Our Hangout Stories--Part One. (Edited.)

                    

At various times throughout my life, I am reminded of a scene with Val Kilmer (playing Jim Morrison) in the movie, The Doors.  In the scene, Jim is surveying his surroundings, taking it all in and marveling at it all, (I think he's at a birthday party--but I could be wrong) and is heard to say:  "This is the strangest life I've ever lived."

                                            
This has always stuck with me.  And I've found myself embracing this exact same sentiment more times than I can count.  So I will openly admit that this same sentiment crossed my mind more than once during our 3-day, hiking, sunbathing (or sun-"scorching," depending on whom you ask), good-vibe, Brazilian Carnivale'-ish atmosphere that WAS our first Hangout Fest.  And it was jam-packed with every conceivable persuasion of person:  Guys dressed like Super Heroes, girls in bikinis with their bodies painted in every beautiful and imagineable color. . .  Girls in tutus, girls in knee-length fur boots, girls in bikinis that appeared to have very personal-seeming, dancing relationships with their oversized hula-hoops.  --("GET A ROOM, HIPPIE CHICK!!!")-- 
". . . It's not just a hoop, man.  It's like. . . it's like an extension of ME, ya know?"  (I DID NOT know.  Not even remotely.  What I did know, however, was that she was pretty obviously on mushrooms, and was probably going to feel pretty gross in about an hour or so.  Just saying.  Now it would appear that I have become the Festival Mom: Been there, done that, and now feel it's my duty to protect the younger generation from themselves.  Also?  That was an actual quote, ya'll.)
And it is ALL I can do to NOT place a smiley face at the end of that last sentence.  

(. . . So I'll just do it here.  =)

And, in any place OTHER than a music festival, you would probably be inclined to stare, glare, snicker, or disdain.  Or, at the very least, believe that each and every one of these people were quite obviously QUITE mad.  (And yes, they are.  You kind of HAVE to be, in order to actually GO to a music festival.)  But the music draws us, all these different brands of weirdos, and in the beat of the drums and the squeal of the guitar. . . we all find each other.  And we all rediscover that we really AREN'T all that different after all.

But I've been chasing rabbits.  This blog DOES have a point. 
Somewhere. . .

Michael and I loaded the car and went down early that Wednesday morning.  (We got to eat sausage biscuits in the car!!!  I was THRILLED.  Not sure why, but for my entire life, eating sausage biscuits in the car has always been the very personification of giddy joy and luxury.  Not to oversell it, but it was awesome.) 

We got there in time to have two full days on the beach!! ---just the two of us!! =)  . . . So we parked our respective heinies in his and hers beach chairs and/or towels,

took shade under the umbrella when needed, revelled in the not-quite-drowned-out-by-the-ocean (and quite AWESOME) playlist that Michael had been kind enough to prepare for us,

listened to the sea, the sand, the surf, the music, the world!  And to add the icing on the cake, my husband was there, enjoying it all with me, not three feet away.  =)

                   And NOT to mention!!! 

                 --People Watching--!! 

Dark-lensed sunglasses were a prerequisite, and were firmly fixed to my face the entire trip,

                 

 in an attempt to deceive other beach-goers into believing that I was NOT, in fact, watching THEM.   . . . "WHAT??  You think you're the ONLY one with a hot body on this beach?!?  Maybe I was simply taking in the majestic scenery!  Maybe I was enjoying a private moment of personal reflection!!!  Did you ever think of THAT?!?  Huh??  Did ya?!?  Huh????"  (But by the way, in the interest of honesty, and because I believe very deeply that truthiness really is the best policy (when applicable), then yeah.  I was totally checking you out.  And, with surprisingly little hesitation, I would gladly kill you if it meant that I could possess a stomach  that flat.  Nothing personal, mind you.  Just business.

Did I just say that?  I take it back.  (Frankly, I'm ashamed of myself.)  How do I know that you aren't currently training for the Olympics, and subsisting on 215 meager calories a day?  Who am I to judge you?!  Really?  You rock that Olympian body girl!!  . . .So what if you never get your period again?  Those things are WAY overrated in my opinion anyway.  You know how the old saying goes:  "People would gladly kill you for a stomach that flat."  I *think* that's how it goes. . .  I forget.  (But I'm pretty sure it's a famous quote, and was probably written by some wry and witty genius.  PRETTY sure.)  Lesson:  Flat stomachs are DANGEROUS.  Life's funny that way. . .

Michael and I came to Hangout Music Festival for the first time in May, 2010.  (Posing on the Hangout Chair was pretty awesome, and pretty much required, and pretty much has the makings of a family tradition.)
                   

This was the first year of the festival, and every music-lover across several states had their fingers crossed that this would become a yearly occurrence.  A music festival?!  In Alabama?!?  As in, only a 4 hour drive from our FRONT DOOR?!?!?

