You’re On Your Own, Kid. You Always Have Been.

It was a trip planned almost a year ago. We agreed to come to Arizona to watch the Gilbert Grumble – my sister KK’s three pugs – while she ventured off to Ireland. It was supposed to be a two-person job. Three pugs are not a thing one person should undertake alone. Especially when they don’t know you. We had met two of them last year – Fiona & Bella – when we traveled out here to surprise KK for her 60th birthday.

Flights were booked. A side trip to Sedona was planned because it’s the most beautiful place on earth. Yet here I am, sitting in Sedona alone – fishing a bug out of my Chardonnay as I write on the banks of Oak Creek. Because people are allowed to make their own choices. And the choices of the person I was supposed to have this adventure with weren’t conducive to maintaining a healthy relationship.

KK told me I didn’t have to make the journey alone. Managing a grumble of pugs is not easy alone. (The term “grumble” comes from what they literally sound like with their little, stubby noses!). And while I admit that it is not easy, I have never been one to back down from a challenge although getting them to sit in their car seats is a post of its own.

I arrived Saturday & brought KK & her husband to the airport for their trip to Ireland Sunday morning. The grumble & I regarded each other warily when I returned without their parents. But after a few mornings of relaxing in the recliner with a blanket & three pugs snoring, they seem to have accepted me as one of their own. (The oldest, Fiona, will literally bark at me if we don’t have “blanket time” after breakfast and/or if the blanket is not draped across my legs just so.)

The Sedona trip is where it hits different. This was supposed to be our getaway. Time alone to reconnect at a spot we fell in love with last year. I considered not going – we had booked the same room we were in last year & did I really want to bring all that back up? In a moment of bravery I kept the reservation & dropped the grumble at doggie daycare (see above about them sitting in their car seats) then drove the 140 miles to Sedona through treacherous mountain passes, stopping at one of the sketchiest places on earth for a break (noted for the ride home).

Checking in, the front desk asked if the other party would be joining me later. Recalling that we had made the reservation for two adults, I stammered through explaining that I would be on my own for this trip.

Once upstairs in my room, I sat, not sure what to do with myself. A thunderstorm rolled through making everything feel fresh & when it was over, I decided to venture out on my own. Instead of licking my wounds & feeling sorry for myself, I went to a few shops & found a gluten free Italian place for dinner. (If anyone inquired about why I was eating alone, my back story was that my family had been murdered & I had tracked the killer to Sedona. No one inquired. )

I spent the rest of the time exploring the beautiful landscape, shops, restaurants, & wineries that make up Sedona. I looked up homes for sale & while that’s not a thing I can do now, decided that I will someday own a home amongst the red rocks. I ate breakfast on the beautiful deck of the Inn I was at & wrote by the riverside.

Because in the end, no one’s coming for me. No one is coming to save me. I have to do it myself. I have to do it alone. I have to do it unsure & awkward, with shoulders back & head held high like I have a clue. Pushing aside the insecurity, the worry, the wondering if I’m good enough. Because, relationship or not, I’m the only one with my best interests at heart. If I don’t do it for myself, no one will.

So do it scared. Do it alone. Do it with no idea what the outcome will be but just because it’s something you’ve always wanted to do. Do it regardless of who tells you that you can’t, that you shouldn’t, “What will people say?”

Fuck ’em. You’re on your own, kid. You always have been.

You Don’t Know What You’ve Got ‘Til It’s Gone

“They paved paradise – put up a parking lot” so the song goes.

And then one day you realize that “paradise” is just in your head. It’s the story you’ve told yourself of how you think things are. And you’re left standing in a parking lot, your rose colored glasses showing you what you thought was paradise is just concrete & tar.

10 years later, bumps & bruises throughout as I try to fit a square peg into a round hole; trying to convince myself that this parking lot is my paradise. Until one day my rose colored glasses slip off as a series of texts with a “friend from work” is revealed. A pretty, white-toothed, dimpled, toned woman of the same age is the concrete & tar that reveal the actual lack of paradise in my life.

