Saints

This is a Saint.

In the first few months after The Coach and I adopted our baby girl, we were giddy. It wasn't just that we had this absolutely adorable new baby in our arms and I had no stretch marks to show for it.  It was because after years of trying, years of disappointment, years of infertility treatments and millions of tears, we had gotten the payoff.  A baby. Our baby.

So we had a tendency to shout it from the rooftops for a while; "We adopted! We're so lucky!"

And sometimes, a lot of times actually, people would say, "Y'all are such good people for adopting that baby."

Wait. What? 

No. We're not.

We're a couple who wanted a baby. I am a woman who couldn't have one. So we turned to adoption. And we were fortunate enough to find a wonderful woman who was willing to allow us to have hers. What a miracle that is.

I mean, no one tells regular parents how "good" they are for having a baby, do they?

Do they?

What we are is persistent. And determined. Certainly creative in the way we went about it. And very, very lucky.  Because adoption is hard. It's expensive. It's emotionally draining. But it's so, so worth it in the end. Even when that adorable pink moppet grows up to be a snarky tween who refuses to come out of her room.

But it does not make me a saint.


People tell me that sometimes, though. Now it's because,  for the last eight months I have been the primary caregiver for my 82-year-old mother-in-law, who moved in with us after her assisted living home determined that she needed too much assistance.


Yes, while my husband went of to teach and my daughter went off to learn and the newspaper went from printing seven days a week to three,  I have gotten her out of bed, gotten her to the bathroom, made her breakfast, cut up her pancakes, fixed her oatmeal just the way she likes it, gotten her dressed, put on her bra (but I refuse to cup her boobs. That she has to do herself), washed her hair, given her her pills, fixed her snacks and, three times a week, taken her to and from her dialysis treatments. Sometimes I have had to pick her up off the floor. Sometimes I have had to clean her up.

And people have told me that, because I am doing all of those things and "allowing" my mother-in-law to live with us, I am a saint. Or, at the very least, I am earning my angel's wings and securing my spot in heaven.

I guess I hope that is true. But I am not a saint.

I have not always done the above happily. Or willingly. Or sweetly. Or gently.

I have been angry.  I say the "F" word. A lot. I have yelled. At her. At my daughter. At my husband, who at least had the distraction of baseball to keep him sane. I've got nothing but a 40-minute power walk in the morning.

I have some people thinking I have become an alcoholic. I have developed a taste for Vodka and I have reacquainted myself with Jose Quervo, whom I broke up with after one really bad night in college.

And I have become a shut-in. I don't go places. I don't do things. Sometimes, I feel trapped in my own home.

One day as The Coach walked in, I walked out.

"I have to go somewhere," I said.

"Where?" he asked, truly bewildered.

"Anywhere," I replied.

I went to Big Lots. And cried.

I have resented the hell out of her -- for invading my house, for ruining our family time, for demanding my time, for making me wait on her, for wanting peanut butter instead of the delicious meal I just cooked. Even though I know that none of this is her fault.

So while people are telling me I'm a saint, I'm feeling evil and mean and ashamed of myself for wishing that she wasn't here. That we didn't have to do this.  That I didn't have handrails on my toilet. That I didn't have to listen to her TV instead of the one I am trying to watch in the living room. That I didn't have to hear her in the bathroom because she can't close the door when she goes. That I had never bought that fucking beeper she uses to summon us. That it wouldn't go off  just as my husband and I are about to get busy. Or in the middle of it.  That my husband, my child and I could go do something -- anything -- together as a family, but we can't unless she have a "sitter." That we had one we could count on. That our lives would go back to normal.

And that those who are pinning wings on my back won't think less of me for admitting it.

Because I am not a saint.  But I wish I was.

Anniversary

D-Day.

Minus one.

One year ago today, we all were summoned. Told to report to the Mother Ship. There we would be told, one way or another, if we were to be kept and brought into the digital age, or not. If we were needed, or not. If we were valuable, or not. Necessary, or not. The answer to be revealed in a large white envelope.

One by one we were led to "the slaughter." That is what it was. A slaughter.More than 200 were severed. In more ways than one.


Today we are remembering that day, what it felt like, what it looked like, what it sounded like. The sobs, the tears, the hurt. The anger.  Still mourning what we all lost, the greatness that once was. We are revealing what we did after. What we've done since.

Some have been healed, moved on, gotten over it. Some have put themselves back together again. Some have managed to walk away from closed doors and found open windows -- or closed windows and opened doors. Something like that.

