't be taken lightly. You will be informed of the progress and/or conclusion of this investigation."
It takes me a minute to reply.

"In the absence of a convincing demonstration that my child is safe, I hesitate to send her to school. I will file a police report this evening unless I am informed of an appropriate plan of action.

There are 4 children involved; the perpetrator, and three known victims. I should think your investigation should be concluded with the 4 conversations. I do not want to hear the excuse that you can't do anything because there are no witnesses. My child did not want to stay in school today after being informed that the perpetrator will only "be spoken to." Speaking to the aggressor provides no sense of safety for my child and I am not willing to place her at risk again.

I am seeking guidance concerning which other authorities should be informed of the matter formally."
Later that day, he calls me and leaves a message about what he intends to do with this investigation. He leaves no message. He wants to chat.

I'll bet he does.

Say Whaaaaaaat?

Mrs. Nilan has always been a champion for Hil. She totally gets her. She is a voice of reason in the sometimes chaotic world Hil lives in.  And Hil knows herself.  She will go and find her when she needs a boost of self esteem. A bonus round of Yes-I-Can. A reminder that she can do anything, in spite of the myriad assholes she has in her little life.

And then today, it seems as though the pod people have taken over Mrs. Nilan's body. The Bodysnatchers have run off with her and have left a half-person with no ability to reason in her place. And this half-person has my cell phone number.

So as I am negotiating rush hour traffic, again, with myriad assholes to contend with, and patiently trying to make my way through zoo balloon induced gaper delays (It's a balloon, people! Not the space station crashing into the Earth!) and hoping to get close enough to flip off the driver of the black Suburban who has been straddling two lanes for the last mile, (as though he owns the whole damn road, when we know my mother does) my cell phone rings. I answer, joyfully thinking it is Scott, calling back to tell me one more time that he adores me.

Nope. The Nilan-ator.

She will be seeing Hil in a few minutes, and bless her heart, Hil has picked up extra hall passes for the other girls and empowered them to come speak up for themselves.  She knows the perpetrator (Let's call her Esther) very well. She is sure this is all a misunderstanding. Esther is a really easy, coachable kid. She thinks all it will take is for her to speak with Esther and she will cease and desist the heinous behavior. No muss no fuss, no need to Make a Big Deal.

I nearly slam into the offending Suburban. I tell her I need to get to my office and call her back. I think this is very serious and not a "let's just talk openly and honestly like Girl Scouts and promise to be nice" kind of situation. She says that is fine, Hil is on her way in with the two friends, the little hero.

I get to my office and call Lars.  I tell him about the conversation and he is not at all surprised. He still doesn't seem to see the situation for it's seriousness, and further, says that Esther's mother is a school district teacher and the district will circle their wagons and protect one of their own.  He encourages me to look her up on the district website. We can count on the usual politics from the school officials.

I don't need to look her up. Esther's mother graduated high school with me. We were not friends. I would not have wanted to be. She was a squeaky -clean-goody-two-shoes and not smart. We'd have had little need for one another. I was no rebel, but an occasional beer party and a full roster of A/P classes fed my social circle. Not the dorkus, stay at home and take knitting lessons types.

And further, I don't give one good God damn if she is a district teacher. I don't care if she is the Blessed Mother. Her daughter does not get to violate my daughter on any level just because her mother manages to stay employed in the district with all the other under performers.

I hang up with Lars and take to my email account. Writing is my medium.  And we should just start papering the file now, anyway.

An Idiot Says What?

First things first.

Hil wants me to tell the counselor, Mrs. Nilan, the purpose of her intended visit the next day.  She wants to be the first calamity of the day, bar none.  And she wants me to tell Lars, if he has to know.

I tell her he does need to know. He is her Dad, however lame. If the shoe were on the other foot (as on his hobbit foot and not my pointy black patent slingback pumps) then I would surely hope that he'd tell me all the details. As her parent, I need the whole scoop, not just the cherry on the top. 

And besides, she'd be returning to his house that day. If she needed his support, his guidance, his beefy, doughy shoulder to cry on, he should be in a position to truly be there for her, to the extend that he is emotionally capable, which is somewhat nebulous.

She does not want to have to tell him herself. 

I agree to the following:

I will call Lars privately and so that Pat does not overhear. And I will text Mrs. Nilan so that she has time to prepare for what she is about to deal with.

I call Lars. It is 9 pm so there is probably a lot of sludge in his system by now. I carefully relate the details of the event and the name of the culprit, and how Hil is reacting, and what the plan is to handle.

"OK," is all the response Lars can  muster. I think the cat reacted more dramatically. 

I imagine my mother telling my Dad the story. And I imagine my Dad chucking his newspaper and dashing out the door to cream the other kid's old man.  Or in all likelihood, turning off the Lawnboy and mopping his brow as he puffed up his massive chest to go call the guy out of his house in his booming I-WILL-BURY-YOU voice.

But not Lars. No pulse. Either because of a good buzz or the fact that nothing that happens to Hil actually matters. I am not even sure which one to hope it is.

And I compose a lengthy but factual text to Mrs. Nilan. And then I delete anything that sounds like I might be gnashing my teeth.  She is an excellent support for Hil. I need to not threaten her by looking like the one that flew over the cuckoos nest.

My tasks accomplished on time and with precision, I braid Hil's fresh-from-the-shower hair and tuck her into bed. She considers sleeping in my bed with me but says she is brave enough not to. I see myself to bed after kissing Pat good night and nod off confident that the wheels of Middle School justice will be turning by daybreak.

In the morning, I make a comforting breakfast, pass out notes and allowance, and offer to walk into school with the kids.

Pat still has no idea what has happened so he makes a face.  Like I'd just suggested he wear a brassiere on his head to class.

Hil assures me that she is A-OK. She is going to get three hall passes and gather up the other two girls so they can go to visit Mrs. Nilan together.  My brave little Katniss-girl. I am so proud as I watch her march into the school to take care of business.

But on my drive in, as I bob and weave through heavy rush hour traffic complicated by sun glare and that wretched Zoo balloon, I get a call from Mrs. Nilan. 

