Of White Lights & Wisdom

In two days, I will celebrate my 46th birthday.

I can't look at that number without chuckling because it is the same age my mom once was, only then, it was as ancient as Mesopotamia to me. Now *I* will be the bearer of 16,790 days of life experience, and yet I feel remarkably...not old.

2010 was a year of change for me, and more often than ever before, I'd find myself pondering my life, my choices, my circumstances. Like most 46-year-old women, I have teeny white Christmas lights strung across the headboard of my bed. I like to lie there at night, looking at them, thinking. At first, I could only think about how cool those lights were. Everything looks better--dreamier--in the soft glow of white Christmas lights. It's true. Scientific studies have proven it. Now I have too.

But as I grew accustomed to having a purple bedroom with white Christmas lights on the headboard and vibrantly dyed Mexican sarongs hanging in the windows, my thoughts turned elsewhere, to more...grown-up musings. And eventually, I realized I was deconstructing my life as it has unfolded thus far. And here's what I know:

I know I've done the best I could. I think even as a young girl, I approached everything I did with 100% commitment to do it to the best of my ability. Whether it was my nature or a learned attitude or a bit of both, I can say I take great solace in the certainty that even if I didn't always make the choice a more prudent me would have made, I did, at least, dedicate myself to that choice and seeing it reach its potential.

I know I've grown and stretched beyond my comfort zone more in times of strife and conflict than in times of general peace. I've come to recognize the blessings inherent in even the most agonizing tribulations, and knowing those blessings serve a purpose makes forging through the challenges worthwhile.

I know I am one stubborn mother...and sister, friend, lover, etc. My iron will is a double-edged sword that both protects and at times wounds me. I've learned to wield it more carefully as I've aged.

I know I need very little to be happy. But I also know I can be happy with more. It's comforting to be able to straddle that line between struggle and abundance and feel at ease on either side.

I know that I deserve more than I've historically allowed myself to have. In every way.

I know that my children are so much a part of me--and I of them--that though we may one day live apart, we will always be together. They are the best things I've ever done with my time, energy, and love.

I know I'm no picnic. I'm opinionated. I can be loud. I am outspoken and don't need anyone's approval. I am not always diplomatic and I know how to use words as weapons. I don't let people inside my life easily and there will always be secrets I don't tell even those closest to me. At times I am remarkably vulnerable even as I stand strong in the face of great challenge. I protect my heart because it has been broken so often, always by those who claim to love me most. But at 46, I know there's more room in my heart for love precisely because it has been so boldly broken.

I also know I am worth the effort. I am simple yet complex, a free spirit who is demanding in some ways yet refreshingly low maintenance in others. I believe in the goodness of people and strive to find it, even if it brings me to my knees. I love fiercely and passionately, and support those I hold most dear even if I can't agree with what they're doing. I know joy and I share it without reservation. I believe in promises I've been given until they're broken. Then I believe again. I laugh a lot and never pass up a chance to let those people I love know how dear they are to me.

And most recently, I know that being independent doesn't necessarily mean standing alone. It doesn't mean I can't lean on someone when my own legs feel wobbly. I can be independent and still reach out for that hand to hold, that whisper to guide, that look to reassure. I can, finally, accept as my own the love I have always been willing to give.

So. Happy Birthday to me.

Why Do We Kill People Who Kill People?

I'm thinking about the death penalty and have been for weeks.

I don't know why this is so, I only know that it is. And then my most recent issue of Utne Reader magazine was delivered. After letting it sit on the kitchen table with approximately 237 other items that don't belong there for about a week, I opened it one afternoon while eating lunch. And there before me lay not one but two articles on capital punishment. OK, Universe. I'm listening.

I am not superstitious, but I do take this as a sign that I am supposed to be thinking about this topic. So I finally let it take hold of my mind. While preparing dinner, I'm thinking about state-sanctioned murder. While folding laundry, my thoughts turn to parents of victims and criminals alike. While soaking in a hot bubble bath, I close my eyes and wonder why.

Why, if capital punishment is justice served, do I struggle with it so?

On the days I entertain the idea that maybe society has legitimate use for the death penalty, I am focused on the idea of punishment. If someone takes the life of someone else, he should pay a price. I was raised in a home that was big on retribution. If we kids did something we shouldn't, we would be punished. That usually meant some form of physical pain. And as I would hide in my closet listening to my sister scream as our dad hit her, my little mind would wonder how this was helping my sis in any way. Oh, that's right. It wasn't supposed to help her. It was supposed to "teach her a lesson." Huh. Some lesson: If you do something you shouldn't, the people who claim to love you will hurt you.

We are a society that loves its retribution, though. Nathaniel Hawthorne's Hester Prynne fell in love with a minister and when their love became physical, she was outcast and forced to wear a scarlet "A" on her breast, just in case the neighbors didn't already realize she was an adulterer. And what punishment was served up to her lover? Nothing. That's because punishment is never fair, and that includes the death penalty. It is applied somewhat arbitrarily, to people who are not always guilty. And so innocent people are put to death. Which means instead of one innocent victim of a crime, there are two.

How is that justice?

The logical part of me then considers the cost of life imprisonment. We like to think that it's cheaper to just kill someone rather than pay to let them live out their lives in prison. But that's not reality. The reality of capital punishment in this country is that it costs 2 to 5 times more to execute someone than it does to keep him alive. This is due to the numerous appeals and legal processes involved. It's a criminal waste of money and resources in and of itself.

I might actually be able to justify a judiciously imposed death penalty if it did, in fact, serve as a deterrent to would-be murderers. But there is no evidence that it does and plenty of research to suggest that it doesn't come close to serving that purpose. In fact, since 1990, the murder rate in states that inflict the death penalty has been consistently higher than in those that don't (according to the FBI and census figures). That means the death penalty has the opposite effect as intended. 'Nuff said.

There is, of course, the "eye for an eye" argument as bolstered by that bestseller, the Holy Bible. I don't buy into that logic for a minute. Even as a child, that seemed suspicious to me. I've read many accounts of families of murder victims who did not experience the relief or sense of closure they expected to upon the death of the person allegedly responsible for killing their loved ones. And here's where I try to truly imagine how I would feel if someone took the life of one of my kids. Would I want that person to die? Would that make me feel better, or somehow repay my child? The answer I always come back to is No. And it may very well tarnish every memory I have of that beloved child because I would never be able to separate in my mind my child from his or her murderer.

I can't help but wonder, too, why we don't televise state-sanctioned murder if it's really a good thing. If we truly believe in its innate usefulness and righteousness, let's put it out there for all the world to see. But no, we limit the viewing audience and do it behind locked doors. That alone gives me pause.

I understand that we are human and therefore subject to feelings of hatred and desire for revenge. But that same humanness also makes us inherently compassionate, even if we sometimes quell that trait in favor of something we deem more valuable or worthy. I don't have an answer. I only have intuition and gut responses. I have intelligence and the ability to reason and follow logic. I guess, at the end of the day, that's what we all have to do.

Sometimes, I let my heart lead me. Other times, I obey my brain. But here, in the case of capital punishment, I have to call on both and listen very closely to their responses. And then I have to decide for myself what I believe is just. I think we all must do that.

Perhaps Dante said it best when he wrote, "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in time of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality."

Think You're in Control? Think Again.

I was talking with a friend over coffee the other morning. We share a common situation in that both of our eldest children have gone off to college this fall. It's a new experience for us, and one we acknowledge as bittersweet. It's great to have someone to make this parallel journey with me.

At one point Deb said, "I realized this last time that he's never really coming home again." Simple statement, but wow, did that pack a punch. She's right. She put words to this feeling I've had every time I've seen Max since he moved out in August: He will visit and find his comfort here, but he will never truly come home again.

There was a time not too long ago when this thought would have sent me reeling. Max is, after all, the child of mine I have spent the most time with. I had 3 1/2 years of him to myself, and he had those same years of not having to share me. He was the king and I was his queen, he told me when he was three years old. "What's Daddy?" I naively asked. "Sadly," my little boy replied, "he's just a knight." And truly, that about summed it up. Max has always been my kid. We belonged together.

But to go from literally wearing your child in a sling on your chest or hip and co-sleeping with him to nervously watching him navigate playground equipment to getting a quick kiss goodbye as he heads out the door with friends to hugging him one last time as he tells you it's time to leave so he can organize his dorm (and for the record, I'm not sure he's done that yet, two months into the school year) is a veritable lifetime. It is a constant push and pull, a see-saw, at times a merry-go-round that doesn't feel so merry. In fact, the older I get, the more that motion makes me want to vomit.

So when reality kicks me in the ass as Deb utters her observation, I look to the heavens (I do that whenever I'm in the midst of an epiphany, which seems to be quite often these days) and recognize the raw truth in that proclamation. And I instantly think how natural that idea feels to me now. Of course he won't come home. Of course he's a visitor. That's how it should be.