                                     
(*Four hour drives are tougher on some of us than others.*)

At the BEACH??  What's NOT to like?  =)

. . . Except for maybe that Gulf Oil Spill, that had happened only one month earlier.  But, if the promoters were worried about it causing turnout to dwindle, they have a LOT to learn about music lovers.  We don't just NOT GO to a festival.  We camp out in the rain, we get filthy, we play in the mud, we survive Nor-Easters from the quite-flimsy safety of a QUITE flimsy tent, we turn over ankles, we sweat, we dress like we were at Carnivale' in Brazil, and we pay WAY too much for Maui Wowies. 
                       
But we GO.  Because the rain, the crowds, the heat---THEY DON'T MATTER.  We only came for the music.  It is our release, and it is our way.

And by God, we are better for it.

But the reaction to the spill, particularly it being as new, and as worrisome, as it was, was, and this is no exaggeration:  insane.  News organizations were set up on practically every corner doing interviews, requesting sound-bites from all the dirty, bleeding-heart hippies, donations were being taken up, and random kids were wandering around with signs that proudly, AND angrily proclaimed:  "CLEAN IT UP!!"

In addition, the weather got rather angry on the second day, and intermittently on other days as well, but Michael and I grabbed a couple of ponchos, parked out butts on the soggy wet beach, and refused to let it ruin our good time  =)

  (*Me.  Being a trooper.  And waiting for Keller.*)

As evidence of such, here I am in my ever-so-attractive poncho, heading BACK out into the POURING RAIN, to see yet ANOTHER show!  (Michael says I look like The Happiest Hazmat Worker in this pic.  I tell him that that sounds like the title of a Disney Movie.)

(Note to self:  Remember to pitch this idea to Disney.  Don't settle for less than billions.)

             

 

Sadly, by the time we got back and found a spot on the beach, the rain had turned into a DELUGE.  But Keller Williams TRIED, bless his heart, standing at the very back of the stage, so as not to get drenched.  And every so often he bounced up and down so that we could see him over all the equipment that was now covered in tarps.  And, above the sound of the thunder, we got to hear him play this (which we thought was VERY appropriate):

Anyhoo. . . the official festival didn't kick off until early Friday morning, but we managed to get tickets to a late-night Thursday show of Keller Williams doing his (experimental) 'electronica' show.  And we got to see this show INSIDE the actual Hangout!  It's a restaurant/bar/venue, and has the MOST enormous ceiling fan that I have EVER seen, turning overhead.  And we needed it!  I was hot as hell, people were crammed ass-to-elbows, but, as is the way with most festival-goers, nobody got out of sorts, wanted to start a fight, or got miffed when his girlfriend's butt bumped into someone else.  (We festival people are a fairly mellow bunch.)  But wait. . . did I mention?  WE got to see Keller Williams INSIDE the Hangout!!!  HE was awesome, IT was awesome, and Matisyahu even joined him onstage for a few songs!!  Here's some video that Michael took from the show:

    Me.  Around 2 a.m., after the Keller and  Matisyahu show.  Exhausted, ears-ringing, but SO VERY HAPPY =)

 

So, when we WEREN'T catching live music, we just ate lots of Buffalo Wings, soaked up LOTS of sun, frolicked in the ocean (in all fairness, *I* was the only one frolicking.  Michael merely 'dipped'.  I shook my head sadly at him.  *sigh*  What a waste of a perfectly good ocean-frolicking opportunity!!), spent time JUST THE TWO OF US, and got to leisurely sit on the beach and enjoy the musical stylings of the Black Crowes, and . . .

(*insert drumroll here*)

WE GOT TO SEE OK Go!!!!!!!  One of our FAVORITE bands at the time!!!!  (And they do still, in fact, rock!)

We were THIS CLOSE to the stage, ya'll!!  And if I had had an extra pair of (clean) panties . . . well, *I would've thrown them.*  It's not something I'm proud of. . . but it's not something I will deny, either.  Michael would probably not be highly enthusiastic about this "tossable clean panty idea," but really, he is just SO unsupportive sometimes. . .  Besides, I COULD throw something else!  Like chocolate bars!  Everybody likes those, right?  But then maybe later OK Go gets back to their bus and they're all, "Who threw the chocolate bar?  Don't they know I'm allergic??   Does NO ONE read my blog?!?!?!!"

And all this could easily be avoided with one simple pair of clean (preferably cotton), pair of panties.  Cotton, NATURALLY.  I mean, come ON!  . . .I don't want them to think I'm a slut or something.  =) 



Nothing to see here. . .