Evidently the wheels of Middle School justice can turn in many directions.

Clutch the Pearls

I am turning into a she-wolf again.

In the Fall it was Pat's turn to transform me into a fierce beast of unthinkable strength and prowess when it came to taking on the school. 

Spring has sprung and it is Hil's turn.

Hil returned home from school one day in a funk. No big deal. She's nearly 13. A funk a day is about average, even if they are fleeting and mild and she really isn't so bad, even at her moodiest.

But something was lingering. Something lurked.

Eventually it came out. Through fits and tears and burying of one's head in one's hands. 

A girl at school had done something heinous. Truly heinous. In an empty classroom. To my little sprite. She was saved by the bell.

I won't go into detail. Hil will hunt me down and kill me when she's old enough to read this if I do.  Let's just say, if it had been a boy that had done this, even Lars would have called his old man outside onto the sidewalk for a good old fashioned fist fight. I still may.

So Hil was mortified. And struggled with telling me. She had told her two friends and they had had similar hideous experiences with the same girl recently.  What a coincidence!  But they were afraid to tell their parents because they thought they'd get into trouble. Hil was unsure what I'd do, but eventually took her chances and had spilled the proverbial beans. I am not the raving lunatic Mom my mother once was.  The odds were pretty good that I would not turn into Joan Crawford.

After reassuring Hil and there-there-ing her to a state of relative calm, and blowing her little reddened nose, I asked her what she thought she should do.

She had already gone to visit the school counselor, but she'd been with another student. Some other tragedy unfolding at the same moment, I suppose. I told her she was right to tell a grown up and get some help.I told her the other girls should tell their parents, too, as unless they were cosmically uninformed, they would be as understanding (and outraged) as I. And she was right to seek out the counselor also.  Get the wheels of the procedural machine turning at once. I told her she was very brave to deal with this the way she was. I told her she was as brave as Katniss, and scored pop culture and credibility points in an instant. 

It is amazing to me how hard it is to remember what it is like to be so young and so innocent. To have such a meek inner voice. To have so few experiences that figuring out what to do becomes such an internal struggle.

But I used this horrible time for a teaching moment. To tell Hil what to do it and why she'd be doing it. And let the lesson on No Means No start now. That whenever someone crosses a line, doesn't respect your boundaries, takes liberties that are not theirs to take, you stand up for yourself. You get to establish how you want to be treated in this world, and don't have to tolerate people who don't abide by your expectations.

Today it is just some weird, misguided girl with no impulse control and a little too much energy.  Tomorrow it is a prom date. Next, a college roommate. Or a boss. Or a blind date. Sticking up for yourself starts today.

And so, evidently, does the lesson on bureaucracy.

Things Remembered

But getting back to the weekend...

Gettysburg is a special place to me for so many reasons.

I have a wonderful education and some of the best friends a person can have, thanks to four years there.

It is beautiful and interesting and filled with history and architecture and things that both of my children like to do.

It was Scott's opinion of the school that put it on my radar in the first place. His parents and his sister and her husband all attended, you might recall.

So while I have made dozens of trips there over the years, and a few since Scott came back into my life, I have never been there with him, and it seems time for the stars to align and for me to reintroduce him to Gettysburg, and let him see it now through my eyes, as opposed to through those of his family who attended, and distant memories of visiting as a child.

Early Saturday, we brew some coffee, wedge our overnight bags into the teensy trunk of Scott's zippy little Miata, slide into the leather bucket seats and take off across the state.

What could be more fun? 

Scott is a fly by the seat of your pants kind of man. I am a planner. He is willing to get up and go at the last minute. A quality I love. I am willing to jump from the couch and fly into action, too, but it is not the way I think to do things.

I am a "Let's get on each other's calendars for Thanksgiving weekend now, so we don't have to worry about it later" kind of gal. I like to know where I am going. Plan to get there. More importantly, plan the outfits. And Scott is a little reluctant to do that, because God Only Knows What Will Be Happening Then. But some reasonably comfortable distance in advance, when he's secure in knowing that he will probably not be dead from a flesh eating virus, or won't have left the country to go surf New Zealand on a whim, he will let me make Non-Refundable Plans. 

So when we finally get on the road, it is great for both of us.

We blow into town early enough to still want more coffee.  We hit Lincoln Diner for a danish and coffees to go.  And soon enough, we are on campus and retracing the footsteps of my younger, wilder, less responsible, more unworried days.  I am pointing out buildings I took classes in. Describing the unique qualities and bizarre eyebrows of favorite professors. Remarking on architectural features that I love and things that have changed since I graduated. Telling little factoids about things such as the library being built facing the wrong way so the sun patio gets no sun. And the story of the piece of modern art that appeared on campus when I was a freshman and was called everything from the fin to the tongue, and a dozen other unseemly things because no one could figure out what it was supposed to be.

We stroll every inch of campus. This is where my underwear was stolen from the laundry. That is the College Union Desk where I worked as a freshman and met everyone because part of my job was to make change for the aforementioned laundry.  There is the infirmary where I was an inpatient for the flu as a junior during sorority rush. That is the cafeteria responsible for my Freshman 10 and my love of grilled cheese sandwiches made by stuffing cheese into a pita pocket and jamming it into the toaster slot. I lived there. I hung out at that fraternity. Wisteria and ivy used to grow over here and all over that.

And then we are off to the Battlefields. The place where I rode my bike for countless miles and the only reason I was not a 600 pound co-ed.  I take him to where the kids and I go. Where we climb. Show him what we've noticed. We eavesdrop on a guided tour being given to some Mid-westerners. It is nice to see that so many people are fascinated with the place.

I am fascinated that I have just stepped on a snake again. I seem to do this often.

Spooked by the snake, I drag Scott from Little Round Top to Devil's Den. We climb rocks and take in magnificent views. We walk over to The Triangle, which is supposed to be totally haunted. The tour guide had said our camera equipment would not work in the triangle, but mine does. I guess Steve Jobs' technology outsmarted the Civil War ghosts after all.