Some believe it when we are told we are better off. Some are happy about that. Some are believing the promise of better things. Hoping.

Some are still floundering. Like me.
 
No. It's not the worst thing in the world, even though at times it feels like it and sometimes I want to have a pity party for myself. And I have had a few of those.

It's no fun what I do now, searching for a job, for a new career, for a new direction at 51. Seeing others do what I should be doing. Not being wanted. Losing faith. Losing confidence.  Losing a life, an identity and a career all in one fell swoop. Needing two more stupid points on the stupid math test. And catering to a stubborn, hard-headed 82-year-old mother-in-law with a beeper.

But I still got to write. I gave up my life of crime and returned to sports. I got to go on some amazing new adventures with some great new people, introduced myself to a few new readers, and a few new athletes. Did some good work.

And today, as I began yet another pity party, I got a message from a colleague. One I know mostly by name. One I now will never forget. Because he took the time to tell me this:

"As journalists we often look up to certain people along the way, and you were one of them for me. Obviously this type of message doesn't get you back doing what you'd like and are meant to do, but I felt compelled to share it with you. I always considered you a top-notch pro in your field. Because of people like you I've learned to appreciate every opportunity I'm granted to cover a sporting event or tell an athlete's story. While the circumstances surrounding your departure from the Times Pic was completely unfair, please understand you made a positive impact on some of us whether you knew it or not."

I do now. And it means more to me than anything.

Thank you, my friend, for the anniversary gift.

Every morning

Just as she's done just about every weekday morning for as long as we can remember, my daughter climbed the stairs to my bedroom this morning -- her little puppy Lola trailing behind -- and climbed into bed with me.

"Hi," she mumbled, before pulling the covers up to her chin, rolling on her side and beginning to snore like her dad.

Just as I've done every morning, I scooted up behind her and snuggled, my nose buried in her brown curly hair. Lola found her own spot at our feet.

And just as we've done every morning, we stayed that way until the alarm went off.

We do this every morning despite the fact that she's now a tweenager with 12 years of living behind her, and despite the fact that she's now a head taller than me, and she can wear my clothes, but, thankfully, no longer my shoes. 

But this morning was different.

This morning I paused to savor the moment, knowing that there may be only a few more like this. School ends in two days. Soon she'll be sleeping her summer days away and won't want to be awakened at 6 a.m., then again at 7.

And in just a few months she'll be a seventh grader who just might be too cool to cuddle with her mom in the mornings. Or any other time.

~~

I put my daughter on the bus this morning, just as I've done a thousand times before.

But this time was different.

This time, I paused. I stopped. I waited. And I waved. Then I watched her ride away.

And for a moment -- just for a moment, my heart silently hoped that she would come back.

Yesterday in Oklahoma, a whole bunch of parents put their kids on the school bus with a kiss and a hug and a wave. And they didn't come back. Others came back broken. Or shattered.

The same thing happened in December in Connecticut.

And it's terrifying to know that we live in a world where that can happen.

Guest blogging with New Orleans Moms

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email asking if I would be interested in writing a guest blog for the website NewOrleansmomsblog.com.  I was thrilled! I'm happy to write for anyone who asks me these days, so I happily agreed.

A while later, I got an email telling me to come up with a topic and let them know what I wanted to write about.

Wait. You want ME to come up with the topic? Anything I want? About my snarky tweenage daughter I love to death but who drives me crazy most of the time?

Oh! The possibilities! There were so many. Too many!  It took me weeks to decide -- in between covering baseball games for the upstart New Orleans Advocate, rooting for my husband, driving Miss Jane to dialysis three times a week (and back), going to the store for more macaroni and cheese and keeping the dogs from barking at the neighbors.

I finally narrowed it down to a choice between my fruitless attempts to curb her macaroni and cheese addition (is there a Macaroniandcheese Anonymous?) or our attempts to survive her first year of middle school. Although the editors liked both offerings, they preferred the second choice

So here it is, my first (I hope!) effort for the New Orleans Moms. Please check out their site. And to the New Orleans Moms,  thanks for having me over. Next time I'll bring macaroni and cheese.


The First Year of Middle School: Challenges for both Mom and Daughter

 

This just in ...

The Coach actually broke his own story, you know.

 In his little blog post that I shared a few days ago, he wrote that next year will be his last.

Then this happened.

Marty Luquet decides 2014 to be final season as Destrehan baseball coach

And this... Destrehan's Marty Luquet to retire after 2014 season

And he made the 6 o'clock news.