I don't have anything interesting to report today, so if you're looking for interesting---you've got the wrong blog post.  I'm just trying to keep my hand at writing, so that I don't become absolutely inept, in the unlikely event that I am somehow struck mute one day and am only able to communicate through blogs.  And possibly tiny little hand-held chalkboards.  But only people that are actually in the same room with me at the time will be able to read the gems I spew on my little chalkboard, so I have come to view the blog as infinitely more efficient.  Also--less dust.

So.  What is going on in my world this morning. . .

I've got nothing.

Devin is still here with us, as he has been for almost a week.  I will be the first to admit:  it has been a trying week for me.  NOT that Devin has done anything wrong.  Oh, no.  Actually, he has been more or less well-behaved for the larger part of this week.  The weight of the 'trying' part rests solely on my shoulders, with the real issue being that, aside from Christmas and summer visits (which are generally longer), and random long-weekends here and there, I am not used to having a five year-old in the house.  To the uninitiated, this may sound like a complete non-issue.  But to people who have actually spent TIME with five year-olds. . . they get it.

For example:  Did you know that five year-olds have NO internal monologue?

Totally true.

(I can only assume that this holds true for ALL five year-olds.  Except for the ones with chalkboards.  Then I can only IMAGINE all the dust that must surround them.)

But for OUR five year-old, no chalkboards or internal monologues exist.  EVERY single thought that wings through his five year-old noggin is immediately verbalized.

And he thinks a LOT.

About EVERYTHING.

And tells you about it.

Without.  Cease.

So, as you can see, it is not really an issue with the CHILD, so much as it is an issue with ME not being used to having a mini-human sized talk-radio program turned on full-blast all day long and following me around and arguing with everything I say. 

So I try to be patient.

I count to ten a lot.

Sometimes I count to thirty.

And Tylenol is my very good friend.

But most of the time, I just feel really guilty.  Because I don't want to be a hard-ass.  I LOVE this kid.  I think he's AWESOME.  I want him to ENJOY his time at our house.  But at the same time, and I've thought a LOT about this, it is my responsibility to teach him certain things.  If I DON'T---I'm just being lazy.

So we have certain rules at our house.  And I don't think they are extreme, or too hard to understand.

Don't jump on the furniture.

Don't play on the stairs.  (Poor kid is only slightly more coordinated than I am.  I have an enormous fear of sending him back to his mother with a concussion.)

Don't scream at the top of your lungs.

Don't play baseball in the house.  (This one is really just so the inside of our house remains intact, and we don't have to replace the majority of our belongings.  Still, some days it just feels selfish.)

Don't repeat "I'm sexy and I know it" twelve times in a row.  (This one is because I don't feel that 'sexy' is something that a kid his age should be saying.  And also because I don't want to have to explain to his teacher why Devin feels that he is so much sexier than the other children in his kindergarden class.  Again---selfish.)

So as you can see, there really aren't that many rules to adhere to.  But for some reason, every time he comes over, it's like he has completely forgotten ALL of them.  Probably because no such rules exist at his house.  (Probably because his mother has no such compulsions about keeping her furniture intact.  Probably because she's just not as selfish as I am.  I'm probably just a really bad person and should not be put in charge of small children.)

Even as I write this, Nolan is eating the tiny rocks out of the fireplace.  I feel certain that they couldn't possibly be nutritious.

THOSE ARE JUST FOR DECORATION, NOLAN!!!

So what I'm trying to say, is that I have had a headache for the last 5 days.

And it was really only aggravated by getting pegged in the forehead with the laundry room door two days ago ("I'm sorry I hit you in the head with the door, Dani."  "I am too, Devin."), and being head-butted by the baby when he was in a sleep-stupor and really just wanted to be put to bed.

My fault for not being as sensitive to his needs as I should be.

Guess I'll just have to try harder.

Also, in a complete non-sequitur, my husband (who is both adored, and usually more adept at sizing up my mood) finally coaxed me into watching The Notebook last night.

I would like to preface this by saying that I cannot watch Bambi, Dumbo, Pinnochio, those Sarah MacLaughlin commercials, or any movie/commercial/internet meme about childhood bullying, without being disturbed for DAYS on end.  Those 'feed the children' commercials destroy me.  My mental state is fragile at best.  Understand?

So I thought my husband understood this about me, and I begrudgingly agreed (after FOUR YEARS together) to watch The Notebook with him. 

What I'm saying is that I TRUSTED him to KEEP ME AWAY from movies like The Notebook.

And he completely betrayed me.

We get to the end, I'm bawling, the credits are rolling, and all I can say is:

"What a HORRIBLE MOVIE."

WHY DID YOU MAKE ME WATCH THAT???!??!?

And he's all "But wasn't it a sweet love story?"