We shop antique shops. We browse lazily. It is so nice to be unrushed and enjoy the time and each other's company. We have a beer here. We get lunch there. We drive and walk and see more sights. We shop some more. We get an address for a Harley Davidson shop nearby.  Scott needs glasses he can wear on his bike. I think Charlie needs a bad ass dog collar. We stop for a beer and Google the directions to the Harley shop.

Before long it is time to check in at the hotel, so we do. And instantly the cool of the room and the comfort of the bed are calling to us, so tired and dirty and worn from the drive and the activity. We take a nap. Just like in college.

An hour or so later, we wake up and plan to head out for the evening. It has gotten a little cooler and the sunset is gorgeous. We want to walk into town and take in some more on foot.

We shower, and while Scott dresses, I begin the spackling and pasting of the face. We are chatting about how nice it is to be here together, considering all the history it hold for us separately and together.

And while we are chatting, Scott interrupts himself. I hear him coming toward the bathroom.

"Look what I found on the floor!"

I turn around. He's holding up a dime.

Seems his Dad is happy that we are here together, too.

And Away We Go

And so sometimes, the best strategy is avoidance.

Like when J.'s idiot niece got married-spawning a huge and hilarious family rift, not to mention a whole blog - I avoided the whole thing by taking the kids to Gettysburg. I wasn't in town to hear J's useless and ineffective boo-hooing, and I had carefully planned the trip far enough in advance that the kids knew it was set in stone before the frilly little Invitation for One came to the house. Oh, darn. We have plans. Had I thought enough about the reaction it would get, I'd have RSVPed "Terribly sorry, dahling. The children and I will be traaaaveling. Tragedy to miss the big raspberry taffeta fete, for sure. Air kisses to the bride and her obese groom."

And conveniently, Scott, my handsome, smart boyfriend mentioned wanting to finally go to Gettysburg with me, since it held so many special, yet separate, memories for us both.  And, oh, would you look at that. The only weekend we could possibly go - without kids, without conflicts with the college's graduation, or Memorial Day, or a graduation party we're attending, or a graduation ceremony for that matter - is Mothers Day Weekend. We'd go for my birthday.

Perfect.

Instead of pining away for my kids as Sunday dawned, I'd be waking up next to Scott (in a bed that I don't have to make!) looking forward to coffee and breakfast and shopping and a long walk in the glorious countryside. I could postpone the let down until we were on our way home.

And so we go, and we have a marvelous time together. But we'll get to that.

Sunday afternoon comes and we are in Scott's zippy little car with the top down and the radio on and the sun warming our faces and reddening our noses.  I am quiet on the ride. My fabulous escape is coming to an end. Scott is going home. I have hours to fill up before I can pick up the kids from Lars.

These are the darkest hours of the day.

Scott and I were out late. I am a little sleepy. Once we've had a bite to eat and he is on his way home, I take a nap.

45 minutes down.

I unpack from the weekend.

15 more.

Against every fiber in my body, I change into grungy clothes and go outside. To do yard work.

The ladder. The saw. The rake. The Hedge Hog trimmer.

It is 90 degrees and the air is filled with pollen and bugs. I am up on the six-foot ladder cutting 3 feet of hedge from the top of the shrubbery that surrounds my property.

Surrounds.

My property.

I spend 2 hours hacking, sweating, trimming, sawing, yanking, raking and swearing my way to distraction. And then run out of juice for the Hedge Hog. There is a God.

I sit to drink some lemonade outside and the cat comes to the window, meowing for me. I reach out to touch the screen and she reaches out a paw to touch me. It is such a moment of sweetness. And in that moment of sweetness, Hil Facetimes me on my phone and we chat about her weekend. And how excited she is to give me my present.  I am beginning to feel human, suddenly.

An hour later, I pick up the kids and head to the restaurant of choice. A fun, favorite place with something for everyone. Including a chardonnay for Mom and a Giant Brownie Sundae for 3.

The kids are adorable. They bicker good naturedly about whose card or gift I will open first. Pat got me a lovely plant and a sweet card. Hil's card is just as cute and she got me perfume.  Their beaming faces are all I need to feel real again.

Too soon it is all over. I drop the kids at Lars' house and kiss them sweetly goodbye. I chat with Scott about what a wonderful weekend we had. I send the kids "Thank you xoxo" texts. I get on my pajamas and pile into bed early. 

I don't even notice that Mom and I both ignored each other and neglected to call.

Mommie Dearest

Mothers Day. Oh, joy.

These were the exact words in my head as the day drew near.

It is hard to wait in joyful anticipation when the day is sure to remind me that there is very little tradition in my Mothers Day traditions.

The kids would be with Lars this year. I would not be served breakfast in bed and be presented with a corsage to wear to church. I would not get pampered and treated like royalty all day and then be taken to dinner. I would have to ask and be granted a short trip out with them. I usually pick brunch at a local place, but his year I'd choose dinner, so that I can look forward to it all day, and when it is over I only have a few hours to get through without the kids before going to bed. It is easier that way. I miss them less. Maybe.

It makes me sad and self conscious. What a winning hand!

And then there is my own mother, with whom I remain at war. I know there are people that would say I should be the bigger person and call her. But I won't. I did last year. But the wolf was always at the door, and at Christmas she bared her teeth. I am sure she is expecting a call. She better not have bet the house on it.

And while she has openly bashed me to anyone who will listen, (Charlotte however briefly, Joe, the few remaining friends who have not run screaming in the other direction, her idiot husband, and probably the mailman, the census taker, the mulch delivery person, the Jehovah's Witnesses who knocked on her door, and the guy they hired to power wash their roof) I have contained my open disdain for her to select audiences. Blog readers and Charlotte.

And so my children want to know what I have planned for Grandmomstella.

Nearly nothing.

I will not tell them that I would sooner eat a live pigeon than send a gift to Estelle. Any gift, great or small, would be critiqued and regifted. Probably back to me. And there is no Hallmark sentiment that can fully or truthfully express my Mothers Day feelings. There isn't a card that depicts a public stoning and reads, "Your unmitigated selfishness and lack of boundaries continues to amaze me even now. I have spent my entire adult life trying to make sense of your horrifying and confusing parenting style, and have only recently realized that you are a dangerously misguided kook who needs to be evaluated by a team of highly specialized psychiatrists. Happy Mothers Day."