I’ve read this story before & I didn’t like the ending. The “friend from work” became a wife in the prequel. I don’t see why this version of the story should end differently.

Funny thing is, I woke up with a scraped elbow & knee. Like the universe was literally dragging me through the pavement of that parking lot, waking me up.

Eyes wide open, I head to an inn on the coast of Maine. I let the sand & sea permeate me until they become my paradise. Ironic that I have to cross through a parking lot to get to the beach. But my room overlooks the harbor & the smell of sea air revives me for a day. My dad sends a bottle of Prosecco to salve my wounds & I talk to my sister for 2 hours & both of those things act as a jackhammer to grind up that concrete & tar into something soft & soothing like a beach.

Drifting to sleep on a beach towel, I awake when the tide comes in & flicks at my feet. Here is paradise. Here is peace. I had to walk through the parking lot to get here. But I’m here. And I’m finding paradise on my own.

The End of an Era: The Sequel

I’ve loved your photos. Proud parents beaming alongside their high school senior bedecked in their cap & gown, diploma clutched to their chest. I’ve scanned the faces of these students, looking for a glimpse of the elementary school classmate, the Girl Scout from my troop, the middle school ride or die who spent hours peddling back & forth on bikes between my house & theirs with my Second Kid.

I have felt my heart almost burst from my chest with pride when I received a ticket to the graduation of a child who was so much a part of our lives from ages four to eight until her Navy family was transferred to Virginia. If I could find a way to halt my current responsibilites & make that oh so familiar drive to watch her walk the stage of Kempsville High School in Virginia Beach, I would. I hope she knows our trio is with her in spirit.

My Second Kid graduated high school this year, too. And chose not to walk.

I wasn’t surprised. High school was not the experience they were expecting. Oh, Freshman year started out just fine. Enrolled in the regional technical school, they tried to commit to several shops but ultimately nothing struck them as their “thing.” About November of Sophomore year, they asked to move to the city high school.

This is not an impulsive teenager. Anything they bring for discussion has already been looked at from every angle and considered thoroughly before coming to me with it. We made the arrangements to withdraw from the technical school & enroll in the public high school. It was declared that the rest of Sophomore year would be dedicated to finding their way around the school & reconnecting with the crew from middle school. Junior year… Oh, Junior year is when they would branch out & put their talents to work in theater club, band, track…

Four months later the world ground to a halt.

Having barely figured out where the bathrooms at the new school were located, we were suddenly setting up workstations around the house. 150 feet of cable snaked its way up the stairs into the sunroom so I could connect to my workplace. Dining room, kitchen & bedrooms were set up as workstations depending on the needs of the day.

Then the “Missing Assignments” emails came. Every Friday, we would get the list – two missing assignments… three… six… seven. There was much wailing & gnashing of teeth. And after two years of frustration, tears, cajoling, & fighting, I gave up the fight. We both gave up the fight. This smart, beautiful, talented child of mine just Did. Not. Give. A. Shit about trying to navigate high school through the 12 inch screen of a Chromebook.

Senior year came & school was back in person. (Oh my god, we’re back again! If you didn’t sing that, we can’t be friends.) Senior year limped along with its cafeteria fights, lockdowns, Principals who stood in the halls yelling, “Move with purpose, scholars!” There were texts sent from the guidance office begging me to come get them & bring them home. Being startled awake at 5 am & recognizing that look on my kid’s face that said there was no way they were going to school that day. Helen at the front office got to know me well & we started to refer to it as being “released” – like prison – instead of “dismissed.”

I tried to trust that senior year wouldn’t have to be repeated. I tried not to interfere, telling myself that if my kid failed it wasn’t the end of the world. I naively thought it would all finally end with that Friday night at the stadium, clutching umbrellas as rain threatened, watching our scholar cross the stage.

But they chose not to walk. They chose not to “move with purpose” across the stage & shake the hand of the principal.