And, given all the other changes in my life as of late, I thought about how the idea of natural progression translates to each of those circumstances. For instance, I am now the only parent living in this house with my three remaining kids. I'm it. If it gets done, I do it. If it needs paying for, I pay it. If someone's yelling, it's probably me. If it warrants a laugh, I'm the one doubled over, gasping for air and worried that I'll wet myself because I can't control my snorting. I am Woman.

And it feels right. In my gut and in my mind, this living with my children alone is the way it should be. For now. I can't know what the future may bring, and I'm not concerned about it. I actually haven't ever been too adept at looking far ahead. I can plan about a month in advance and that's about as good as it gets. I have always been a live for the moment girl, and that life plan so many of my peers grew up with in their heads? It never existed for me. Made for a life of surprises, but it also afforded me surprising flexibility and the attitude of "OK, so this is where we are. Let's do this thing." As a result, I've got four kids who aren't rattled by much. If you know them, you know the boys are so laid back you have to check them for a pulse. And the girls have sunny dispositions (though at 12, Tavi is more often at turns dramatic and brooding these days).

Then there's my new book. For over a year, the research and writing of that book consumed my work schedule. Published in late September, the book has garnered a lot of interest in our region and beyond, into Montana and Utah. As a result, I am traveling to promote the book through book signings and slide presentations. It's an unexpected pleasure. But it's a nightmare logistically in terms of figuring out how to do that aspect of my job and see that my kids are taken care of. And that's a worry I never had before. I've always been home. I work where I live. Now I go on the road and hope I've instilled in my kids the security to know they can step up and take care of at least some of their needs on their own. I hope they use common sense when making choices that I'm not around to help support or discourage. I hope...that I've done my job as their mom well.

But even this, this traveling and separating from my kids now and then--this too, feels right. It's exactly what I should be doing. And I find solace in that knowledge. It's a new day. Wes and I are no longer together; Max has moved out; the family that was 6 is now 4 and we're finding our way. It's not always easy, but it's also not too challenging. And I chalk that up to the idea that this is so because it is right.

At the end of the day, we aren't in control. We can make choices and decisions. We can exercise free will and live with the consequences. But to believe we are in control is an illusion. Once I accepted that idea--and I had to grieve the death of my child before I could--so much of life became opportunity. For joy, growth, learning, celebrating.

Change is inevitable. What we do in the face of it makes all the difference in the world. It's kind of like giving birth: You go through intense pain at times, but the reward is so uncompromisingly fabulous that the pain is becomes a distant memory.

Choosing Happiness

I've got happiness on the brain these days. Maybe it's because I'm happy in a way I've never truly been for any consistent period of time. No, that's not right. I am happy in a way I've never been. Period. Which is not to say I've never been happy, because it is my nature to be happy. I am happy even when circumstances are not optimal. I am, at the core, a remarkably happy person, despite the fact that I spent a childhood--including those all-important formative years--in an atmosphere more consistently conducive to anxiety than to bliss.

Genetically speaking, I am even predisposed to suffer from anxiety and mental disorder. My brother experiences anxiety attacks; my beloved sis seems to fall victim to depression. My mother lived with serious mental illness, which inflicted its wickedness on the whole family. It was literally like living with an invisible monster; we never knew where it was lurking or when it would attack. That kind of dysfunction breeds distrust and a serious level of angst for all those who endure its wrath.

And as a small child, I was anxious. I was prone to stomachaches and even obsessive-compulsive disorder-like symptoms. I would think awful thoughts about my mom--they were uncontrollable, really--and then capitulate to the mind-numbing guilt those thoughts imposed upon my young psyche. How could I think evil thoughts about the woman who is supposed to love me more than anyone else in the world? But then, how could that woman do and say such hurtful things if she loved me? I could not break free of that cycle of taking responsibility for her choices (at the time, I had no idea she was officially ill) and feeling like I was a bad child, that I in some way caused her to behave like she did. From my earliest memories, I remember that unceasing torment of feeling unworthy and yet not knowing how to fix the situation. I would never be good enough, and yet I couldn't figure out what "good" meant because Mom was so inconsistent in her responses and reactions.

And then somewhere along the way, I made a conscious decision not to let her break me. I was still young...not even in double digits. Where the strength and determination not to let my circumstances dictate who I would be came from, I can't say. I don't even remember the moment I made that choice. I just know that I made it. I knew that I was not going to give up my one shot at being happy simply because it seemed it was my destiny to grow up in turmoil.

Maybe I was able to do that because deep inside, I always knew Mom loved me. Her actions and words may have indicated otherwise, but children are wise; they see and understand what is not apparent. I see that all the time in my youngest daughter. Although her illness was not officially confirmed for me until I was in my 20s, perhaps I understood that Mom was not always in control of herself. Maybe I saw that finding her own happiness was a major struggle for her. I don't know. What I do know is that my determination to be happy allowed me to get to age 45 and feel--truly believe--I've had a wonderful life so far.

And it just gets better. I am happy--profoundly grateful--for small things: the smell of rain, the moments of raucous laughter I share with my children, the opportunity to sit on my patio swing in the morning while I drink my coffee and watch the birds at the feeder. I love waking under mounds of blankets, the cast of light in this western sky around 6:00 each evening, the taste of ice-cold water as it slides down my throat. I consider it a blessing to be able to fill my refrigerator with enough food to keep my family comfortable, and I never underestimate the power of a kind word to strangers and friends alike. The feel of my children's arms around me as they hug me goodbye or the urgency of my man's mouth on mine when we are reunited after weeks of separation...these moments are what bring me immense joy. They make me happy even as other circumstances might pose challenges and difficulties.

There is no doubt in my mind that happiness comes from within. You can't buy it, and if you spend your life searching for it in other people, you'll be left with only a lifetime of disappointment and emptiness. Being happy within the context of the life you have been given is a choice; wanting what you have and letting that be enough is so much more fulfilling than being on a dedicated mission to acquire what you think you want. Because once the acquisition is made, then what? Where do you go from there?

I am fortunate not to have inherited the DNA that leads to mental illness or even anxiety. Those anxious tendencies I experienced as a young girl gradually disappeared. If there is a lingering after-effect of growing up in a home with that type of upheaval, it's that I am a realist. I don't count on much and I'm not good at depending on others. I believe I am the creator of my own destiny in that I choose what to do with the circumstances in which I am placed. I can embrace what is before me or reject it, and the results will depend on my choice. I find comfort in that.

Happiness isn't a goal; you don't reach it. You live it through your thoughts and words and actions. No one has the power to take it from you unless you give that power away. The world will always be full of pain and suffering, of evil and wrongdoing, of injustice and despair. Accepting happiness in spite of that is not an easy choice; it requires constant vigilance and commitment not to fall prey to misery. It requires you to allow yourself to experience all the normal emotions that make up humanity--grief, sorrow, disappointment, anger--and then move past them into the light.

Happiness isn't always easy; it's not your birthright. But it's always there, just waiting for you.

Like a Phoenix from the Ashes, Good Things Rise from Difficult Transitions

Every now and then, something happens that gives me pause to consider my life and where I'm at in the grand scheme of things. Yesterday, my newly published book arrived--100 copies of that book arrived, actually. And for a writer, I'm not sure there is a greater thrill than holding your book in your hands for the first time. It's heady stuff. In this case, that 500-plus-page book is the result of a year's worth of labor. So of course, I can't help but think back over the year.

And what a year it's been.

My life has been on ongoing series of transitions in the recent past. I left a 12-year relationship with the father of my daughters. It was a painful, gut-wrenching decision, one I had been struggling with for years. We had never married, but that fact didn't make the parting of ways any less difficult for us or our children. We had bought a house together, lost a son, built a life with four kids. Dismantling that life was not something I took lightly. Demanding something more, something better, for myself and those children required me to take a leap of faith. I knew I was making things more difficult on one level in the here and now in hopes of creating a brighter, more positive future for all involved.

I am fortunate--so incredibly blessed--to have four kids who know they occupy the first slots on my list of priorities. They are, in part, why I remained in the situation I was in for so long, and they are largely the reason I finally chose to leave it. Although tears were shed and anger brewed, they each knew, at the end of the day, that our life together was not ending, but rather shifting. Change was happening on several fronts this past spring, and we would face those changes as we always have: side-by-side.

In addition to my split from Wes, my son Max graduated high school. That last year of school was a tug of war for him, I think, internally and externally. I watched as he made choices--nothing major, but still--I wish I could have kept him from making on the one hand. But I felt I needed to trust that all the years I had dedicated to him would have some positive influence. And I believe they did. Max has repeatedly proven to me that he is a person of integrity and principle. We may not always agree--and frequently don't--but that is not necessary for me to love and admire him.

Still, watching him pull away and knowing he was doing exactly what he needed to do was not easy for me. Max and I have shared a strong bond, and I had to let that bond guide me as I saw him less and missed him more.