So I ask the kids to work their kid magic and design a fabulous card of their own choosing. Cover it with flowers, and butterflies, and rainbows and ribbon-festooned packages. And then write their sweet adoring words in their sweet junior high penmanship. And I will enclose a picture of us at Hershey Park screaming down the last hill on the Wild Mouse, her favorite amusement park ride.

They sign. I don't. I seal the envelope, place the stamp and scrawl a return address with no name. Get it into the mail in plenty of time.

There is no message from me in the card.

And that is message enough.

In the Tank

I went into the tank today at work.

That isn’t to say that I tanked. Or my career tanked. I literally went into the tank. The Dunk Tank. At the company carnival.  Yay me.

Actually, I volunteered if you want to know the truth.

It was part of my plan. I am a party of one in my peer group at work. Singularly crucified for not wearing pantyhose.  Mysteriously in support of tattoos. Not a clock watcher. Frequently noticed for my vast collection of colorful, unorthodox cowboy boots worn with skirts (And again, no pantyhose. I am still shocked that they make them.) Known for my Devil’s Advocate dissenting opinion on such flagrantly disrespectful conduct like working from home, flexible schedules, compressed work weeks, the wearing of capris, jeans days, open-toed shoes, unnatural-colored streaks in one’s hair, and blue nail polish. 

What is the world coming to?

When the folks that report to the Old Guard see what the young guns get away with in my department, there is a jealousy so palpable it feels like a change in the weather. And since the Old Guard think I let my (highly productive and gloriously happy) employees run amok, the obvious interpretation is that there is something wrong with me. Natch. And the staff are …well, confused.

So when the call went out asking for volunteers to get in the dunk tank and be sent for an impromptu swim in front of thousands of colleagues,  - the young, the old, the highly compensated and the working class Joes,  - I raised my hand (blue nail polish and all.)

It was the best thing I could have done.

The day of the carnival was cloudy and cool. Not ideal weather to go for a swim in a 4 foot deep tank filled with freezing water fresh from the garden hose.

But I was undeterred.

In my wet suit shirt I borrowed from Scott, and some cool board shorts from a local surf shop, I flip flopped to the lawn and climbed onto the seat of the tank. My power suit wearing, pantyhose clad, closed-toed shoe carnival going colleagues who volunteered for such taxing things as handing out tickets for one hot dog and one drink stood in shocked amazement. Like I must have lost a bet.

But I bravely took my seat, and splashed water playfully. Smiled through purple lips. Cheered and jeered the folks who paid their dollars to dunk an administrator in public. Laughed when little kids stood close enough to reach out and hit the target, and then did so when they missed.

I must have gone into the water a dozen times. Took a quick wipe under my eyes to avoid looking like Alice Cooper, and smiled good-naturedly as I climbed back up on the bench, water trailing away from my behind, and hair dripping in big wet clumps down my back and across my shoulders.

It was the best thing I could have done.

It was completely unexpected from a woman. A normally well dressed, finely groomed woman. Going into the dunk tank is Man’s Work.

It was completely sporting. Who would have thought anyone would volunteer to do such a decidedly unpleasant thing on Employee Appreciation Day?

It showed exactly what I was made of. I had been professing my philosophy all along but needed something to make it genuine.

If for a moment, the Generation Yers and beyond questioned which leader in my department they would follow into battle, they had their answer. With this one act of good-natured bravery and self-deprecating sportsmanship, I made a statement: I will accept your tattoos and your pink hair, in exchange for superior work and good team-manship. What matters to me is what you do, not how you look doing it or how long you sit at your desk doing it. If our customers are happy and your work is reliable, the rest is immaterial. And by the way, I will get dirty with you while you get it all done.”

Or in this case, I’ll get soaking wet. And I will make a public display of doing so.

Say Yes To The Dress

My friend's daughter is getting married in a few weeks. On a remote island beach, with just immediate family surrounding her and her One True Love. Her mother did similarly, on my birthday quite a few years back, with her Second One True Love. I remember that her dress was pink. Lovely.

And now it is her daughter's turn. A lovely girl with lovely plans and what I am sure will be a lovely dress, once she gets the stylist under control.

The first fitting is wonderful.  The fit is fabulous. It flatters her form. Marvelous in every way, but it touches the ground. Not a big deal if you are only zipping down the aisle of a church on a runner with maybe only a few rose petals to besmirch its loveliness. But this is a beach wedding. Stylist Can Not Imagine dragging the lovely, costly dress across the sand.

But Bride chose a gown, not a cocktail dress, so she understood that there would be LENGTH involved.
And Bride understands that sand can be dirty and sticky and might have a twig or a shell or a dead thing in it that God Forbid might get caught up in her crinolines and spend the rest of the day with her. This will not be her very first trip to the beach. She has thought about a few drawbacks and is willing to live with them.

But Stylist thinks the dress will be ruined. Just ruined.

No, buddy, but you are getting the vapors over something that is really none of your business. You made your point.  If it were you, you'd do differently. But this isn't about you. This is about Bride. Who frankly, wants to strangle you with her bustier right about now.

So following a conversation that took on the pitch and quality of a hissy fit, Stylist huffed off without scoring an expensive hemming assignment for Seamstress, and Bride took to Facebook to see if she was completely nuts.

She described the disagreement, and mentioned that she knows the dress could endure some less than delicate treatment, but it is HER dress and HER wedding, and hello, the dress is intended to be worn only once. And asked if her FB Friends agreed.

I commented from experience. My wedding dress hangs in my cedar closet (I have refrained from selling it at a yard sale for a dollar) with obvious Black Sambuca stains on the front of the hem. I told Bride to ask her mother, who had been one of my bridesmaids, to explain it to her, and told her that I have never cared about the stains. They are part of the dress's story.