And I'm all "Oh, I don't know what was sweeter:  When she couldn't remember the man she loved, when she couldn't remember her LIFE or the children she HAD with him, or when they BOTH DIED AT THE END!"

So I went to sleep last night thinking that I really need to get my ass in gear and write the story of how Michael and I met and fell in love, so that he will have something to read to me to bring me back to him for ROUGHLY FIVE MINUTES when I am 85 years old and diagnosed with dementia.

Some movies just aren't for me.

I should really do something to Michael for putting me through that.

Spiders in his sock drawer SOUNDS extreme, but YOU don't know the GRIEF and personal anxiety that movie caused me.

I'm open to suggestions.

Trying to Evolve

I'm too introspective for my own damned good. 


That's what I've decided to start with today.  I have always been this way, to the best of my recollection, though sometimes it didn't bother me as bad as others. . .


I guess maybe becoming a parent has helped to increase my levels of anxiety and terror. . .which were already at disturbing levels to begin with.


It's just a changing of roles, really, like any other right of passage. . .  We change roles so many times in our life: from child to teenager, single to married, and now the shift to parent.  I'm not the kid anymore.  I have to TEACH the kid--- and love them, and trust them, and protect them.  And I find it both horrifying, and HIGHLY amusing, that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.  (Because this kind of leads me to believe that my parents had no idea what THEY were doing, either.  . . .and I find that oddly comforting.)


Maybe it's just that I'm being made more aware of my own mortality.
(Feels like being slapped in the face with it, honestly.  Like being slapped in the face with a huge Fish of Impending Doom.  That it is exactly what it is like.)


I have to enjoy this.  I have to figure out the things I need to figure out.  I am running out of time to work on myself---the time to do it is now.  And I have to appreciate everything, because it only happens once.


That is a lot of pressure.


I was speaking with a friend just yesterday about how we both felt that were at points in our life where we felt that we could be completely honest.  With ourselves, AND others. 


One of my very favorite people, Bruce Lee, said that we should be like water.


"Water can flow, and water can crash.  Be like water, my friend."

And if I am completely honest with myself, I HAD become like water. . .


Like water left in an old bucket out behind the garage, forgotten, for months on end.


In a word:  stagnant.


And I am the only one that can change it.


=======


I woke up feeling hopeful today.


---Most days I feel like my brain is trying to kill me.  It's this whole Gollum-esque thing I have going with my brain.  I'm quite used to it.---


Maybe it was the fact that it wasn't 100 degrees outside today, and there was a slight breeze blowing.  Maybe it was the beautiful monarch butterfly that landed on the butterfly bush not three feet from me, and I was the only one who saw.


But whatever it was, I woke up today feeling like a new person.


I got plenty of sleep---that helped considerably. 


So I got the baby up and fed, showered and got dressed.  Put Nolan in a cooler outfit and plopped him in the stroller, pulled up my hair, grabbed my walking shoes and a big gulp of coffee. . .which wouldn't be such a bad idea right now. . . and we were out the door.


Even though we went to Six Flags two days ago, and while I had a great time, my calves were killing me from all the walking around.  I went anyway.  I went the long way around, past the pool, and up into what turned into a circle.  I took the long way around. 


Allow me to amend my earlier statement--  Even though it was not 100 degrees out, it was still HOT.


And I didn't want to do it, and I didn't feel like it, and I did it anyway. 


And that makes me feel really good about me.


So it was a small thing.  Big deal.


So I sloshed roughly 60 - 70% of my big gulp all over the stroller, and had to take a second bath when I got home.  Even though the first thing I did when we got home was walk out back and smoke a cigarette.

Baby steps.


And while I was making good pace, I was doing productive thinking, too. . .


. . . I want to become the absolute best version of myself that I can be. . .  I want to be healthy; for myself AND my family. . .   I want to give Swedish massages to my elephants of anxiety and tension. . .  I want to make it back to my damn door!


But I don't want to lose ALL of my madness. 


I'm attempting a very precarious balance, here . . . one I feel that Tim Burton is probably a master of, but I've never met him, so I can't say for sure.


I still want to draw faeries, and I still want to dance in the woods, and I still want to laugh uncontrollably, and I still want to revel in music. . .  And I really just want to be able to live long enough to learn how to love.


How to love CORRECTLY, and without measure.

So.

This is me.

Just trying to evolve.

I guess that's all for today.  A bit all over the place, even for me.

Oh---One of my favorite quotes:

"We're only given a bit of madness--we mustn't waste it."  ---Robin Williams

Vacations, Forsaken Babies, and The Weepies

(Another letter for my son.  From your Future-Mom)

I'm sure that one day Nolan is going to grow weary of my pearls of wisdom, gentle nagging, and general lessons from my years of experience at trying to be a person.  But for now, he has yet to show a strong grasp of the English language, and so I am forced to write down whatever it is that I someday wish to impart to him. 