As if high school graduation wasn't enough, he had the audacity to go off to college. Now he lives in Boulder, and I see him more than I dared hope I might. We text regularly, and sometimes I chat with him on Facebook. He is in my heart constantly, along with his brother and sisters. But when I spend time with him now, it is clear he has an "other" life. That is, other from my own. And I'm okay with that.

All the while these struggles of the heart and soul were taking place, I was crafting a book. This wasn't just any book; it was one man's dream to see this story in print. He dedicated 15 years of his life to uncovering the story of American pioneer Perry A. Burgess, and he trusted me to make that adventurous tale come to life. Some days it took all I had to sit in front of the computer and immerse myself in Perry's experience. My emotional life was in turmoil as sadness and resentment crept into the corners of my solitude. I had no peace. Most of the time, it took all I had to remember to just breathe. Ugh.

And yet writing that story--researching the details and events of years gone by--breathed wonder into my life. There were days when time literally just disappeared as I felt myself being transported to a bygone era, one that was not influenced by technology or even motorized transportation. It was an era of great hardship and hope, persecution and loss. My spirit was buoyed by the determination and can-do attitude of the men I was writing about. In the end, as I typed the final word of the final paragraph of the final chapter, I knew that this writing assignment had been a major gift, its timing a perfect example of mystical synchronicity.

Having lived nearly 46 years, I am wise enough to understand that gifts come to us when we least expect them. And I've had enough experience with grief to know that sometimes, it clears the way for joy to grow. And joy is what I have found in someone I once knew who never completely let go of the idea of me.

After having made the decision to leave my relationship as 2009 became 2010, I got a phone call from an old friend, someone I had dated briefly in high school. Rick was charming, handsome, athletic back when I knew him. He came from a wonderful, loving family who welcomed me into their home and lives. But circumstances dictated the course my life would take, and I left the area soon after getting to know them all.

Twenty-eight years later, the phone rings and I find myself in a 2-hour conversation that leaves me smiling and feeling, well, happy. In the midst of the tempest that was my life at the time, there blossomed a seed of pure happiness at having reconnected with someone who had once meant something to me. As I thought about the details of that first butterflies-in-the-stomach-inducing phone call after hanging up, I realized Rick had become the kind of person--the kind of man--I wasn't sure really existed. He laid bare his soul in that conversation by willingly talking not only of his successes but also his failures. He made no excuses for his regrets but clearly had great expectations for a fulfilling future. He confided in me things he'd shared with no one else in his life...somehow trusting me not only to keep those secrets, but to understand. I did, and I do.

Since that phone call, Rick and I have managed to get together as regularly as two people who live across the country from one another can. Between us, we have 8 children between the ages of 6 and 18. We come from vastly different lifestyles: his has been one of luxury while mine has been one of yard sales and coupons. His kids attend private schools while mine face the wilds of public education. He votes Republican and I just have to forgive him for that.

It's easy to do, because Rick has awakened in my soul a peace I never imagined I would know in this lifetime. Somehow, he knows my heart so well that he often gives voice to thoughts and feelings before I get a word out. He talks to me--and truly listens--and sees me for the person I am. Being with him is at once exhilarating and comforting. He reflects to me a piece of myself I never knew existed. When I tell him I love him, it is with a depth and a knowing that I have never before experienced. And when one of my children says she loves him because she likes how he respects me, well, my heart soars to remarkable heights. Especially in light of the fact that he considers my own four kids "a bonus."

And so I am reminded that sometimes, the best things in life--the gifts--are born of those most difficult moments, those times when we forge ahead even as we really just want to curl up into the fetal position and block out the pain. Every now and then, perhaps we are rewarded when we force ourselves to push past settling for less simply because it is familiar and dare to demand something more because we deserve it. There is no growth without risk, and even if the risk does not pan out the way we thought it would, being able to say "I tried" makes it all worth it.

And sometimes, as this past year has shown me, letting go of what makes you sad makes room for unmitigated hope to find you.

To College, and Beyond

One week ago today, I drove with Max to CU-Boulder. And I left him there. And he was happy about it.

Huh.

Just a couple months earlier, Max spent nearly a full month in India, hiking and backpacking. It was his high school graduation gift. I thought it would help me prepare for his leaving in the fall.

I was wrong.

Nothing prepared me. Oh, I knew he was growing up and pushing himself away from shore. I knew that when he made some crazy choices over graduation weekend. I knew it when he transported home a hookah from India, cradling it in his lap as if it were a precious newborn. I knew it when he spent more time with friends than family throughout the summer.

I knew. I swear I did. And I told myself that this was nature's way of getting me used to not having him around. Let me tell ya, I can be one convincing broad. But now that he's actually gone, meaning, HE DOES NOT LIVE HERE ANYMORE, I realize that there is no getting used to it. There's just acceptance, because what else can I do?

Though he once spent nearly all his waking hours--and many of his slumbering ones, too--literally attached to me by sling or backpack or some other baby-carrying apparatus, the Barnacle Boy did develop into an independent young man. Despite the warnings of people who did not know me or Max but who likened our family bed to child abuse, my son did not grow up to be a serial killer (yet) or a mama's boy. He does not suffer from low self-esteem, nor does he have intimacy issues. He's a normal young adult. And he was so ready to leave this house, this town. And me.

I tried not to take it personally. I mean, really. He had the confidence to strike out on his own in part because I nurtured that independence and spirit in him. How many 17-year-olds hop on an international flight to a foreign land by themselves (though he did meet up with a friend) and take each day as it comes, just living in the moment and embracing whatever adventure awaits him? But that's Max. He's comfortable in his own skin, and the unknown doesn't unnerve him. He lacks street smarts (come on, we live in Windsor, population 20,000) but makes up for that in the level of faith he has in himself. Those attitudes? They don't just happen. They are crafted.

So I totally realize and understand that Max was able to tell me it was time for me to go last week as we stood outside his dorm because I did my job right. We don't share all the same values or beliefs. We don't agree on a lot of issues. One of our favorite pasttimes these last few years was late-night debating. Max and I are two sides of the same coin. We are of one another, but we have steadfastly different views on life.

And that is why I can respect my son even as I want to shake him and ask what the hell he is thinking. It is why I can truly feel how much I love him even when I don't necessarily like the person he is being (and he's not liking me). It is, ultimately, why I can let him go with tears, yes, but also with the knowledge that he is exactly where he should be.

That, and he's coming home to visit tomorrow. Heh.

Saying Goodbye to Tom

I awoke this morning to a phone call I didn't want to take. Tom, the man I have considered my stepdad for more than 20 years, had died some time during the night.

Mom and Tom had been together 17 years when she died quite suddenly and completely unexpectedly in 2004. They'd never married; I didn't care. They were more "together" than I had ever known my mom and biological dad to be, despite the fact that they were married for 27 years. In my heart, if not on paper, Tom was my stepdad.

Today he is gone. All those stupid things people say to try to comfort those in mourning mean nothing. I don't care if he is with God or if he is in a better place or if his suffering is over...he is not here. And yet, what was here to Tom?

In all the years Mom and Tom were together, she encouraged Tom to be dependent on her. She cooked all the meals, did all the shopping, the laundry...you see where this is going. Mom liked being needed; she liked playing the martyr. I'm not disrespecting her; Mom was a complicated woman. Her mental illness kept her from ever feeling she was good enough; in her own mind, she always fell short. Being needed gave her something to live for, something to make her feel worthy. And Tom seemed to enjoy being waited on, hand and foot.

But when Mom got a new job in her mid-60s, her responsibilities demanded she be away from the house, which meant Tom would be alone. Older than her by 5 years, he was not able--had not been trained or encouraged--to stay on his own for extended periods of time. And by this time, he had several health issues, though I can't tell you what they were because one manifestation of Mom's mental status was pathological lying. One week he had Parkinson's; the next it was Touretts syndrome. I couldn't keep up and I didn't know what to believe.

This new job of Mom's brought her a new circle of friends and gave her a renewed lease on life; she was happy and felt valued. But Tom's presence and neediness stood in her way. So she put him in a home. And she abandoned him. And of all the things my mom has ever done that hurt--and there have been more than I can tell you--this is the one I can't get past.

It hurts me to type that admission, that confession of one of her most mortifying acts. And yet as Tom's body is being prepared for cremation, I can't NOT say it. As these tears wash over my face and blur my vision, I see in my mind a picture of a healthier Tom. And while I'm grieving, I know it's not so much over his passing, but over his ending.

Because Tom worshiped the ground my mother walked on. She could do no wrong, even as she belittled him, chastised him, complained about him. In happier days, they would go dancing at the Fire Hall or the Legion. And people would back up to watch them, they were that spectacular. Mom loved to cook; Tom loved to eat. She was bossy; he didn't seem to mind being pushed around. It was a symbiotic relationship and one that brought both of them a form of happiness.