I believe everything has a story.  There are memories, good and bad, clinging to everything in our lives. I think for some people more so than for others (hence the existence of Pack Rats, and the ability to have reality shows like Hoarders.) But there are things in my home that I can not part with because of the memories attached to them. Like mothers save baby shoes and Christening gowns. The memories are alive within the things.

My wedding dress represents my marriage, and the story of my getting to the altar. My wedding to Lars was called off once. By me. Six months before the date. (Oh, had I only held that thought just a wee bit longer!) And in my sadness, following my tearful goodbye, I cancelled caterers and bands, and informed bridesmaids, and took the dress to be preserved. God only knew how long it would be dormant. What if I'd become a spinster and had never worn it at all? What if I'd found a shiny new man and wanted a shiny new dress with no icky memories hanging on it with all the other embellishments?  But eventually, I had joyfully undone the package and put it on, with a gorgeous headpiece that I saved and fashioned into a veil for Hil's First Holy Communion. The story has several chapters, evidently.

And I have a dress that I was wearing when I'd gotten some very, very bad news. Scary news. News that began one of the most intensely serious and troubling times of my life as a parent. It was a festive dress, but one I'd worn to work, as it was suitable for the office, but looked pretty enough for the office Holiday party. I'd been on the phone with Scott when I'd found it.  We had not even had our first date. When I'd questioned whether I should get it, he'd talked me into it. 

And I have not worn it since that Holiday Party. I won't part with it, but the memories it holds are so strong that I don't love wearing it.

And when Dad died, I'd gone to the mall to find funeral clothes for my young children, and an outfit to complete the collection I'd need for all of the events to come. My purchases included a lovely black suit with a gorgeous lining. My boss at the time had asked why I would not wear the magnificent black designer suit I'd gotten at 80% off at Lord & Taylor. It was indeed fabulous, and I still had time to get the jacket tailored to perfection. (We had a miracle working tailor in the building.) And I remember telling her that I did not want the first time I wore it to be to Dad's funeral. It would forever hold that memory, and I wanted it to be something I loved to wear. I wanted it to have a different story.

And I remember every article of clothing I had on the night I first went out with Scott. Each piece carefully chosen.  I think of that evening every time I see the fabulous Nicole Miller pants in the closet.

Conversely, I have yet to put on the cool pants I wore on my date with Casey. They may go in the charity pile this season. Not only do I need to unload the memory, I am sure the sensory memory of Road Kill Breath will come drifting back the moment I slip them on. No thanks.

So my advice to Bride, and to any bride, is this: wreck the dress if you have to. But live your life and have the wedding you envision and what happens to the dress while you are living your life in it becomes part of its story. 

So if Bride drags the hem across the island sand, and spills a little rum on the lace, or decides to take a dash in the surf with her newly minted spouse, or takes a spin on a bicycle build for two and gets bicycle chain grease all over the train, so be it. It is A-OK to do, if it is A-OK for her. No one else matters. The memories she makes in her dress are hers to cherish.

And years later, when she takes the dress down to show her granddaughter, and that child asks why it looks like it does, Bride will have a twinkle in her eye as she retells every last morsel of the Story of the Dress.

And that, is why we go to all the trouble in the first place.

The Extramarital Parent

I need to simply trust myself. I will know what to write when I pick up the pen and go to write it.

It is something I need to think less about and let the thoughts flow from my heart. It is often how I approach this blog. I may not have a single relevant or novel thought in my head when I sit down at my desk. Once I flip open the laptop, log on and read the last entry I wrote, something will strike a note. There will be some thread to follow. Some musing I recall that needs to be elaborated upon.

Sometimes it is easy...like when Mom comes to town. Other times, I have to ponder. Think about what shreds of my life might add up to something of interest to another human being. Even if the other human being is sometimes only Charlotte.

The truth is, I may not have been in Scott's life while his girls were babies, or toddlers, or grade schoolers or during any of the other milestone years. I may have missed the religious ceremonies, and dance recitals, and a whole lot of drama. But I am here now. And intend to be for quite some time. What I have established with Scott matters to his girls. How I love him and how we get along is relevant to them. What I wouldn't have given to know that my Dad would be loved and adored and cared for by a woman he loved as I walked out the door to attend college! The guilt alone just about killed me that first year. Had I had the luxury of knowing that he had a partner to fret with, to wring his hands with, to share the driving with, to question my choices with, to send me brownies and care packages he wasn't sure whether he should send, I would have felt less horrible when he sounded so lonely on the phone. (I still blame my lame-o brother, Joe.)

So, as graduation approaches, I am hopeful I will find my groove. Figure out what, from among all the things I feel and all I could say, will make the most impact to Scott's first child. What will encourage her, give her motivation, make her proud, give her peace, let her know how happy I am to have met her and gotten to know her before she left the nest and could choose to take or leave whatever happens at home. Let her know that I believe in her and she should believe in herself. That when what she believes to be her path takes a wildly unexpected turn in another direction, that there is a thoughtful person with a kind and gentle hand of experience who will patiently hold hers while she cries and doubts and searches for answers, not because it is required, but because it is genuine. Because I came into her life when there were no obligations on either of our parts. And we chose to get to know each other anyway and were delighted at what we've learned.

It is such a responsibility to be this person.

You never have to think about these things with your own children. That responsibility is enormous, but what you are to them and they to you is written in the book long before you enter each other's lives. You make your mistakes with your first, ignore (by comparison) your second, indulge your third, and so on. But you act from the heart and trust yourself because you have loved your children from the moment there was even the idea of them. They are who they are because of your love, and guidance, and mistakes, and less flattering parenting moments, and they have learned through your examples, and mimicked your voice, and emulated your more admirable traits. It is so natural it is nearly unnoticeable.

But when you come into someone's life when they are 17, they are who they are, distinctly because of your absence from their lives. And your sudden presence in their lives can be hard to figure out. For both of you. I could use a vining rod on most days. Your best, most heartfelt advice could be completely unwelcome. Your professional guidance undone by their mother's proclamations. It's hard to know when to step in, when to butt out. What will be welcomed with open arms, what will get you ordered to go fly a kite, or something similar. It is a dance I am always learning new steps to. And not always gracefully.