First off, let me say that it is not my intention to be self-involved and whiny.  But most writing IS self-involved.  And for me, at least, it is a way of expunging fungus-y thoughts from my brain.  Like a good cry---you just feel better afterward.  So with that disclaimer in place:  It is no secret in our house that I appear to have been an emotional wreck, of late.

I don't deny it.  But it has been driving me crazy trying to figure out why.

. . . We have had deaths in the family in the past weeks, and I know that weighs on the minds and hearts of many in our family.  There are sicknesses, and there are deaths.  I believe it was Kermit the Frog that said that "In this life, there are meetings . . . and partings.  That is the way of it."  (He says it when Tiny Tim dies.)  It was from A Muppet Christmas Carol, which is one of my favorite movies ever. 

And, just because I have been on a huge Jim Henson kick today (---Seriously.  I've been watching my favorite songs on youtube, and scenes from his memorial, and crying.  Like I told you---currently a nutcase.---), here is one of my favorite songs from that movie.  Every Christmas I sing this song while I'm putting up decorations.  And sometimes on birthdays.

. . . and sometimes in the bath. . .

(It's a good song.)



But once again, as I am wont to do, I am getting off-subject.

In a few days, Michael and I are going on vacation for the first time in 2 years.  It is also going to be the first time I have ever left you for this long, and I am scared.  (You are staying with your grandmother, and I know you are in good hands.  I know you will be safe.  I know that this is a common reaction.  But knowing that doesn't make it any easier to deal with.)  So what I'm saying is that, in addition to having a bad case of 'the weepies,' I have also been a teensy bit over-sensitive, and might have POSSIBLY made an ass of myself last night to your father. . .

POSSIBLY.  Just possibly.

However, when he left for work last night, I was still mad, and utterly and completely convinced that I was in the right.  (*I am not saying now that I was NOT in the right.  There were many grey areas.  Mistakes were made.*)  I was mad.  I hardly ever get mad, but boy, was I mad.  I considered cutting the sleeves off of all his best suits.

Couldn't even eat dinner.

I was just THAT mad.

Then somewhere over the course of the evening, I turned the incident over in my head enough times to see it from a different angle. 

This was a very unfortunate turn of events for me.

Made it practically impossible to hold onto my 'mad.'

Then I remembered how much I love your dad.  Remembered how happy he makes me.  Realized that maybe I should've handled some things differently. . .

Shit.

(You are not allowed to use that word.)

Long story short, I got up with you at breakfast this morning and, since your dad had worked all night, I had to wait for him to wake up, so that I could apologize. 

Shit.

(Again, don't ever say that.  It's a bad word.  I'll try to stop using it.)

He slept until almost 1:00. . . and it was excruciating.  Just waiting.  Telling him I was sorry was the only thing that was going to make me feel better.

(I am all about feeling better.)

So what I want to say to you boils down to this:

There is no dignity in too much pride.

When it comes to relationships, and the person you care about most in the world, it doesn't MATTER who's right.  What matters is that you, and the person sleeping next to you, are happy.

So, if you turn out to be anything at all like me---keep two hands on your tongue.  Don't say things you can't take back.  The fewer lingering things out there that you regret saying, the better you will sleep at night.

There will be instances where you have to decide:  Is this something worth fighting over?  And sometimes, it will be.

But most of the time---it's just not.

So when you can't figure out what to do, just remember:

Nobody's perfect.  You aren't expected to be.  But don't expect the other person to be, either.

Let logic dictate.

Let love guide.

. . .

Let us hope your grandmother's pantry is fully stocked with Saltine crackers. . .

=)



To Nolan, on his 1st Mother's Day

Dear Nolan Grey,

Today is my first real Mother's Day.

(Last year you were 'here', but I still couldn't see you, so I don't think that one really counts.)

Right now you're rolling around in your walker, and staring out the kitchen window at Muscles, who is relaxing and terrorizing lizards on the patio.  . . .Muscles has become a bit of a reclusive, hedonistic cat since we gave him outdoor privileges.   Or, "yard time."  He has decided that he wants yard time to be ALL the time.  He's like a teenager with a girlfriend now---we never see him.

Ash Ferley, on the other hand, prefers to stay indoors most of the time.  He likes to sleep curled up under the desk, on top of the computer tower.  (I honestly don't know what that thing is called.  . . . That's probably sad.)  Unfortunately for Ash, his preferred resting spot is precisely walker-height.  And you have wasted no opportunity to try and screw with him if you see him resting there.  I have personally seen you cat-slapped several times.  (Think me cruel if you must, but thank goodness Ash has no front claws.  It would've been bloody.)

You're only nine months old. . . but it feels like I've known you for my whole life. . .