And so to know Mom just warehoused him because greener pastures were calling absolutely slays me. At the same time, I know she was not well herself. She never had been mentally stable, and her physical health was in rapid decline, though only she knew just how so at that point. Was this tossing away of Tom an act of love, done so that he would be taken care of when she suddenly dropped dead? I've wanted to--tried to--believe that, but I know better. She did this because she wanted something else. It causes me deep shame to admit that, and I know she would never have let me get away with doing something so morally corrupt.

But Mom didn't play by the same rules as those of us with all our faculties. And most of the time, I let her slide. But not this time. I told her I thought what she did was appalling. I reminded her of all the good times they'd had, how Tom loved her like no man ever had loved her. I beseeched her not to just lock him up and abandon him to a life she knew would be sheer torture for him. She did not listen.

And in fact, during the last phone conversation she and I had, she lied and told me she'd been to visit Tom at the nursing home. I, ridiculously enough, believed her. I thought maybe she'd had a change of heart. But no, I later found out that had been just one more in a very long list of lies. She wanted me to think better of her.

After Mom's death, I visited Tom whenever I went east, which was not often. And whenever I did visit him, he would be so drugged up he wasn't fully aware. He'd have lucid moments, but that was the most I could hope for. Still, I went because if there was even a remote chance my presence could bring him a moment of happiness, I wanted to give him that. He deserved much more than that, more than I was able to give.

The last time I saw him, this past October, he was bent over in his wheelchair so far that his nose almost touched his kneecaps. My aunt and I got him into his bed, propped him up, and made him as comfortable as possible. He remembered me and my kids; he didn't remember Mom. He had photos of my family on his bulletin board, and there were cards I had sent him on his nightstand. I tried to remain a part of his life, let him know he was still thought of and loved, even if I had to do it long distance.

As I sat on the bed with him holding his bony hand, I knew I probably would never see Tom again. In fact, I wished for him an end to the indignity, the emptiness, the nothing-life my mom committed him to. Yes, now he was sick enough to require professional care around the clock. When Mom sent him away, he was nowhere near the shattered man who lay before me. Did her getting rid of him cause this rapid decline? I can't say for sure.

But here's what I do know: Tom Bellante loved my mom despite a mental illness that caused her do to unspeakable things to those she loved most. He cared for her and made her laugh. He rescued her from a life of loneliness and gave her something--and someone--to live for. He told her she was beautiful and believed the sun rose and set with her. He took her dancing and made her feel important. He was all the things a partner should be, even when she didn't deserve it.

Rest in peace, Tom. And know how much you meant to me.

If They're Never Mad, You're Not Doing Your Job

I've been home alone with my 16-year-old, Max, since mid-week. Wes took the three younger kids to his annual family campout in Missouri. With just the two of us to care for, life has been much slower. Quieter. Yes, dare I say, easier?

Just yesterday as we were driving to get Max a burger, I asked if he was enjoying the solitude. "Yeah," he replied. "Just think Mom, this could be how life is ALL the time." I smiled at that...Max has always and forever believed he should be an only child. I ruined that, three times over.

I know Max believes in the truth of what he said, but I also know how much he loves his family, even as he denounces us as stupid and annoying. Tucker and Max are as close as any brothers I've ever known. When they're here at the house, they're usually together. They exchange insults on a regular basis, but separately, they admit to the love they feel for one another. It's how family is.

Last night, I had the good fortune to enjoy the company of some wonderful friends, people I respect. The topic turned to parenting and kids, and we pondered the idea that raising kids with strict discipline does not necessarily result in kids who regularly make good choices. Conversely, kids raised with looser discipline don't always head down the wrong path.

I do think there's one measurement for parenting that is consistent across the board, regardless of parenting style: If your kids are never mad at you, you better step back and think about what you're doing.

With four kids between the ages of 8 and 16, I can almost count on the fact that at any given moment, at least one of them thinks I know nothing, am out of it, am mean, abuse of my power...the list goes on. In short, I suck. Knowing that the people I love most in this world feel that way on a semi-regular basis used to make me crazy. It hurt my feelings, made me second-guess my decisions and choices, left me feeling inadequate. But as they got older and began to voice their dissent more often, I came to recognize the phenomenon as one that I was just going to have to live with or change how I parent. And that second option wasn't very realistic.

Not that I'm a perfect parent. God, no. I wish I were, but Mom always told me to wish in one hand and poop in the other and see which filled up fastest. But I listen to my gut, and that intuition is reliable. And, generally speaking, my kids are good people. As one friend put it, I "allow them to be individuals and still give 'em a kick in the ass when they need it." Well said, friend.

I'm not here to be my kids' friend; they have enough of those. I feed those friends. I let them sleep at my house. I counsel some of them when they ask for advice. In short, I live with those friends; I don't want to be one of them. Some days, I don't want to be a parent, either. I'm tired. Or just feel lazy. Or am on the edge of the abyss because I have said, "Would you (fill in the blank)" 821 times already and the request still hasn't been fulfilled. Maybe I have a work deadline I'm struggling to meet. I don't want to cook dinner for myself or anyone else. Really, I just don't wanna do it.

But.

I signed up for this job willingly and without much understanding of what it entails. I took the risk, accepted the challenge. And so I will see it through. And if that means Max is mad because I won't allow him to sleep at a friend's house unless a parent is home and knows Max is supposed to sleep there, too bad. It's my job to know where my kid is, or at the very least, where he isn't.

If being a parent means explaining to Tucker for the 93rd time why I will not let him see that R-rated movie he so badly wants to see and which everyone else has seen, so be it. I'll do it. My teeth will be clenched, my eyebrow may twitch. Saying "yes" would require less effort, and I'd be the hero instead of the enemy. But I will still say "no."

If parenting this particular set of children the way I think they should be parented means Tavia is going to shoot me the 56th dirty look--really, Mom, are you serious?--of the day, then I will be the recipient of the 56th dirty look of the day. She will stomp up the stairs, slam her door, and be mad...until she isn't, which is probably not too long because she wants me to paint her nails, draw with her, toss her the volleyball so she can practice her bumps.

Bella, at 8, is young enough that she still wants to always do the right thing. My requests and restrictions may impose upon her happiness; they may be met with pouts and slumped shoulders to show me she's carrying the weight of the world. But by the day's end, I'm getting kisses and being told she loves me.

I can live with all of this. What I couldn't live with are kids who don't talk to me. Who never share the good and bad of their day, who can't be bothered to hug me goodbye or kiss me goodnight. I can live with the unpleasantness, but not without the good stuff. And I don't think the good stuff is a given; I earn that. How? By caring about where they are and who they're with. I love them with words and actions. The limits I impose act in the same way hugs do; they say "I love you," "you are worth caring about," "I know you're smart, but I'm one step ahead of you."

I'd rather my kids are always happy with me; that would be a slice of heaven. Who needs angels and clouds and everlasting life if you've got kids who understand you're just doing the best you can by them, even if that means not letting them do what they want? But I'm no fool. I know being a parent sometimes means they see me with horns and beady, red pig eyes.

That's cool. I look good in red.

Blizzards, Tornadoes: Just Another Day in Windsor

One year ago this day--a day that was, like today, the last day of school--a tornado took a surprising turn north and vacuumed our town of 19,000. Some folks suffered more serious devastation and damages than others, but no one was left untouched by that mighty twister.

A drive through the Cornerstone neighborhoods reminds me how far we've come in terms of rebuilding. But the wood frames of houses yet unfinished indicates we've still a ways to go. Those centuries-old trees that once lined the cemetery on the way out of town no longer stand. I miss them. They're trees, I know. Some would say they're just trees. But I love trees and the idea of all the comfort they provide not only us humans, but the animals as well. Trees tell stories if you listen close enough. But those trees? Their stories? Gone forever.

The tornado is still talked about in town--we chat about it in the coffee shops, in line at the post office, in the hallways at school. It has become part of Windsor's folklore, and there's no need to exaggerate what happened that day. Those of us who were here when it hit will never forget it: not the sound, the eerie color of the sky, the outrageous hailstones, the vibration of fear that pulsated through the streets.

Talking about it has been therapeutic. We share experiences--Where were you when it hit? Is your house repaired/rebuilt? Did insurance come through for you? Do you need anything? The very beast that tore us apart within a matter of moments is also responsible for forging bonds that will hold us closer together, possibly forever.

And today, the one-year anniversary, we celebrate. Schoolchildren are letting go of balloons, a color explosion to signal that we're still here. Neighborhoods will enjoy block parties, a traditional gathering that nurtures fellowship and camaraderie. The Town is hosting a party this evening for anyone who wants to attend. Hundreds of new trees have been planted throughout Windsor, and our baseball field has been renovated. Life goes on.

When I think of this time last year, my thoughts immediately turn to my children. Max, who was at lunch when the tornado hit. Tucker, a sixth-grader at the middle school right next door to the high school. Tavia and Bella, huddled in darkened rooms within their elementary school. My most vivid memories of that day play through my mind like a slide show...and still my hands begin to sweat when I allow my thoughts to go there.

What else do I remember? I remember the utter, raw terror in the facial expressions of my daughters, their visible relief when they saw me, the amazing Skyview staff who remained calm in the face of the unknown.