It’s a little strange, not having this parent moment of high school graduation. Seeing all the photos of friends & their graduates tugged at me. But I have learned the most valuable of lessons. I’ve learned not to second guess their decisions.

I have learned to let them fly.

The diploma was picked up three days after the ceremony. And they begrudgingly agreed to a family cookout after several complaints by grand parents.

I don’t have photos of us together, bedecked in their cap & gown. And I don’t know what’s next for my former scholar.

But I know they’re forging their own path.

I know they’ll be okay.

Instead I Live

The Boy belongs to a theater group that is part of the music school where he takes drum & piano lessons. Not only do they stage standard musicals, Shakespeare & other dramatic pieces, but the lovely, talented & effervescent theater director, Amanda, spends a lot of time helping this group find their own voices. Last year, she challenged them to learn about issues facing their community including homelessness, LGBTQ issues & mental illness. Each member chose a topic meaningful to them & wrote a scene about it.

The Boy wrote a short monologue called “Two Birds, One Sidewalk” about a teenage boy wrestling with his parents’ divorce which leads him to having intrusive thoughts of never being good enough & wanting to kill himself.

Ouch.

Ouch for me because… well I guess I deserve that. But really ouch for him. Ouch for the idea that my beautiful, talented, funny, incredibly intelligent son could entertain the idea that he didn’t want to exist in this world. Ouch because less than a year later, he would stop entertaining the idea & instead take that idea out for an intimate excursion.

It’s been a long six months full of referrals, doctors, psychologists & medications. During this time, The Boy has discovered avant garde rocker, jazzer, uncategorizable artist Will Wood whose music has helped get him through. On Suicide Prevention Day, Will posted the following:

“My mind tells me I’m hopeless, that I’ll never find a way to be okay. It tells me to give up. Instead I press on.

My mind tells me I’m too weird to connect with anyone, too unrelatable & inherently bizarre. I tells me to give up. Instead I love.

My mind tells me the brightness of my future can’t overcome the darkness of my past. It says give up. Instead I recover.

Suicide tells me to give up. Instead I live.”

Instead he lives. Instead I live.

If you or a loved one, or a liked one, or even a barely tolerated one, are in distress or needs emotional support or crisis intervention, please call 1-800-273-TALK or chat online at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

It’s okay to not be okay.

Another Virus Blog… or How We All Just Need to Chill

I read a post today by a mom who was feeling bad for her high school senior. This virus has robbed her daughter of the senior year traditions we all take for granted like prom & graduation or maybe even their last high school baseball game or theater production. Another woman commented, “That’s nothing. She’s a kid. She’ll get over it. My son had to cancel his entire wedding.”

Someone else posts about how they’re tired of being home & miss their friends & family. They are quickly vilified by someone who works retail & can’t work from home. 

Back up the bus. 

Does it suck that someone’s son had to cancel his wedding? Sure does. Does it suck that high school seniors are missing their last days & all of those capstone moments that make up senior year? Absolutely. 

As a former retail manager, I feel for every store team member, healthcare worker & delivery person on the front lines. But why does that take away from anyone else’s frustration at being at home?

Listen up, folks: It’s not a competition. 

We all get to have our “bad.”

Once again, for the people in the back – We. All. Get. To. Have. Our. Bad.

It takes nothing away from your son’s disappointment & sadness about his wedding if you acknowledge the daughter’s disappointment & sadness about not being able to perform that last play, or dance at prom with her friends. 

The retail worker & the person working from home & staring at the same four walls every day are each allowed to feel frustrated & angry & fearful right now. 

Even if this weren’t our world today, even when things are “normal,” we all still get to have our bad.

The woman with the toned thighs & amazing abs should get to have days where she feels fat without hearing, “Oh, please! You have nothing to worry about.”

The guy with the terrific head of hair should be able to have a bad hair day without hearing, “You’re lucky you have hair! I have to shave my head because I’m going bald.”

We all get to have our bad. Because what’s bad for one of us may be a walk in the park for someone else. We haven’t lived each other’s lives. 