You've already caused several bits of mischief around the house, cat-slapping aside. . .

You threw your tennis shoe, and a bowl full of fruit loops, into the toilet.  You run for the refrigerator or the pantry every time we open the door.  Seriously---it's like a mad dash.  The door opens up, you stick your arms out in a Superman pose, and race furiously toward whatever has just been opened.  If it's the fridge, you immediately try to remove the bottles of milk and cola.  If it's the pantry, you prefer to pilfer the contents of the trash can.  The dryer--you just like to bang on the door.  (You like the sound it makes =)  The dishwasher?  My baby goes straight for the knives.  . . . I'm just SO proud!

You have pulled the runner off of the kitchen table, bringing with it (and destroying) the beautiful ceramic fruit bowl my mother gave me.  When I found you out, before you had the good sense to look remorseful, you actually laughed out loud, like:  Look what I did!!

You're teething right now, so you have good days and bad days, but I can honestly say you are the sweetest baby I have ever seen.  (And I am being COMPLETELY impartial here.  For real.)  You wake up smiling every day, you laugh and coo and gurgle to yourself and anyone around you.  ---You generally have at least some small contribution to every phone conversation that I have these days.  Thank you for that.---  And even as I type this, you are trying like mad to open the cabinet door behind which we keep the liquor and the cat food.

I have seriously got to baby-proof this house. . .

But I'm getting off-subject here.

I just wanted to try and tell you what life was like for you at nine months of age:

We spent today like we spend most every day-- except you slept until almost 8:00, instead of 5 or 6 a.m.  Thanks for that, kiddo.  Then I propped up on the couch and gave you your breakfast bottle.  Devin was here for the weekend, so it was the three of us, under various afghans or throws, waking up and watching Spongebob Squarepants.  When your brother is NOT here---we watch Game of Thrones.  Your mommy is crazy for that show.  (Seriously awesome.)  But it is *very* graphic and very violent, and if I thought you could understand ANY of it, we'd have to stop watching it now.  But I don't.  You're generally too busy trying to pull Ash's tail, or contemplating whatever clothing is on your feet for that day, to pay any attention to the Mother of Dragons.

Your daddy worked last night, so we tried to play quietly until he got up at 11:00. . . but keeping you AND Devin quiet for several hours straight is an arduous task.  And not entirely that successful.  But you had a good morning, playing with Devin and rolling around the house.  (I call you Hot Wheels.  I also call you Tookie.  I'm going to have to stop, or you will hate me for it one day.  Though I DO think 'Tookie' would make a great street-name.)

We live in a 3-bedroom, cottage-type house, with what is fast becoming a beautiful back yard, thanks to your Daddy.  When we moved in, and I was enormously pregnant with you, we planted a tree in the middle of the back yard.  It's a flowering pear tree, and it is beautiful.  It's your tree.

You smile whenever anyone talks to you, you are into absolutely EVERYTHING, you can say Mama and Dada and even bye-bye (sometimes), and you can clap your hands.  Just saw you do it today.

You amaze me.

And I would like to apologize to you, and to my husband, for being an emotional wreck today, because even now--I can't stop crying.

Nine months.  Every day.  And I still can't believe that you're real.

I don't know if I'm a good mother yet.  I know that I'm trying.  And I know that I love you and just think you're the most perfect, wonderful, delightfully mischievous child that the sun ever rose on.  And I know that you love saltine crackers more than almost anything. 

. . .Later, we will settle down for the night.  Sweet-smelling oatmeal lotion will be applied, as well as a clean diaper, and we'll snuggle down on the couch together with a bottle. 

I will watch t.v. and rock you, and you will fall asleep in my arms.  Then I will carry you upstairs, put you gently in your crib, and turn on the little white-noise machine, that is currently set to Rain.

And you will sleep.

. . . . . .

I guess it's okay to cry sometimes. . . just because sometimes you feel so undeserving of everything you have.

Bless you all the days of your life, Little Tookie.

I love you, Nolan Grey. 

Now get out of the liquor cabinet.

Mama

OUR Story

CHAPTER ONE

First off, I came with a lot of baggage. 

I don't mean a suitcase or two.  I mean a train of enormous elephants, linked nose to tail, in a giant parade of shame, carrying traveling cases FULL of baggage.

   (Remove 3/4 of the sparkle, and add about half a dozen more elephants, and you're got a good idea.)