I remember Gene, our neighbor and friend who worked as maintenance man at the middle school. When he saw me there, he knew I was in search of Tucker and instructed me to stay where I was. He would find Tuck and bring him to me. And he did. I will love Gene until the day I die for that.

I remember going into the high school, where I went to a table, gave my student's name, and was told to wait while someone brought him to me. Only he never came; the school went into lockdown again before I could get Max out. It was one of the most helpless feelings I've ever had. Even as I write this, I cry. I had to make a choice: Stay inside the school with one of my children, or retreat back into the storm to where my other three were waiting in the van. I left Max behind in the safety of the brick building. But still. I left him behind.

I remember Tucker, 12 years old at the time, calmly putting his arms around me and saying, "Tell me what you need me to do, Mom. Just tell me." This quiet gift of his, as I was trying to comfort 2 hysterical little girls and maneuver 3 frightened dogs into the basement.

I remember thinking that Wes must be about out of his mind with worry because cell phones were dead and he was working on a job in a nearby town. So he knew what was going on, but not what was going on.

365 days later, I look back on that day with a sense of awe. The kids have their own perspectives of that day. My 3 younger ones volunteered their time at the emergency center for days. They folded clothes, unpacked boxes, did whatever they were told to do. For them, the tornado presented an opportunity to go beyond their own comfort zones, to give of themselves with no expectation of getting anything in return. For Max, that disaster meant no classes. The year before, an unexpected blizzard cancelled the last day of school. He woke up this morning hoping this closing of the last day of school was a pattern. Alas, today is alternately cloudy and sunny, with a breeze and warm temperatures. It is a perfect last day of school.

Then again, with our recent history, what wouldn't be?

Decriminalizing Drugs: Should America Consider It?

Portugal decriminalized the personal possession of drugs--pot, coke, heroin and meth--in 2001. Prior to that, the country had one of the highest rates of hard drug use in Europe. Faced with a problem they could not control, Portugal chose instead to try a new approach. Instead of jail time, those found with small amounts of the drugs were offered therapy--which they could refuse with no repercussions.

What do you think happened? The answer might surprise you. According to a Cato Institute report published this month, drug use among teens in Portugal has declined, as did the rate of new HIV infections due to dirty needles. The number of folks seeking treatment for drug addiction more than doubled. (To read the Time magazine article in its entirety, visit http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1893946,00.html.)

This is impressive news no matter how you look at it. Portugal has proven that government can manage the drug problem if it can let go of the need to punish. We're big on punishment here in America. Maybe it goes back to our Puritan roots. I'm not sure we'll ever be able to evolve beyond that need.

But clearly, we are failing miserably--over and over again--in our approach to dealing with drug use. America has the highest rate of marijuana and cocaine use, yet we have the most stringent laws. We fear liberalism so much that we are unwilling to pay attention to the success other parts of the world--mainly the EU--is experiencing with their policies.

Like so many of our national policies, the ones we enforce regarding drugs are based on fear and speculation. We ignore empirical evidence in favor of wild imagination and "what if" scenarios.

Let me be clear: I am not a fan of drugs. I've never smoked pot, popped pills, tripped on acid, or taken anything stronger than an alcoholic drink. Drugs do not interest or fascinate me. My brother's drug use informed my childhood, and I believe it played a large role in the breakup of my parents' already dysfunctional marriage, and hence, our family. If anyone could be the Anita Bryant of the drug issue, it's me.

But I'm not in the majority. Most people experiment with one drug or another at some point in their lives. Many continue to use if not regularly, at least sporadically. Recreational drug use is an integral part of modern society, and like it or not, we must find a way to deal with it so that it ceases to be a major health and safety concern. Portugal seems to have stumbled on to something that works.

There is a segment of the American population that holds the attitude that drugs are bad and must be gotten rid of, and anything less is unacceptable. We've tried this; it isn't working. I agree they're a health hazard, but I'm a realist and know they will never be gotten rid of. Our punitive response to drug use has at least proven that: Regardless of how we view any and all drug use, it is never going to disappear. Drugs are here to stay, and we can either seek effective methods of management and semi-control, or we can continue to let the problem spiral downward, taking more and more of our friends and family with it. Portugal understands this; why can't America?

When the taboo of something has been lifted, common sense says more people will participate. The taboo of drug use is not what it once was. More people are more open about their use. The world has changed. We must find a way to work with the change because society will never revert to what it once was. Conditions and attitudes will never regress. We are where we are, and we have to work with that and stop trying to move backward.

Yet here we are, banging our heads against the wall because we can't seem to get a handle on things. But we keep trudging along the same path. Don't know who said it, but the quotation "When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail" comes to mind. We have hammered away at the drug problem long enough, with pathetic results. It's time to take a new approach, come up with a strategy based on the desire for true impact, not punishment of the "wicked."

More than one million nonviolent drug users are behind bars. I don't call this progress. I hope you don't either.

Of Snow, Naked Women, and the Definition of Art

Our Spring Break is nearing its close, and I'd have to say it's been a memorable one not because of any unusual events or magic moments, but because of its remarkable calm.

We began the week with a short trek to Denver. If you have children of a wide age range, you know how difficult it is to find activities they'll all enjoy. Max is 16; Bella just turned 8. Tuck and Tavia fall somewhere in the middle. Inevitably, someone complains or doesn't want to participate in any organized activity.

This wasn't the case for us this time. We began our adventure with a (free) tour of Hammond's candy factory. Watching how candy canes and ribbon candy were made was fun. What I didn't expect was the kids to notice that every factory worker we saw was some ethnicity other than white. That opened up a discussion on wages, hiring practices, and workplace conditions. Who knew a free tour to a candy factory could be an educational experience? I'm thinking maybe the younger kids were expecting Oompa Loompas, but the reality was a far cry from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Don't misunderstand--I have no idea what Hammond's pays their employees, and the factory seemed in fine shape. But I was totally loving that my kids' minds were thinking past what they were seeing to what it meant.

Next stop was the Denver Museum of Nature & Science, where we attended a free interactive exhibition: Nature Unleashed. It featured four types of natural disasters: earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and tornadoes. Windsor was included in that last segment, so we had a vested interest in what was being presented. And it was fabulous. Bella kept excitedly sharing with me new information and facts she was learning along the way, and she was mightily impressed with what she was finding out. For Tavi, knowledge is power. And after living through the tornado last May, she's struggled along the way to get past her newfound fear of any weather other than sunshine. This exhibition helped a great deal. Again--entertainment proved highly educational, and we talked about history (the volcano that leveled Pompeii, the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906) and devastation (Hurricane Katrina, our own F3 tornado) all the way to the hotel.

We spent our second day at the Denver Art Museum. It features a new exhibition called "The Psychedelic Experience," which chronicles the hand-designed venue and rock concert posters from Haight Ashbury (San Francisco) from 1965 to 1971. Think Ken Kesey's acid tests, Beat poetry, the early days of Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, and other history-making musicians. This exhibition was admittedly less interesting to Tavi and Bella than it was to the rest of us; they have scant knowledge of that era and no understanding whatsoever of the drug/psychedelic culture. Bella was curious as to why there were so many "naked ladies" in the posters and artwork. I asked if she was uncomfortable, and she said no, she just wanted to know why there were 17 women in various states of undress adorning the walls. So I explained the history of that era using age-appropriate language and descriptions, and she was quite satisfied with what she learned. And she left that temporary exhibition with the knowledge that many folks consider the naked human body a work of art, something to celebrate and honor. In that spirit, she informed me she'd found two more.

All in all, we spent 4 1/2 hours in the art museum. As we visited various floors, we took in art from around the world. Some of it was fantastic; some not so much. Max and I got into a great debate on the definition of art. Specifically, he asked if something is functional, is it art (he says it isn't, I say most certainly can be). The younger kids were amazed that some art pieces were created centuries ago, and they gained a solid understanding that art can be an enlightening representation of a culture. We discussed the purpose of art, what it's "supposed" to do, why it's valuable or not. I was thrilled that each of the kids was able to appreciate what s/he was seeing on an individual level. Mostly, I like that even Bella can now go beyond saying "I like that" to explaining what it is about something that moves her.

The hotel we stayed at--a Sleep Inn on 120th Ave--was a nightmare. Exposed electrical boxes in the pool room, a hot tub guard rail that wobbled and came out of the ground, peeling paint (lead, anyone?), crumbled wall tiles, a plastic chair with a broken leg that someone propped back up and which Max quickly discovered was not stable, a headboard that pulled out of the wall if you so much as leaned against it to watch TV, bathroom doors that refused to lock or even close all the way...the list is endless. But we got a lot of laughs out of it anyway and felt like we were livin' on the edge, wondering what would fall apart next.

And then yesterday, we enjoyed a major snowstorm. The entire family spent the day inside, watching Indiana Jones movies and playing the game Life. We made a huge breakfast and ate too much junk food as we hung out. Wes had a roaring fire going all day, and throughout it all, snow continued to steadily fall and blow with a beauty only nature can pull off. It was just perfect.