But I am blessed to have been asked to dance. For that I am grateful. And whatever awkwardness there is, is worth enduring for the trip to the dance floor holding the hands of those who matter most.

Who Am I?

And here I am in familiarly unfamiliar territory.

A man I love with a daughter graduating high school. J.'s daughter and Scott's daughter even share the same name. Yikes. Talk about skin crawling potential for creepiness.

But this is completely different in a number of ways. A number of dramatic ways.

First, J. was a loser. "Loser" being a way of summarizing all of the lying, unreliability, unemployment (resulting in more lying), closet alcoholism, swindling, manipulation, and creepy tattoo of my Facebook profile picture on his scrawny thigh after I dumped him shortly after he put the candles on the relationship cake by showing up at the sacred Girls' Weekend.

Scott by contrast, is a self-assured, delightfully silly, proud, ethical, well-mannered, gainfully employed and hard-working, unselfish, devastatingly handsome, sexy, fun-loving, respectful, principled, self-respecting, chivalrous DARLING of a man who is full of surprises and loads of fun, who is serious when he should be and ready to help or help you forget what is on your mind, and intuitive enough to know which is the right thing to do.

So, perhaps it is fair to distinguish the two situations by stating that the situation with J. was one I was in at the time because I felt obligated, because I had loved him at one time. And in that time, had come to love (and to pity, just a bit) his girls. Scott is someone I am sure I am in love with, whose girls I have grown to love as well, and whom I don't pity, because they are strong, vibrant girls who don't require my pity or need me in any way to survive their lives.

And while I completely understood where I fit into the lives of J.'s girls, I am not at all clear where I stand with Scott's. I get along with them beautifully. My insecurities come from me and me alone.

I am not the first serious relationship Scott has had since divorcing their mother. I am not novel.

Their mother is not the warm and fuzzy type. She is is a military trained night trauma nurse. There is a predictability about her personality type even before you get to know her and learn the history, which I have.

I say this not as a criticism but as an enlightenment. What the girls are accustomed to from a mother is what they understand a mother to be. How I am different is probably interesting, but not something they need or expect. I could go to the ends of the Earth to show them kindness. I could cater to their needs, emotionally and financially and in all the ways girls need a mother, and they would no doubt appreciate it all. But truly, if I turned a blind eye to their needs, if I failed to show up at something important to them, if I chose to remain uninvolved in something going on in their lives, or kept my distance from their troubles, they may not even notice. They would not even need to forgive the slight. They would have expected nothing in the first place.

So while I feel that my graduation card, and accompanying sentiment are very important, and have the potential to be of significant meaning and import, whether I write from the heart or write "My dog has fleas" I am not sure it will matter.

Or maybe it will, and I will never know.

Quite a quandary for the Hallmark store.

A Hallmark Moment

I spent $28 on greeting cards last night. Even with the two coupons I had and my Hallmark Gold Crown Club Card of Limited Value to the Cardholder.

I had a lot of cards to buy. It happens sometimes. Mostly at this time of year.

First there is my weekly tradition of writing my kids inspiring little notes or cards with their lunch money and allowance in them on the mornings that I drop them off to school on the last morning of the week with me before departing for Lars' house. A warm little personal message about how proud I am of them, or how much I love being their Mom, or wishing them good luck on something at school, or encouraging them in some way, or some combination of those things. I have done this for years. I am religious about it now that they no longer want me to put notes in their lunches (Middle School drew the line in the sand for both of them, but Hil will let me write a little smiley or heart on the inside lip of the paper bag once in a while without having a fit. She used to save all of my notes in a side pocket of her backpack. My how times change.

So on this trip, I made a point of replenishing my supply of cards. A few fresh designs from the 99 cent selection (my kids have seen them all, some of them twice). Hallmark has also picked up the slack and packaged a lovely assortment of 8 tiny cards, mostly of gender neutral design (God forbid I give Pat a notecard depicting a kitten!) that seem to be designed to be employed for just this purpose. I wish they had been around during my Tooth Fairy years. I would give my kids their dollar. But I'd also give them some little item (like a book of stickers from the Dollar Store). But I'd also cut out a molar shaped note from white resume paper (really?) and write a little note of encouragement from the Fairy herself. Something lauding them for their most excellent brushing, or commenting how brave they were to eventually stop crying when the tooth had come out somewhat less voluntarily than usual.

It would have been great to have been able to buy a stash of these things so I wasn't up late arts and craftsing my way through the baby teeth years. While Lars parked his carcass in the ass groove on the couch doing nothing of value. It would have given the Tooth Fairy a little street cred to have presented a little card with little dental hygiene puns and jokes and art work. The kids were really into it. Hil actually claimed to have seen her once. She told Pat that she had "long blond hair and a spray-on tan."

And after picking up the cache of kids cards to finish the school year, I headed to the graduation card aisle. There are three graduates in my life this year. My Godson, Charlotte's middle son, for whom I have nothing but love and adoring admiration and pride. There are no cards adequate to express what I need to say. I think about picking an almost blank card and writing my own sentiments before writing an enormous check and stuffing it inside.

And then there are Scott's oldest daughter, and her boyfriend that she began dating just a few days after Scott and I started our relationship. I am new to their lives, in the whole scheme of things. Picking their cards is a delicate issue. Not so much him, but definitely her. I know who I am to the boyfriend. I am his girlfriend's father's girlfriend.

But who I am to Scott's daughter is a whole other matter. I am not her mother. I am not her step mother. What I am is not defined by any label. But what I am to her and she to me is something that may be defined by how I express my sentiments to her on the most important day of her life to date. Not an insignificant matter.

I stand in front of the card display. I have no idea what I am doing.

Respond So Very Promptly

We land.

And that is where the predictability ends.

I have been to Paris. Twice. So what if it was with two different men I can no longer stand. It was still Paris. Fabulous food. Architecture and gardens of unspeakable beauty. OMG shopping. Unrivaled collections of art. Did I mention the food? And it is Parisian. The most mundane things- bar tenders, taxis, delis, intersections. All fabulously, exquisitely Parisian.