I was 31 years old.  I had just moved back home with my mother, after doing my best to douse the flaming wreckage of my most recent marriage.  'Flaming wreckage' can be defined here as:  'Anything inflicted upon you by your spouse that lands you in the hospital.'  So, without going into TOO many details (---He was by NO MEANS innocent.  But people can change (*I* have) so I feel it would only belittle ME to belittle him in this forum.---)  Suffice to say that he was drunk (a nightly occurrence), I walked into the kitchen where he was cooking, and picked up a rag to wipe up the drunken mess he had made on the stove I had just cleaned.  And then he hit me.  Punched me in my temple a few times, then in the ribs, choked me (at this point I thought I would most probably die), then flung me into a closed door where my spine hit the doorknob in a none-too-pleasing manner. 

In my bathrobe, sockfeet, and nothing else, and in the pouring rain, I ran.  But not before grabbing my phone, car keys, and an empty wine bottle from atop the fridge (thinking ahead, I felt it was a pretty safe bet that I would need a weapon of SOME sort).  I fled for the the car; he was right behind me and took my keys out of my hand before I could even get the car door open.  I backed away from him, slowly, like I imagine an antelope might back away from an angry lion.  But this was no lion; this was Fury, and I'd never battled Fury before.  I had never felt like less of a Super Hero in my life.  As I was steadily backing away-- again: in the parking lot, in the rain, in the middle of the night--he was just as steadily advancing.  I was trapped and I knew it.  So I tapped the wine bottle on the asphalt parking lot.  Lightly.  Just hard enough to break it.  Actually, thinking back on it now, I am amazed that it actually broke into a usable weapon, instead of just shattering into a thousand pieces.  With no other choice, I pointed it at him.  He was only 5 feet away.  I think my message was fairly clear:  Don't . Come. Any. Closer.

Ahh, but his demeanor had changed now---Hooray!  =) 
It was just a big misunderstanding, after all.  NOW he was apologetic.  (Now that I was standing there with a broken bottle in my hand and ready to eviscerate him.)  "Let's just calm down and go inside.  I'm sorry.  We'll work it out," he said. . . or something like that---I must admit that I wasn't really listening.  I was contemplating the bottle in my hands, and wondering if I would have the fortitude to cut him up if I was forced to. . .

It only took me seconds to figure out that I did not.  No matter what happened that night, it was simply not in me to cut up another human being.  So I tossed the bottle, ran inside, fled straight down to our bedroom, barred the door with my desk chair, and grabbed my phone and started dialing furiously.

The chair broke with a big *CRACK* noise.  Louder than I expected, for some reason. . .   The door splintered and fell off its hinges and to the floor just as I got the 911 operator on the phone.  He just stood there staring at me as I talked to her, describing what he was wearing, how tall he was, what color hair. . .  I think he was probably considering if he could get away with killing me.  All I did was stare back.  For some reason, I was more or less completely calm.  . . .Curious.

Then I called my mother.  She and my step-father arrived before the police.  I had stopped crying.  In my mind, it was already done, and over with.  So strange to think of now, but we sat there, the four of us, in our living room and calmly discussed what had happened.  But--for the sake of privacy, we'll say his name was Joey--Joey sat in a chair as far away from us as possible, very unnerved and fidgety, and still (I'm sure) quite drunk.  By the time the police got there---Joey was gone.  In a nerve-induced strangeness, I suppose, I began to furiously tidy up our townhouse.  And as I was throwing an afghan over the back of our blue chair, that's when I found the enormous butcher knife he had hidden in the folds of the chair . . .   Mama said, when I picked it up,  aside from a face filled with complete confusion, that I went white as a ghost.  (And I am already QUITE pale.  I've mentioned it before.  It's an affliction, and I'm dealing with it.)  It took a few days to get my brain together, but he went to his mom's and (thank God) did not come back.

So in the hospital I landed, with a bruised larynx, cracked ribs, black eye, and slightly concussed.  The nurses kept flashing pictures of me, and I felt so much like an extra on Law and Order that I almost laughed out loud.  And, except for court dates (of which I did not miss ONE, even though it took all the guts I could muster to do it. . ."Screw your courage to the sticking place", right?), I never saw the bastard again.  Fingers crossed, I never will.

So that's ONE trunk on the back of one elephant.

My mom was gracious (or worried) enough to take me in.  I didn't have a job; I didn't have a car, I didn't have anything to my name.  (And good LORD, I was so very tired of being there again.)  . . .Well, anything, that is, but a bitchy grey cat that had a tendency to overeat and be incredibly demanding (as pictured below---that's his "happy" look. . .),
                                  

a few notebooks filled with my writings, and a habit of looking out my window every night, terrified that I would see his car there. 

After several months, and what seemed like DOZENS of court dates, it was all over.  Divorced.  I was FREE!!  But still plagued by nightmares of that hateful man.  But the last day I walked out of the courtroom, I had a No Contact order in place.  And that means exactly what it means.  The nightmares have abated now, but have still yet to go away completely.

So, without a job, without a clue as to what I was supposed to DO, and with an overwhelming sense of shame at another failed marriage, I settled with the bitchy grey cat into one of Mama's upstairs bedrooms.  It was June, 2008.