Too often, there's conflict of one kind or another when you put a large family together and try to please everyone. This Spring Break has been a gift to me and my family. We all deserve that once in a while.

What Makes for a "Good" Father?

While this may not come as a shock to anyone who really knows me--and I mean knows me--it bears being clearly stated: I am not the easiest significant other to be with.

Yes, I am extremely low maintenance. Nope, I'm not needy in any sense of the word. In fact, any guy whose been with me for a substantial amount of time very likely has wondered at times if I even like him, I need so little. I'm an eternal optimist, even as the world comes crashing down. Just today, Wes called from work to inform me that he's losing his job for at least a month, if not longer. My first thought was, Wow! We can finally finish painting the family room. It's been half done for 3 years!

But.

I have high expectations when it comes to parenting. Only, I didn't know they were high. To me, they seem reasonable and obvious. I believe in being involved in the lives of my kids. Not when it's convenient or easy. Not when I feel like it. Not when I don't have something else I'd rather be doing. I believe in it at all times. Both parents.

And by involved, I don't mean overbearing or hovering or coddling. I don't tell my kids they're awesome when they're not. I don't heap praise on them for behaving as they should. If they're acting like brats, I tell them they're being bratty. I'm not politically correct. I use the words "shit" and "hell" and "damn" because sometimes they're the only words that express what I mean. I yell when I'm mad and don't act any differently around other people's kids than I do my own. What you see of me in public is what you'd see of me at home.

What I'm trying to say is, I am far from perfect. I make mistakes. But I don't let a day go by without telling every one of my kids I love them. I try to have a few uninterrupted moments with each of them every day. I don't hesitate to tell them I'm proud of them if the situation calls for it, and I am available to them when they need me. I advise, listen, discuss, debate. Together we learn, butt heads, compromise, concede. We are a family. A messy, loving, loud family.

Recently, one of my kids' friends' dad told me he's a good father to his school-age children. I asked him why he thinks that, and he said he drives them places, cooks for them, helps with their homework when he can. He puts food on the table.

This same dad thinks it's okay to drink himself into unconsciousness every couple of weeks because he used to do it every night. He thinks it's okay to smoke a joint or bowl and then try (and fail) to be responsible and attentive (he and his wife are divorced, so he has his kids on his own 3-4 days/nights a week). He leaves the house without tellings his kids while they're out playing, then doesn't answer his cell phone when they call, worried and wondering where he is. He doesn't pay his bills, doesn't work much, doesn't give them any sense of security.

His house is not a home; the kids have very little of their things there. He commits to attending and participating in school functions and then backs out last minute. His kids say they're used to it. I hate him when I hear them say that.

I understand that perhaps this father is an exception to the vast majority of dads out there. But I'm not sure he is. Why do so many men who have kids believe they should get gold stars for doing the bare minimum? Why do they think putting food on the table is all that's required of them? Why do they think they can drink and party and set a horrible example and then smack their kids around when they fall out of line? Why are so many dads assholes?

I know there are some fabulous, dedicated, loving fathers out there. I know some. I read about others. Some of them, I see at school when I'm picking up my kids. Some are reading this column right now. I know they exist.

And I know there are some frighteningly awful mothers. I see them too. Even know a couple. But there seems to be some sort of internal mechanism that tells a lot of guys that this parenting thing is like a hobby: Do it when you feel like it, but don't let it take over your life.

Being a volunteer in the schools, teaching classes and making presentations, I see a lot of wounded kids. A lot. More than I ever thought there could be. They're hurt, angry, distant. I know some second grade kids whose defenses are already in place; their lives will not be easy.

Life's hard. I get that. But when we have kids, we must put them first. All the time. That doesn't mean we need to be perfect, or with them at all times. It doesn't mean we never allow them to struggle or fall, fail or fear. It means we love them. And when loving them isn't enough--and most days, it isn't--we must put our weaknesses and desires aside and step up to the plate.

Being good enough should be the exception, not the rule.

Autism & Vaccinations: Where the Personal IS Political

The federal court ruled last week that there is insufficient evidence to prove the link between autism and childhood vaccinations. Specifically, the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine. A victory for some, a crippling defeat for others, it is a ruling that, to me, is moot. Courts must rely solely on physical evidence to make their decisions; proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that the MMR causes autism in some children is impossible. There are too many underlying and individual factors.

But that doesn't mean I believe there's no link between the MMR and autism. I do.

And before I go any further, let me be clear that I have no medical background or vested interest in taking one side or the other. I don't have an autistic child. Nor do I have a vaccinated child. I have healthy children who have never been vaccinated. And I researched the hell out of vaccinations before making the decision to forego that particular childhood tradition. This was back in 1992. I haven't stopped studying the topic since.

I think the decision to vaccinate one's children is personal. Parents have the right to choose either way, and then they must live with the consequences of that choice. What irritates me to no end is when a parent accepts vaccinations as mandatory and doesn't question their efficacy, safety, or logic. I mean, we're talking a child's life here...this decision is not along the lines of piercing ears or even circumcision; this is a decision which may involve injecting toxins directly into a healthy human body in an unnatural way. If a parent has thought this through, weighed the circumstances, and then makes the decision in favor of or against, she has done so (presumably) out of love for her child and the desire to keep that child healthy and safe. If, on the other hand, she allows her child to be vaccinated simply because it's what she's told to do, then I have no respect for that. I'm a firm believer in questioning authority when authority needs to be questioned.

I'm not writing this column because I think children shouldn't be vaccinated. I'm writing it because I think the time has come (is overdue, actually) to re-evaluate the role of vaccines. They were definitely a blessing when first introduced, as were labor unions and public schools. But times change and our social constructs and institutions must change if they are to remain valuable and effective.

The first cases of autism were diagnosed in 1943; all eleven diagnoses were among children who were born in the months after thimerosal, a form of mercury, was first added to infant vaccinations in 1931. Today, autism has reached epidemic proportions, and parents are advised to give their children more vaccines than ever before. Is it mere coincidence that the number of cases of diagnosed autism has drastically increased as the number of "required" childhood vaccines has risen? I can't imagine it is.

I made the choice not vaccinate based on research and instinct. As parents, we must trust that inner voice that alternately screams and whispers to us. I have been chastised by medical personnel (but not all of them) and scorned by other parents for my decision. Yet I have never regretted it. That doesn't mean I think it's the right choice for everyone. But it was right for me and my children.

I just want people to think. Think about their choices, their actions, their behavior. Too many folks seem to just go along with the norm and never stop to consider why it's the norm. I don't necessarily want you to agree with me. I just want you to know why you disagree.

For a thought-provoking expose on autism and vaccinations, check out this Rolling Stone article: http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/7395411/deadly_immunity/ . The level of integrity and investigative journalism is noteworthy, and regardless of which side of the fence you sit on for this issue, it will give you pause to ponder.

A New Day Dawns

As I write on this glorious, sunny day, I'm watching the Inaugural ceremonies. I've been watching since earlier this morning, and as the day unfolds, I find myself feeling a stronger sense of national pride than I've felt in years. It's not that I ever did not want to be an American; no mere mortal could ever wield that magnitude of power over me. But in recent years, I've come to feel misrepresented as an individual American on virtually every front. Respect for the presidential office aside, Bush simply was never my president.

Today I feel hope--unlimited, bottomless surges of hope. The idea of hope is a welcome one regardless of circumstances. But the climate of our nation has been one of fear, frustration, disappointment, anger, and dissent for so long that hope had become little more than a four-letter word. It was distant, unattainable, fading into the horizon.

Many things about today contribute to my feeling of hope: the fact that the man who now leads us is young and vital, a loving father and husband who seems in touch with the reality most of us accept as our own; that this one man had the courage to step up and speak out at a time when our nation most needed a clear, intelligent voice; that he sacrificed his private life for a cause much bigger--and more difficult--than any one person's endeavors. I think Barack Obama chose to seek the presidency not because he could, but because he felt he should.

But more than this, I am hopeful because we as a nation banded together and said Enough. We've had enough. And we did what we had to do to bring about the change necessary to right ourselves.

I believe most hatred and ugliness is born of fear, and the fear stems from ignorance. Racism has long divided our country, and to an extent, perhaps, it always will. But for this one brief moment, we robbed racism of its power and banished it. We chose hope and a belief in the power of the people over hatred and fear. We made an active decision to break through a long-standing paradigm of limitation based on tradition and an unwillingness to take a chance.

There is but a one-letter difference between "chance" and "change," and I think one relies on the other for existence. I truly believe we have the leader we need to guide us out of the mire we find ourselves trudging through. He is no savior, not a messiah. He is probably scared to death and will undoubtedly make mistakes. But my gut tells me his mistakes will have come from an attempt to do the right thing for the most people, to make the best of difficult choices and decisions. I see an integrity in this man I never was able to detect in his predecessor.