Shortly after I finished radiation, I was talking with someone who had broken a nail & was frustrated & complaining about it. After she walked away, someone else we know who had also come through the other side of breast cancer, looked at me, rolled her eyes & said, “Oh please… she just broke a nail. We’re battling breast cancer.” Well, first of all, my battle’s over. I won. And second, she gets to be upset about her broken nail without it in any way detracting from what we experienced dealing with tatas that were trying to kill us.

When did we get to the point that everything is some type of competition? Your broken nail takes nothing away from my breast cancer. Feel that broken nail like it’s the saddest thing that will ever happen to you. And I hope it is. 

Conversely, we all get to have our good, too. 

You get to brag on your kid who was accepted to an Ivy League university. It takes nothing away from the pride I feel in my kid who struggled through high school & is now thriving at a community college while she figures out her next move. And I will cheer on your kid & their amazing achievement all day.

You get to have the big house & the great car & be proud of that because you worked your ass off for it. I cheer for you & take pride in the home I have because it’s mine. And I worked damn hard for it too. 

Right now the world’s turned upside down (cue “Hamilton”). We’re all dealing with it the best we can – even if it means that we feel like we’re falling apart sometimes. Let’s have a little grace & kindness for one another. Let’s acknowledge that we will all respond differently to the same situation. 

Right now, maybe more than ever, let’s not discount what we’re feeling. We can give our love & gratitude to everyone who is on the frontlines & exposed to this threat daily. And we can do that without belittling what WE’RE feeling. No more “I can’t complain. I’m not facing sick people every day.” You CAN complain. You CAN acknowledge that you’re feeling scared & lonely & confused. 

And you can feel that way while cheering on someone else. 

Lean into those feelings. And maybe, more importantly, let everyone around you lean into theirs. 

Because the only way to get to the other side of this is to go through it.

Where Were You When…?

The Girl has always worn her heart on her sleeve.

September 11, 2001 – The Girl was 8 months old & laying on her playmat in the living room. I was never a big TV watcher so I had the radio on. The Husband called which he never did in the morning. “A plane crashed into the World Trade Center,” he said. “Turn on the TV.” As the daughter of an Air Traffic Controller, I assumed someone at the New York center was about to lose their job. 

I’m still on the phone with The Husband at 9:03 am. We’re both watching the news – me from home, him at work. I watch as a plane banks & heads directly for the South Tower. I’m yelling that they need to pull up or move right, unable to comprehend what I’m watching. The Husband is calmly trying to explain the reality of the moment to my completely naive mind. “It’s a terror attack,” he says simply. We stay on the phone for a few more minutes as people start to jump out of the North Tower. I’m yelling again, “Why are they jumping?! Just go the roof! Help is coming!” The naivete is strong in this one. I – along with the rest of the nation – am completely unaware that within a matter of hours 343 firefighters, 60 police officers & 8 paramedics will be gone along with 2,606 civilians.

The Girl was an oblivious 8 months old. But a friend was visiting that day with her 3 year old.  “Turn off the TV,” she said. “We’ll have to turn on the radio. I don’t want him watching this.”

The Girl doesn’t remember it first hand. My friend’s son probably doesn’t, either. It’s a history lesson to them. In the days following 9/11 this country was unified like it’s never been before. We were all about ending this faceless enemy who was out to destroy the ideals of America. And we know we’ll never forget, much like our parents will never forget where they were when JFK was shot. We lament that the next generation doesn’t appreciate the horror of that day.

Because the next generation is facing their own horror. We worried about a faceless, nameless enemy. My kids worry about the intimacy of one of their classmates opening fire while looking them in the eye. And instead of uniting the country like it did after 9/11, we are now getting torn apart by the debate about gun control & access to mental health.

I am not trying to discount the evil & horror we all faced on 9/11. Hell, a dear friend was working across the street from the World Trade Center at the time & had to walk miles home to his apartment in New Jersey. He emailed me late that night to say that he was ok & that he didn’t want to talk about it. And while he didn’t die within those first few hours, he was nevertheless a victim of 9/11 when he died 13 years later – never recovering from the horror he witnessed on that day he didn’t want to talk about.