Kate has been to Paris and I would imagine Priscilla, too. But I don't think Joy has been, and I am not sure about Jackie or any of the others. This could be a problem.

The first timers should absolutely visit the Louvre. But it is quite a commitment of time. And I've been through it twice. So do we split up or all visit together when the togetherness is what makes this trip so extraordinarily fun? Sure Kate and Priscillla and I could go find something fabulous to do while the others gasp at the Mona Lisa and walk into other patrons gawking at the painted ceilings. But then they would miss out on the undoubtedly fun thing we did while they were doing that.

Of course we'd wander down the Champs Élysées and the fashion district and shop together. And drink coffee and nibble pastry and sip wine and chat with bartenders and shop keepers and taxi drivers all over creation. And we'd stop in to tour Notre Dame together and have to leave abruptly because while we are in a meditation chapel where speaking is prohibited, Kate will fart, and when she realizes that the evidence will not be contained by the underside of the seat she's kneeling in front of, blames it on the escargot and cheese. And we will all realize that "Kate is farting again" (we should have t-shirts printed) and we will begin to giggle. And we will get shushed (which sounds the same in French) and realize we need to leave at once, and leave the other faithful to remain sitting in Kate's pew, so to speak.

Arizona, our standby alternative plan, is beautiful and relaxing and filled with familiar faces and places, but the possibilities in Paris are endless and exciting. And not just because of the language barrier, which makes everything interesting (even Tennessee, sometimes).

I am probably the only one of us who took French. Took it for 6 years.

You'd never guess.

My pronunciation is still, so far as I know, impeccable. The problem is, I only know a handful of words and phrases. And while most of them are very useful and versatile like "I hit my cat with the law mower" and "That baby is ugly," they won't really help us much as a pack of women on the loose in a foreign country. I could probably figure out how to ask the concierge at the Musee D'Orsay where the ladies' lavatory is, but what good would it do if I couldn't understand her directions? I'd be the Ugly American, holding my crotch racing frantically around the exhibits looking for a door with a stick figure wearing a dress on it.

But these are the stories that make Rock Star Vacations with the Girls worth taking. The threads that weave the tapestry of rich embroidered hue that Carole King was so fond of singing about.

I am so excited, I may begin packing today.

City of Light

This year will be Kate's sister Priscilla's 50th birthday. I am not far behind, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

I mention this because in all the back and forth about drinks and Oliver and the Skinnygirl Cocktail event we are all planning to attend on the eve of my not-quite-50th birthday (I have a little breathing room still...) she mentioned that Priscilla will be crossing over and we may want to resume our streak of Rock Star Vacations With the Girls.

Not to be confused with the two or three ( or even as many as five, when you are Joy and have a patient, unflappable husband) Girls' Weekends which usually take place at the beach or some East Coast city of our choosing in the off season. Those are the givens. The Rock Star Vacations With the Girls are another thing altogether.

Usually Arizona. A group of anywhere from 4 to 7 ladies, all of our fabulous clothes, a massive assortment of makeup and hair products, and the world's largest privately held collections of bathing suits and cowboy boots. We have more fun with each other and collect more adoring local fans than any group of gals should be allowed to enjoy. We are invited everywhere, treated like royalty, comped almost anything we want to eat or drink. We stay in a gorgeous casita in a first rate resort and spa in the exquisite desert sands on the outskirts of Scottsdale. We shop, we dine,we hike, we spa, we cocktail, we polka (when everyone else two-steps). And we laugh. Until it hurts.

We also pile into one bed in the morning to rehash stories we came home with the night before. As only girlfriends do.

So Joy and Jackie and I all chime in at Kate's suggestion that we jumpstart the tradition after our hiatus this past Fall. We are all game. Super.

While we are wining and Olivering on Friday, I ask Kate if her childhood friend from Wisconsin has agreed to re-join us, or her other sister. Or her nieces who are old enough to join us. Can she get the casita she gets for free because people give her stuff?

She said she is sure she can, and everyone seems in favor but she had another thought. What if we skipped Arizona and went to Paris instead?

I would happily, gleefully, wholeheartedly dust off my passport for a return trip to Paris. My city of dreams. A city that calls to me.

What fun that would be! Though what potential for inciting an international incident quite by accident just by being us! (i.e. Kate and her penchant for illegal Road Cokes, for instance.)

We'd likely fly out of the international airport near my house since it now advertises "non-stop to Europe," as if there are lots of available mid-flight pitstop opportunities on your way across the Atlantic.

And that is where the trouble would start. The drink cart would make it's way down the aisle and the wine would be poured. And within just a few minutes, there would be some form of hilarious mayhem happening and a voice from the loudspeaker would inevitably say "Ladies, if we have to turn this plane around, there is going to be big trouble when we get home!" Which would of course have us all busting a gut with barely suppressed laughter.

And then of course, we'd land in Paris.

And there would be no stopping us.

Please, Sir, I Want Some More

Kate and I had a date with the devil. That's what I say when we go out and have entirely too much fun. So much fun it isn't fair. Especially when the odds are against fun.

Kate's son is a budding vocalist and was recently cast as an orphan in a local production of Oliver. She sent The Gals an email asking if any of us would like to attend one Friday night and maybe get together for a bite and beer before hand at a local place near the church where the performance was being held. The budding star would have to report at 6 pm. The play started at 8. Plenty of time to catch up and have a few laughs.

The Friday night was one I would normally zoom to the shore to see Scott. But given that I would be blowing off a girls night out the next night (Saturdays are so much harder when Scott and I have a 90 mile commute to contend with. One of us has to go to the other and stay put.) I felt a sense of obligation. And let's face it. Girls need their girls, no matter how fabulous the guy. And then Pat came up with his Boy Scout Pancake Breakfast on Saturday morning, keeping me home overnight anyway, and that really sealed the deal. I would be a good pseudo-aunt and go watch the breakout star with Kate and her sister-in-law and possibly Jackie and Joy.