I will forever be proud to be able to tell my children that I helped bring Barack Obama to the White House. When he stumbles and falls--as we know he will--the fallout will be tempered by the spirit which permeates this day. We will remember the elation, the sheer relief, the unabashed triumph. We will remember why we put him in office.

This day belongs to us all, regardless of creed, political party, race, or any other factor that leads to division. Today is our day.

Today is a good day. And for me, it's doubly wonderful; my baby--the last of the tribe--turns 8 today. One look into Bella's dear face and I am reminded of the goodness and delight this life has to offer.

Life is good.

The Front Porch Returns

Happy New Year! I hope this column finds you in good spirits and even better health. It's been more than 6 months since I've posted a new column, and that's just not okay. Many of you have asked if I stopped writing The Front Porch. The answer is a resounding NO! I just got swamped with writing gigs that pay, so something had to go.

But we're back on the porch, and I hope you'll join us there. I'll publish my column bi-weekly, more if there's something I just can't let pass. I think 2 columns/month is doable, and I'm looking forward to getting back into the good and the bad of writing an opinion column.

There is one major change: I will no longer email you when I've posted a new column. Instead, you can sign up to be automatically alerted to new columns. It's easy.

To your immediate left is a "Subscribe" button. There is also a Subscribe link at the very bottom of this page. I don't know the difference between the two, but I figure one of them will suit your fancy. Click on the button/link, and you're done. That's all there is to it!

If you don't want to read The Front Porch any more, don't do a thing. You won't receive alerts. But if you do, be sure to subscribe, and forward the column to folks you think might find it interesting.

Now...enough with the technical stuff. My brain has been mulling over a few morsels:

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I turn 44 this Thursday! Yes, absolutely I'll have a drink with you. A big one, the kind that smells so good you want to take a bath in it. You think I'm kidding...you're funny.

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Someone told me last week that I am only the second Democrat he's ever liked. Does that say more about me or him?

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2008 clarified a few things for me:

1. I'm no fan of tornadoes.
2. I voted for Vazquez for mayor, but only because I thought he was less wrong for the job than the other guys. I have since changed my mind about him. As far as I'm concerned, the guy has proven his ability to lead effectively even under dire circumstances. He has my full support unless he starts to act like an idiot, and I don't see that happening.
3. I live in a town where folks sometimes over-react (I'm thinking about the MySpace "scandal" at the high school...could we have made a bigger deal of that if we tried?), but also where, when disaster strikes, residents pull together and reach out to help those in need. I spent the weeks immediately following the tornado with an overwhelming sense of pride in my community. Even now, that whole surreal event chokes me up and brings tears to my eyes.
4. Bruce Springsteen really IS the Boss.
5. The dark years for this country are fading into the shadows (for now...history does tend to repeat itself). Though we have a lot of clean-up to do, I believe we've proven we're up to the challenge. We placed more value on hope and the chance of better tomorrows than we did on experience and old-white-guyness in this last election, and I think that was the right call. Again, there's that sense of pride in my fellow man.

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And finally...

OBAMA WON!!!

Of Tootsie Rolls and Gray Hair

It's been two weeks to the day, nearly to the hour, since the tornado ripped through our town to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And that amount includes only those things upon which we can place a monetary value. It doesn't begin to address other losses we've incurred. For some of us, that loss is a sense of security. Our young kids are frightened. They can't sleep. They don't want to be too far from Mom or Dad. My own Bella, usually one of the most joyful kids you could imagine, is suddenly fixated with death and dying. She doesn't want to die, and the only thing I could say that finally brought her peace is that if it was time for her to go, the tornado would have taken her. Clearly, I told her, there's more in store for her. She thought about that, and her 7-year-old brain wrapped itself around the idea that life has purpose, and until she achieves that purpose, she's here for the duration. Good enough.

For others, that loss comes in the form of personal momentos that were swept up and scattered, never to be returned. How can we put a price on that lost family photo, the one where all the kids are wearing ornery expressions because they don't want to be sitting there in front of the camera? Or the one of a beloved parent, now long dead? Maybe the keepsake isn't a photo, but a hair ribbon. A love letter, perhaps.

Regardless of the extent of damage to our homes and businesses, all of us here in Windsor have lost something. As days pass and we reconnect with friends, make sure they're okay, offer assistance, those of us who do not live in the disaster zone can temper our loss with the idea that we're luckier than many. And there is truth in that. But while we're feeling grateful, I think it's imperative to recognize that the fact that we still have our houses, our belongings, our families, doesn't dis-count the other fact: Our lives were turned upside down on May 22, and it will take time to recover.

This became crystal clear to me when I was in the check-out lane at King Soopers last week. The cashier asked how I was, and without giving it a thought, I replied, "Well, it's a good day when foot-long Tootsie Rolls are on sale and there are no tornadoes." Then I simply stared at her, amazed that such a sentence even formed itself in my brain. "Wow," I said. "Have my standards lowered!" And we laughed, but the humor didn't hide what was left unsaid: What I once took for granted was no longer a given.

I'm disorganized, easily flustered, incredibly forgetful. I'll open my mouth to say something and before the words come out, the thought has left me. I don't like this at all. But I also know I'm not alone in my stumbling, fumbling days. Many of my friends are experiencing the same thing. There's a sense of disconnect, and when we try to focus on something, our thoughts drift. It's an odd feeling to have that happen, especially if you're usually an organized, get-it-done type of person.

And many, many of us are dealing with our insurance companies, making appointments, getting estimates...our days are really interrupted and disjointed. And even when the insurance company comes through and helps us rebuild and repair, it's stressful. I am not exaggerating in any way when I say that I've had more gray hair appear on my head in the last 2 weeks than ever before. I wake up each morning, and there they are, a few more strands. I had my hair pulled back last week, and Tucker thought it was awesome. "Woah, Mom! You have, like, Wolverine gray hair!" For your viewing pleasure, I've posted an illustration of Wolverine so you can see what Tuck means. See those black wingy things? Imagine them gray, and that's what Tuck thinks I look like. Now, he's also the kid who asked me if I was going through a midlife crisis last year when I bought a pair of white sneakers with little silver-sequined stars on the outside of them, so maybe he isn't the best judge. But take it for what it's worth. Now I'm an X-Man in midlife crisis. (And for the record, I bought those shoes because they were cheap.)

At any rate, we plug away with each day, hopefully feeling a sense of normalcy gradually replace this murkiness. I really just wanted to reach out and let people know that we should feel grateful, yes. But we should also allow ourselves time to feel sad. We all lost something two weeks ago. Big or small, major or minor, we lost.

So whatever it takes...sale-priced Tootsie Rolls or a day of sunshine (remember sunshine?)...find your joy where you can.

Tornado tore out our buildings, trees, but not our hearts

We take photo after photo, intent on capturing the extent of the damage wrought upon our community by a tornado that chose Windsor as its rest stop. We want to remember as intensely as we’d like to forget. And somewhere in between those two desires is the reality of life here, from this point on.

But photos capture only images, expressions. They show us what’s gone, what’s ruined, what’s forever changed. But they can’t show what I’ve seen here these past four days, since power went out around 11:47 a.m. on a day no one here will ever forget.

They can’t show you our spirit.

Sixteen thousand people live in Windsor, a community that in recent years has been experiencing growing pains as it evolves from being a rural region to one that is home to industry and energy resources. I’ve felt exasperation at some of the choices my town has made as it struggles to decide who it wants to be. I have never held back on calling the shots as I see them.

But what I’ve seen since Thursday’s tornado wreaked its havoc to the tune of tens (hundreds?) of millions of dollars in damage is like nothing I’ve ever been a part of. Past frustrations aside, I am proud to call Windsor home, and I’m proud of the people who live next door to me, down the street, across town.

The F3/F4 tornado and its accompanying hail damaged more properties than I know. It stole the homes of hundreds of people, leaving them with little to nothing. It killed beloved pets as well as one war veteran who tried to outrun the funnel in what would be a valiant last stand. It has forever changed the lives of every citizen, some more than others. But unlike the homes and businesses, the historic buildings and century-old trees, it hasn’t torn us apart. If anything, this disaster has brought out the best in my little community.

The response to this sudden emergency has been nothing short of phenomenal. The volunteer emergency response teams from all over the region have dropped their own lives to help us get on with ours. The National Guard, the governor, Xcel Energy…they have reacted with such clarity of purpose and commitment that I couldn’t be more impressed.

And then there are the local businesses and organizations. Our recreation department was turned into a command center, and I have never seen the likes of such dedication. “Whatever you need, you come to your rec department and we will help you,” the director promised. So great was the turnout for individual volunteers that by noon that day, they had all the volunteers they could use at that point. Our police and fire departments have answered the call of duty and worked 24/7 to help Windsor remain safe in what has turned out to be a most vulnerable time. Loodles, a newly established coffee shop, provided free coffee to everyone all day, for days on end. Our local 7-11 distributed milk, water, bread and other staples free of charge. And if you didn’t have them in hand as you walked out the door, the employees encouraged you to take some. If you already had some, they told you to take more. I’m sure there were other instances of goodwill throughout town that I don’t even know about.