Our evil was remote in a way. “It’s over there.” It’s the unseen enemy. We have military who will deal with that. Our kids’ enemy sits behind him in math or in front of him at the concert, or next to him at his after-school job.

It’s personal for them. This is the age they grew up in. They don’t remember planes crashing into buildings. They don’t remember the days & weeks that followed searching for any possible survivors. What they do remember is a high school like theirs in Parkland, Florida. A club they would go to with their friends like Pulse in Orlando. The Wal-Mart they shop or work at like the one in El Paso, Texas. There is no searching for survivors. The kind of massacre they are used to is intimate & immediate.

We will never forget. I will never forget the dreams I had in the weeks that followed 9/11 of having to escape some danger I couldn’t define with my baby girl. I will never forget my nephew panicking during the ride into Boston to see the circus because he was so afraid a plane would hit it. 

But we can’t begrudge a generation their form of terror. Just like we can’t know what it was like when JFK was shot, our kids can’t comprehend the terror we watched unfold 18 years ago. 

My kids don’t entirely understand when their teacher or their mom gets emotional talking about today. I can only pray that their kids – my grandkids – won’t understand the horror of a mass shooting. I can only pray that they won’t have something worse to face. 

The End of an Era

Last week it all ended. High school is a thing of the past for The Girl. In a mercifully concise 1 hour & 26 minute ceremony, she & 315 of her closest friends walked across a stage set up on the school football field & accepted their proverbial “Get Out of Jail Free” cards.

The week leading up to that day was a flurry of prom, visitors & enough family togetherness to last me until The Boy’s graduation in three years.

And then it was over. And all was quiet.

The Boy still has a couple of weeks to finish up his freshman year & I will admit it’s strange to get him out the door on his own although it was just a year ago that they were in separate schools with different start times. But memory fades & it seems like they have always made that 7 am walk to the bus together.

It was bittersweet for The Girl. While she was happy to have made it, tears were shed on the way home. “I’ll miss everyone,” she said simply.

And now she’s on to new things. She’ll still be at home. She’s not entirely sure what path she’s heading down, so she’s opted to attend the local community college (my bank account thanks her). She also signed up for a summer EMT course which surprised (and impressed!) all of us.

Meanwhile, I follow a page on Facebook catering to the parents of teenagers – particularly those who are moving on to new ventures. I have read post after post about the sadness that comes when your kids start moving on with their lives & away from yours.

Only I’m not sad.

Isn’t this what we’ve worked for? Wasn’t this our goal? To raise our kids so that they could stand on their own. For their entire lives, The Kids have heard me say that my job is to make sure they are able to live on their own. And while their laundry & cooking skills could still use some honing, they’re getting there. More & more they are independent of me. As The Girl works on getting her drivers license at the same time she’s getting her EMT license, The Boy spends time out with friends. Which leaves me time to do the things I want.

We still connect during the week. There are still dinners & game nights & movie nights & honestly, I’m still surprised every time I suggest doing something & they say yes. But do I expect them to always be available to hang out with me? Absolutely not.

This was my goal. This is what my parenting was about. To get them to a point where they can be their own person.

I remember a parent/teacher conference with The Girl’s History teacher in her freshman year. As we waited in line to see this particular teacher, there was a form we were supposed to fill out about our child. The first question was “Do you check your child’s homework every night?” I wrote, “No” (probably in Burt’s Bees “Hibiscus” colored lip balm because I can never find a pen). When it was our turn to talk to the teacher, she noted my answer.

“So you don’t check her homework?” she asked, one eyebrow raised askance.

“I do not. She is 15 years old. She’s perfectly capable of knowing what her assignments are & getting them done,” was my reply, slightly appalled that this was even a question at the high school level. When she’s 30, am I supposed to call & ask if she did the work her boss gave her? Am I supposed to ask if she’s paid her bills or fed her pets or put gas in her car?