Friday quittin' time comes, and I am fabulous and on the road. I get to the restaurant first and call Kate. She is still on the road. Even though I should never attempt to walk while I am on the phone, I go so far as to dare cross the street against the light while conversing with Kate. Never a good idea. I step out of my pumps in the middle of the Avenue while telling her a story and as she is howling at the thought, she tells me to reduce the reservation to three. Some of our friends have cancelled. I retrieve my shoes and walk into the restaurant barefoot. But only momentarily (recalling the no-shoes-no-shirt-no-service rules, of course.)

I go to the bar. Introduce myself to Linda, the bar tender, order a Pinot Grigio and reduce the reservation by half with a pleasant hostess not far from the bar.

Kate arrives. We bitch lightheartedly about work. Linda brings more drinks.

Kate describes a sense of guilt that she is whiling away the hours downing artisan pizza and calamari at a bar while the more devoted stage Moms are doting over their young charges. We wash that thought away with a swig of wine. Those Moms are obviously overly involved helicopter parents with no lives of their own, living vicariously through their choir boys.

Then she talks about the one stage Mom, who is also in the play (there are a lot of adult characters in Oliver...) who has tre-men-dous boobs, who doesn't seem to feel any obligation to where a bra. Or Spanx. Or anything resembling a girdle. Just let's her rolling acreage fill up the stage. Shamelessly. And I talk about our ever evolving dress code policy at work, that I worked really hard to get obligatory panty hose stricken from, only to find that someone also has an issue with the slightest hint of cleavage, when really, I could show up in my bathrobe and look better than half of the people I encounter in a day at the office. And at least my last shopping spree was not during the Carter Administration.

Kate wants to order another round but is calling Linda "Carol."

I look at her quizzically, and she says, "Lora?"

I snort and she asks, "Dora?" And I am collapsing while she is waving her hand saying "CarolLoraDora!" trying to get Linda's attention. Linda pretends not to notice. We are racking up quite a bill.

While the wine and some more nosh are ordered, the bitchy hostess, who has relieved the pleasant hostess for the night, evidently, comes over to Kate (she must come here a lot) to say that if we are going to stay at the bar, we should cancel our reservation.

Looking around, the dining room is nearly empty. A party of six could have its choice of tables. Kate makes a biting comment about standing room only and lowering her neurosis. The hostess wants to set us each on fire individually. We in return are cackling about her Tragic Footwear.

Finally, it is show time. We get the check, do the drunken math and pay CarolLoraDora. I excuse myself for the ladies room. I don't imagine the church is going to have lots of lavatory facilities. I return to find that Kate has a big brown bag under her arm.

The Queen of the Road Coke has struck again. In my absence she has ordered a bottle of wine, had CarolLoraDora cork it, and has asked for three tall paper cups with lids. They are all artfully placed in a big unobvious bag.

I look at Kate in amazement as I usually do. I am always amazed at what she can get people to do for her. She doesn't even need to bat her eyelashes. She just asks like what she's asking for is not actually completely outrageous. As if to answer the question in my head, she says, "What? I doubt that they will be serving anything at the play!"

I don't suppose they will be. It's not Broadway, it's a church basement!

But nonetheless, we walk to the church with our bottle of hooch, take seats where we will get a good view without disturbing anyone with our unmistakeable wino smells, and settle in for the two and a half hour play.

Oliver never was so damn funny.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

There is one really good thing that has come out of my divorce.

Well, lots of good things, actually. Like no longer having to crawl into bed with or wake up beside Lars, for starters. Talk about sleeping with the enemy. He has no idea how lucky he is that he didn't ever wake up to the sensation of being strangled with the clock radio chord.

And I own the house. No more artistic interference from Mr. Uncommonly Bad Taste when making decisions about wall covering, or window treatments, or practicality vs. beauty, or what color towels or bed linens to buy. If I'd not continually put my foot down throughout our marriage, my entire house would be brown or burgundy or some other shade that doesn't "show dirt." (How about you don't drag in any dirt, Einstein?)

And I can take liberties with meals. There isn't a strict "must be a green thing" rule ( because carrots and squash have no nutritional value...) and I can use things like blue cheese dressing without a lecture about how it negates the value of the salad (whatever makes you feel better over there, King of the Fast Food Drive-thru) and if I want to read the back of the cereal box at the table, no one is going to take offense at my social gracelessness.

I could go on and on. There must be hundreds of little points of pain that have been relieved over the past few years. The big ones are hard to miss; they transformed my life in lots of expected and unexpected ways. The little nuanced differences come in many forms. Like when you take something for a bad cold, and a few minutes later you notice that it's easier to breathe. I must have experienced at least a thousand of them. A thousand little simplicities that were once such complicated matters. A thousand things not nagged about. A thousand things not to have to consider compromising about because someone else has unreasonable expectations.

And though there are lots of miseries that still persist, like my shared custody arrangement and my galling child support obligation, there is a silver lining to those things, too.

Hil is about to turn thirteen. By all accounts,she should be an eye-rolling, insolent little piss pot for 90% of her waking hours. Getting sneaky. Preferring the solitude of her locked bedroom over any form of activity with me (regardless of how enjoyable it might be). Sassing me. Defying me. Deciding that am stupid, old, decidedly un-hip, and am an limitless font of ridiculous ideas.

But with very few exceptions, I have been spared the typical experience. She is 90% wonderful, and only 10% eye-rolling, insolent, little piss pot. The anti-teenager.

Included in the 10%, which, by the way, is totally manageable, are survivable instances like dress shopping for the 7th grade dance and a Bar Mitzvah and when she wants to put a pink streak in her hair.

Perhaps she is just special. I like to think so. But truthfully, it is probably that our week long absences make us appreciate each other. She wants to spend time with me. Thanks me for what I do. Compares me favorably to her friends' mothers. Does work around the house so that I don't have to forfeit time with her and Pat to get it all done. Heaps compliments upon me for my cooking.

Maybe I am overly optimistic. This may not last forever and probably shouldn't if I want to launch her successfully into a life independent of mine.

But for now, it is a blessing. In a life that has been stripped of precious time together one week at a time, I will consider this God's way of giving a little of it back on the back end. I am forever grateful.