With each passing day, Windsor gets a little cleaner. People smile a little easier (though I’m sure we will remain paranoid over every little storm for months to come). A drive down Garden Drive, Cornerstone Drive, or Hwy. 257 shows you what these people are made of as neighbors help neighbors, strangers help strangers, and everyone shares a common goal: To pick up the pieces of the past so that we can move forward into the future.

I’ve driven down the “disaster area” streets several times. The devastation is mind boggling. My entire body is sore from struggling against the 130+-mph winds as I collected my children from the storm. Mentally and physically, I’m exhausted. Drained. And I’m one of the luckier ones. Throughout this ordeal, I managed to remain composed and focused, in “mom mode,” as my siblings call it. But all composure crumbled as I slowly took in the sights along Hwy. 257. I saw houses one couldn’t really describe as “standing” any longer. Overturned pickup trucks, demolished businesses. I would liken it to images I’ve seen of war zones.

But what finally broke through my stoicism was the sight of a woman and her family, standing in what I assumed was once her kitchen. There were no outside walls, only the crumbled ruins of inner walls and rooms. And as twilight fell upon the outskirts of this shattered town, this woman was rummaging through her cupboards, trying to salvage what little might be left inside. My heart just ached for her. Our immediate world had fallen apart in less than fifteen minutes, but here was someone finding purpose in the simple act of finding…what? A frying pan, maybe? A colander? A bag of rice? It seemed absurd and totally logical at the same time. Though I didn’t know her, for that instant, I loved this woman, just for doing the best she could for her family at a time when they most needed her to be strong.

Windsor will slowly rebuild. Our streets will no longer be lovingly cradled by the old trees that link us to our past, but they will still take us from here to there. We will forever be reminded of an event we’d rather forget as we take those streets through town and say “Remember when the flour mill stood there?” or any number of similar remarks. We can never go back to the way we once were.

But if what I’ve seen happen here is any indication of the way we are now, we’re headed in the right direction.

Please feel free to post your comments here...share this blog with others who went through this experience. Some days, it's enough just to be reminded that you're not alone.

That last column I wrote generated quite a strong response, mostly from women who either a) confessed to having their own love-of-their-life-but-can't-live-with-him stories, or b) wondered how I could admit that I wasn't with the love of my life any longer while at the same time be linked to someone else. Some people--yes, even men--emailed or stopped me in town to explain how my story brought tears to their eyes, gave them goosebumps.

I had no idea.

I mean, you live the majority of your life protecting your heart because you simply don't have it in you to offer yourself 100 percent any longer, and you tend to think it's a secret, an experience no one else shares. But there are so many who are on that same journey, albeit via different roads. If it's true that for every one person who takes the time to speak up there are seven who feel the same way but remain silent, then ours is a society of walking wounded. Every town--each individual neighborhood--is a microcosm of a global population whose hearts get broken to one degree or another, sometimes repeatedly, and yet who find reasons to get up each morning and start the day anew.

Since several people have asked me how the situation in my last column was resolved, I'll explain here briefly. Jamie was indeed in charge of the company whose platoon was involved in the ambush back in March. However, since only 30 soldiers were out on a mission, he did not accompany them, but stayed back at camp, per procedural policy. So while he was not involved in the actual incident, he was held accountable as a senior enlisted in charge.

Although the details are many, the end result is that he was relieved of duty. And since he technically retires in December, he will simply go on "permanent leave" in August and that will be the end of a life-long military career. Did his men do what the media has accused them of doing? I asked him that. He unequivocally denied that his men willy-nilly slaughtered innocent people. To explain how he knows this, he likened his role in the company to that of parent. When your kids lie, you know it. They don't look at you, they fidget, they struggle to answer your questions. His men returned from the ambush and recounted what went down, and with the exception of details relating to where the soldiers physically were in the attack, the stories were the same. He believed them; I believe him. "I trained those men, Beck. The average age in my company is 28, with more than 2 years of battle experience. I would not train my men to do what we've been accused of."

That's all I needed to hear. He's disillusioned with the military, left feeling betrayed by the silence of the higher-ups in the chain of command. But his relief at being out, finally, was palpable. I'm happy for him, and I don't think I could piece together any selection of words that would convey my own feelings of relief. Life for my old friend/lover/protector is beginning again at the age of 42. More power to him.
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On a lighter note, the Windsor Weed Nazi has visited us again and issued another citation. Despite the fact that we have been out pulling weeds while MANY of our neighbors have not, we are yet again the ones to be cited. So we pulled those weeds (fewer than we've ever had in any previous summer). And then I went through the neighborhood, along Stone Mountain Drive, taking photos of all the properties that actually HAVE serious weed issues. There's one property right across from Skyview Elementary that has weeds almost as high as the privacy fence. I'm talkin' weeds so big and bountiful they could almost be classified as bushes. Yet no one has pulled them.

I took my photos and enclosed them with a letter requesting that the weed watchers get off my back if they're not going to go after other property owners with the same level of concern and dedication. I used those photos as evidence to back up my claim that I think I'm receiving special attention...my weeds haven't been nearly as nasty as some other properties along Stone Mountain. I think they just love me there at Town Hall.
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On the other hand...my two dogs have been escape artists this summer. We have construction going on at the house, and these two Houdinis have found some remarkable means of escaping over, under, through fences. The animal control lady (Vicki) has been ever so kind and understanding. Really, she's been a gem. Granted, both Scout and Oliver have their registration tags, ID tags, rabies tags...they're not dangerous dogs by any stretch of the imagination. And they aren't getting out because of neglect. But I think we've used up our chances, so until the addition to our house is complete, I've got the evil eye on them. I swear these two actually commiserate about the most effective strategy for escaping...I've come outside to find them standing in front of that fence wearing expressions of great concentration. I know they're dogs, I know. But something is going on between them...telepathy or sign language or whatever. All I know is, I'm wishing I had a cat about now.
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I officially turned old earlier this week when a routine eye exam resulted in my needing to buy bifocals. Yes, you read that right. Bifocals. My eyeglasses prescription has always been very minimal, and even that was only for the left eye. Now, at 42, I suddenly need bifocals? This is just wrong. And guess what happened while I was at my eye exam? THE DOGS ESCAPED. This, even though I made it a point to call home and warn my kids not to let the creatures out without supervision. I was not a happy mom that day. Old, yes. Happy, no.
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I was outside this morning, watering my little evergreen trees, when I noticed my friend and neighbor walking toward me. Usually, she's one of those upbeat people whose inner light just shines. She's always got a smile, a "hello." This morning she looked drawn, weary, beaten.

By the time she got to where I was standing in my yard, I had learned through her tears and her quiet, unstoppable hiccups of breath that her eldest son (who is 50) was found dead in his home, apparently of a heart attack. I dropped my hose and hugged my friend, whose sadness and grief I absorbed. In an instant, I was back to November 4, 2004, sitting at the kitchen table as my sister informed me that our mother was found in her home, cold, not breathing. She couldn't bring herself to utter the word "dead." All those emotions--along with the knowledge that this was one of those before-and-after events that would forever mark my life--ripped through me like they happened yesterday. And as I held my friend, I cried. I imagine we were a sight there in my front yard...I repeatedly apologized to her: for her immediate loss, yes, but also for the dark, merciless grief I know she will have to endure in the days, weeks, months to come.

The thing is, we expect to have to let go of our parents; that's the course of nature, right? But a parent burying a child--even an adult child--that's not in keeping with our idea of how things are supposed to go down. It's wrong, no matter how you look at it. It's wrong.

I crossed the street to offer my friend's husband my condolences. I like this guy. A lot. He's one of those older retired guys who doesn't seem to get that retirement means chilling out, taking it easy. He sweeps his driveway! He and his wife have been caring for 2 of their great-grandchildren this summer. They're amazing people. Good people. The kind you would handpick for neighbors if you had the choice.

So when I get to his side of the street, I tell him how sorry I am, and I hug him. And that hug just about kills me because in it I can feel him slump into me as he quietly repeats himself, "My son, my son." And despite my most diligent efforts, I hear myself crying with him, and really this intense sorrow is just debilitating. I love these people; they're suffering is unbearable. I wish I could ease their pain, but I know what lies in store for them as they make the long drive to their son's out-of-state home. I remember my own very long trek across the country to Pennsylvania, where Mom lived. It seemed it would never end, and so much of that time I felt absolutely numb. And now my friends--these dear people--must bury their firstborn.

So, I come here--to you--to write. To tell you about these things, these details that make up life: weeds, dogs, death, aging, relief, betrayal, disappointment, love, loss, letting go, comfort. Everyday life is so messy. It requires so much of us on so many levels.

But it's what we've got. And the measure of our success, really, lies in how we deal with it.