I love my kids. I want the best for them. But I also want the best for my life. And I have plans for my future as well. Does that make me a bad mom? Maybe. Do I care? Not in the least.

When I had them, it was with the understanding that I would do everything in my power to keep them safe. And it was with the understanding that I would love them unconditionally.

But it was also with the understanding that they would someday be their own person. That they would be on their own & lead their own lives & not be present in my life every day.

“Oh, they’ll always need their moms,” say some.

Maybe. But it’s okay if they don’t.

It means I’ve done my job.

You Down with MDD?

Yeah, you know me!

It’s like walking through high tide toward the shore. Everything drags. Nothing moves quickly or gracefully. Wind rushes through your ears. Only it’s not wind. It’s the perpetual thoughts running through your brain that never stop. Sometimes it’s song lyrics. Sometimes it’s a constant to do list. Often it’s a list of ways that I’ve failed.

It’s depression. Technically Major Depressive Disorder, or MDD.

Not a bad day. Not “the blues.” Not just “feeling down.” Full blown, crippling, clinical depression. When the bootstraps you’ve been pulling yourself up by finally snap.

But no one talks about it. It’s uncomfortable & awkward. “Why can’t they just cheer up or think happy thoughts?” (My goodness, why didn’t I think of that!?)

When the chemicals in my left breast decided to gang up on me & form a cancerous tumor, I wrote about it. Friends & family rallied & sent cards & casseroles. They helped clean my yard & took my kids places so I could rest during treatment.

Now the chemicals in my brain have decided to rage against my machine & I hesitate to tell anyone. Why? Is it not the same thing? Why can I tell people about cancerous chemicals in my boob & have them support me & help me heal but if it’s chemicals in my brain that aren’t working correctly, well, clutch my pearls, we don’t talk about that.

It’s a chemical imbalance. Just like cancer. Something in my body isn’t working right. I need medication & treatment to fix it. Whether it’s my left boob or my frontal cortex should make no difference.

Listen, people, we’ve all heard the discussions about mental health in this country. How many mass shootings have had in their wake a conversation about access to mental health care. “Everyone knew the shooter was unstable. Maybe he should have gotten some help.”

But how do you ask for help when No. One. Talks. About. It.

So I’m trying to talk about it. Because maybe if everyone starts talking about their struggles with depression, anxiety & mental illness – whether theirs or a loved ones, it will stop being such a taboo subject.

I don’t know what reaction I’ll get from friends, family & colleagues by writing this. There are those around me who will wonder why I never mentioned it to them. Honestly, it’s just recently that I’ve realized there’s a problem. Two teenagers – one of them graduating high school in 8 weeks; a large old home that is amazing but way too big with way too many things that need fixing; a job in an industry that someone recently described as “relentless” & well… “I’m not depressed,” I tell myself. “I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

But then everything started folding around me. I can see the piles of laundry. I just can’t move to do them. I can see the dirty bathroom sink. I just can’t seem to do anything about it – except yell at The Kids to stop spitting their toothpaste directly onto the mirror. (Seriously, how does that even happen?) I crawl into bed at 9 pm hoping that a good night’s sleep will help.

And it does. A little.

Until it doesn’t.

Until the day I wake up & wish I hadn’t.

That morning, I somehow got The Kids out the door & got into the shower. There was a litany of crap screaming in my brain. Non stop, exhausting crap that I couldn’t shut off, couldn’t quiet. And I couldn’t stop crying.

That’s when I knew I needed help. The past few months have been up & down but I always thought it was the normal up & down of a something-aged woman with two teenagers, a boyfriend, a large house & a demanding job. But it wasn’t just that. I’m grateful that I had the presence of mind to call my doctor & felt the panic rise when I was told she wasn’t in. Thankfully another physician at her office was able to see me. And the little doctor with the polka dot glasses was a life saver.