"I didn't know this was going to be such big news," he said.

Right.

Meanwhile, I'm working on his honeydo list.

A word from The Coach

I am The Writer. The Blogger.

He is The Coach.

But sometimes he writes (and I correct his punctuation).

And he can make me cry.

Not when he writes about me, although his words are so sweet. But when he writes that next year is his last.

What the hell am I going to do with him then?

Check him out:    Coach Speak 

Disturbing the peace

                                  

I've always tried to be a good neighbor, no matter where I've lived.


Uptown on Joseph Street, on Prytania, on Henry Clay, on Willow, and in LaPlace, I parked in my own space, I kept my music to myself, I didn't have wild parties. Well, maybe one or two.


I never was a complainer, not when my upstairs neighbors used to stomp up their wooden stairs, or when the next one hung dozens of photos of his wife in various Playboy-type poses in the front sun room for all the world to see, or when my landlords turned down the thermostat that controlled my air conditioner. Or when I found out my LaPlace neighbor had nine speakers in his apartment and a boa constrictor. Or when our backdoor neighbors smoked so much weed we could smell it in my kitchen.

 I DID yell at my second LaPlace neighbors who decided to cut the grass at 6 a.m. On a Sunday.

And I did get pretty angry when the current ones cut the branches on MY trees and dropped one on the huge ceramic fish by my pool. Yeah, I know accidents happen. But what pissed me off the most was that they didn't come knock on my door to say, "Oops." They just left it there for me to discover. And didn't reimburse me, either.

But when I got into an accident and my husband refused to answer the phone because he didn't recognize the number, it was nice to know that I could call them and ask them to go knock on my door to let him know. True story.

And the night our neighbor's trailer caught fire and we came home to find fire trucks all over the place, they weren't home. The firemen went in, did their job and left. They didn't even leave a note. So we waited up to let them know what had happened.


Most of my neighbors have liked me back. The Uptowners did because, back then, I had a sort-of-boyfriend who was an NOPD officer and he used to drive by my apartment on occasion in his cruiser.


Need sugar? Salt? Someone to feed your cats? Extra chairs for your crawfish boil or a pool for your guests to swim in? Sure! No problem!

I have no junk cars or spare tires, I keep my grass cut, my garden green and my pool blue.

So you don't get to call me "Trash."

That's what my next door neighbor called me the other day because my dog was barking at him through the fence.

"Can't you control your dogs you goddam piece of trash?"

That's what he yelled at me across the glorious green ginger in my backyard.

To which I replied, "Fuck you."

To which he replied, "Fuck you too."

And in one instant, 20 years of peace was shattered.

A few hours later, a nice St. Charles Parish Sheriff's deputy knocked on my door, aggravating The Coach and terrifying my kid. He asked me what happened. I told him. With tears in my eyes.

"It all went to crap when he called me "Trash."

And I will never forget the look on my daughter's face when she asked me, "He really called you that? The man who let me and Paige cut through his yard?"

"Yes."

I've been called that twice in my life. Both times because of dogs, both times by people standing on the front porch of their trailers. My mom's dog ran away once and as I chased it down the street, my mom's neighbor yelled at me, "You white trash."

The fact that it was nearly 30 years ago and I still remember it should tell you something.


I fully admit that my dogs can be a pain in the ass. I  have two at the moment.  A pair of poodles -- one big, one little, both rescues.  They're good dogs, except Lola likes to run away and drag my daughter's dirty socks all over the living room. Leigheaux is plotting to kill the mailman (or at least the truck) and has a strange compulsion to pee on my favorite chair.

And they bark. They wake us up. They wake the neighbors up. Worst of all, they wake the mother-in-law up.  They LOVE to bark. At the mail truck, the UPS man, the FedEx truck, the delivery trucks across the street, the chicken eaters, the walkers and, occasionally, the reflection of the TV. Hell, sometimes they bark at the wind.

And the neighbors.

As soon as we hear them, we try to scramble to get them back inside. But sometimes we don't hear them. And sometimes we're, like, naked. So we can't always get to them. But we do try.

They know that.

I don't know what set my neighbor off this day, whether he was in a particularly bad mood or if the dogs were just unusually annoying this day. I do know this. He can't take it back. And he can't fix what he broke.

We've lost the sense of peace we had, knowing that there was somebody next door if we were in trouble, if my daughter was in trouble, if my dogs were in trouble. Not because of two dogs, but because of one word.

And I don't know if we'll ever be able to get it back.