I’ve been down this road before. I was successfully treated for depression in the past. Looking back I seem to have a 7-8 year cycle of depression & not depression so I’m no stranger to this. But I’m surprised every time at how long it takes me to realize what’s happening. And if it takes me this long after having dealt with it before, how much scarier is it for someone who knows something isn’t right but doesn’t know where to start to fix it.

Let’s talk about this people. I know I’m not the only one.

Signs & symptoms of depression include:

• Mood: anxiety, apathy, general discontent, guilt, hopelessness, loss of interest, loss of interest or pleasure in activities, mood swings, or sadness
• Sleep: early awakening, excess sleepiness, insomnia, or restless sleep
• Whole body: excessive hunger, fatigue, loss of appetite, or restlessness
• Behavioral: agitation, excessive crying, irritability, or social isolation
• Cognitive: lack of concentration, slowness in activity, or thoughts of suicide
• Weight: weight gain or weight loss
• Also common: poor appetite or repeatedly going over thoughts

If you or a loved one show signs of depression or any mental health issue & you don’t know where to turn, start with your doctor. If there is an imminent emergency, call 911 or go to your nearest emergency room.

Other resources include:

• National Helpline for treatment options: 800-662-HELP
• Suicide Hotline: 800-273-TALK

Evil Creeps Closer

The phone rang with the number of The Kids’ school. At the same time, texts start coming in from The Girl. She left for school that morning feeling less that 100% so I assumed it was a call from the nurse & rejected the school phone call while finishing up a phone call with a client.

When I finally looked at my phone I felt the color drain from my face.

“We’re in a shelter in place” read The Girl’s text.

Cursing myself for not answering the call from the school, I fought the urge to drive there knowing that whatever was happening, the last thing the school staff needed was a group of anxious parents getting in the way.

I’m sure every parent from Parkland or Columbine… every loved one from The Pulse in Orlando or The Borderline in Thousand Oaks, CA… thought it couldn’t possibly happen in their world. We all think that. We all desperately want to believe that. Whenever there was a lag in The Girl’s texts, I wondered. Just like all of those other families.

Just 6 days ago, last Wednesday, a threat to The Kids’ school was found in a bathroom. It was deemed “not credible” & extra police were on hand for the last two days of the week. The Kids were with their dad that night & we discussed via text whether or not he should keep them home like they wanted. We decided, as The Ex so eloquently put it, that “we would not be emotionally manipulated by some mouth breather with a crayon.”

Heading back into school on this Monday morning, it seemed like a lifetime ago & we didn’t give it a second thought.

The Girl tells of being in math & having the teacher suddenly go to the door & pull a couple of kids in from the hall, shutting off the lights & locking the door as they rushed into the room. At least she had her phone with her. The Boy was in gym with his Medical Assisting shop which is 99% female. As the girls were ushered into the women’s locker room, he was pushed into the men’s locker room with a group of seniors that had been working out nearby. No phone, no way to communicate, not knowing anyone. He puts on a brave face but when we went to the store tonight, he stuck by my side instead of his usual routine of going off to see what was new for PS4 or XBox games.

My kids are growing up with evil getting closer.

Someone pointed out tonight that it was a good thing they practiced active shooter drills because at least they knew what to do. “It’s like the fire drills & evacuations we used to do in school.”

Only it’s not.

A fire can happen any time, true. But a fire – with rare exception – is not an intentional act of violence. Staring down a fire & trying to get away from it can’t come close to the terror of facing down evil with a gun. In your school. These kids are growing up with a heightened sense of fear for exactly this reason. We wonder why anxiety is rampant among teenagers. We blame mounting academic pressures, the 24/7 culture of social media & the violence of video games. Have we ever considered that it’s because this generation – born during & after 9/11 – have been raised on high alert. They have been raised to know that they are not safe, even in their own schools.

I remember the first time The Boy came home from his new elementary school in 3rd grade & told me about the drill they had. The teacher locked the door & turned off the light & they all crawled into a vent at the back of the classroom & had to sit really still. That same year, their first in public school, The Girl came home & told us about a lock down drill they did in middle school that day. One of the kids said something during the drill & the teacher looked at that kid & said, “Thanks. You just killed us all.”

This is how they have to live now. This is how we all have to live. With evil creeping closer.

I don’t have the answers. I don’t even really know what questions to ask to get to the right answers to end this. I trust my kids’ school. I trust the systems & protections they have put into place. I trust my kids to be smart & alert & to do what they need to. No, I don’t want to be emotionally manipulated by some mouth breather with a crayon. I also don’t want to see evil in my kids’ school or any school. And I feel helpless watching it creep closer.

The evil didn’t get to them today. The school was evacuated & the kids were sent home. The school was swept by bomb squads & dogs & deemed safe so they will be going back tomorrow.

But “safety” is kind of relative now, isn’t it?

It’s Been a Minute

It’s been a minute & I officially now have two high school students. In less than three months, The Girl will graduate high school. Soon after that, The Boy will finish his freshman year.

A few years ago I ruminated on The Girl ending her middle school career (To My Daughter as She Finishes Middle School).

Middle school was very different for The Boy. Other than one “spawn of Satan” as The Boy refers to him (I’m looking at you Jack Toohey), my kids had very different middle school experiences. The Girl struggled through it while The Boy seemed to sail – other than his math grades. Case in point: Their texts from their 8th grade class trip to Washington, DC…

The Girl’s: “Can you come get me?”

The Boy’s: “This place is pretty cool. And some girl broke her knee on the Potomac River cruise so we’re all waiting for the ambulance.”

My cocky, sassy, full of spunk (I hate spunk) boy has turned into this amazing young man who is now cast as Narcissus in a new musical written by one of his music teachers. He’s learned to play drums & piano & has a group of friends who are straight up amazing kids. They all congregate at the library for old school Dungeons & Dragons. And when they have to be at their own homes, they’re usually on line together playing TF2 or Fortnite (or as I unfortunately called it, “Frontline.” I may be turning into my mother).

And they’re TEENAGERS. With a capital TEENAGERS. They have opinions & they’re finding their own voice.

And it’s the best.

A coworker is struggling with her two year old… or twouchebag as I recently heard it referred to. And I remember those days. This particular coworker has one just like The Boy who pushed buttons that I didn’t know existed. I just keep nodding & telling her that it gets better. But much like when the doctors used to get annoyed with me worrying about potty training (“No kid has ever gone to college in diapers!” Bitch, please…. I’m trying to get through preschool!) I’m sure she can’t even see that place right now.

But I can.

And my first born is almost grown & flown.

The Girl isn’t sure what she wants to do when she graduates. Maybe biology. Maybe marine biology. Maybe forensics. Maybe chemistry.

So she’s charted a course for community college to help her figure it out. In my panic, I watched other parents post on Facebook about their kids’ college applications. I made her apply in November only to receive a post card in the mail from the local community college that may as well have said, “Slow your roll. We’re working on the January term. We’ll get back to you about next fall.” And here I was all prepared with my FAFSA.

It’s not the road I thought she would choose. Her focus at the technical high school was graphics. But according to her, she loves art & doesn’t want to do it for a living or she would hate it (sort of how I felt about working at Target). That’s pretty mature. I also expected her to choose a small, private, four year college. We toured a couple… okay, one… and I thought it would be a good fit for her. But she is my level-headed one. She knows enough to know that she doesn’t really know what she wants. You know?

I guess my point is that every kid finds their way eventually. I watch my friends post about their kids’ college acceptance letters & cheer them on. And I know that they’re cheering on The Girl as she embarks on her path to figure out what she wants.

The Boy recently had to choose his shop at the same tech high school that The Girl is graduating from. He chose Medical Assisting. And much like his sister, it’s not the road I thought he would choose. But he’s got three more years to figure it out before graduation.

And at the risk of sounding cliche’, it’s not the destination. It’s the journey.

And this is a great journey.

Stay tuned. I can’t wait to see what happens next.