I tried to help out around her house as best I could, but I was basically useless.  Also, it was around this time that I developed radial palsy in my right hand (brought on by the beating from that dear ex-Joey), and for those of you that don't know, that meant that I couldn't move my right hand at ALL.  I mean "at ALL," at all.  For about a month.  I was a wreck.  . . .Funnily enough, the hardest part about the situation was that I couldn't write.  It took me FOREVER to scrawl something even BARELY legible with my left hand, and most of the time it just wasn't worth it.

So I read a lot, I stared into space a lot, and I just didn't give a shit a lot.  And also, and this is where the story gets good, I got on the internet a lot.

One day Mama decided to take me to my cousins' farm so that I could visit with them, ride their horses, get out in the country, and clear my head.  It worked.  =)  And, while on the back of a horse named Zip, I asked Mom to take my picture.  I was smiling from ear to ear, for the first time in MONTHS.  (This was also before mom went on her I-Love-Horses-And-Need-To-Own-Every-One-On-The-Planet stage.)

Later, I opened my Myspace account, and used the photo of me riding Zip as my profile photo.  And this is where it gets interesting (stay with me here).

Meanwhile, fresh from a move from Atlanta, Georgia, a man named Michael Turberville had just gotten divorced and moved back to Birmingham.  He, too, was on Myspace, and was doing a search to hopefully find old friends that he knew from when he lived here years ago.  He said he saw my picture and all he could think was:  "Who is this woman with all that HAIR?"  (It was down to my waist at the time.  Wish I'd never cut it.  Like for real---serious Tomb Raider hair.)

(DISCLAIMER:  I did not LOOK like Angelina Jolie (I WISH) at the time.  I just had the same hair.)


And, out of the blue, he sent me a message, introducing himself.
This was July, 2008. 

I thought from his photo that he was handsome, of course,

but (ESPECIALLY after the experience I had just had) I was NOT going out for drinks with a total stranger I had just met online.

He was kind.  And persistent.  And we wrote long, rambling, (I like to think hilarious) letters to each other almost every day for a month.  I looked through his photos.  And lo and behold!----We shared some of the same (good people) friends!!  And so, choking back my at-times paralyzing shyness, I decided to quit being a chicken-shit and just go meet him.

He lived in a loft downtown that he shared with his good friend, Buck, and I swallowed (and almost choked on) my fear, and drove to the corner of 2nd and 23rd Street Downtown to meet.  I parked the car and called him. . . ."Is this Michael?"  I asked when he picked up.  Yeeeeessss.  "I think I'm here."

It was August 23rd, 2008. 

Believe it or not, it was the VERY FIRST time we had ever even spoken.  No phone calls, just letters.  Almost like a WWII couple or something. . . and I wouldn't have had it any other way. 

So I got out of my car (in the rain), and window-browsed at What's On Second as I waited for him to walk around the corner to meet me.  When he walked up, I had my back turned, and was utterly and completely terrified.  It honestly took all I had just to turn around.

"Danielle?  . . .I'm Michael.  It's so good to meet you!"

I, awkward beast that I am, went to shake his hand.  But he went for a hug instead, and I ended up pegging him in the face with my umbrella.  For some reason, these many years later, that's still a happy memory  =)

So we walked to Metro, the local pub that we eventually ended up frequenting a LOT, and had a cocktail to help me get over my shaking-like-a-leaf nerves.  Before we met up, Michael had mentioned getting a cocktail before we went to dinner, and I was actually so nervous about meeting him that I planned out what drink I would order. . . nothing too girly, nothing too strong.  I finally decided on a Whiskey Sour.  And, as he did not point at and mock me, I guess it was a suitable choice.  It worked well enough, and while it was medicinally healing my nerves, we talked. 

We had SO much in common!  He had a GREAT sense of humor, he loved music as much as I did(!!!), he was kind, funny, and FUN!  We both worshipped The Jerk, and he loved the fact that I listed (on my myspace page) under "People I'd Like To Meet"---Nigel Tufnel.  It also just so happened that we both happened to be completely in love with the band, The Flaming Lips.  This song will forever make me think of him: 

We left Metro and went onward for some Chinese food.  (But not before I called my mom to tell her that he was NOT, from what I could tell, a homicidal maniac, and that she could relax.)  The food was great, the company was great, the conversation was great.  And, more than a LITTLE spooky, my fortune cookie said:  "YOUR FONDEST WISH WILL COME TRUE IN ONE YEAR'S TIME."

. . .fortune cookies are NEVER that precise!  EVER!!  So I laughed and thought it was cute.  And then we left for Oasis, to see some live music.  I got to meet some MORE of his friends---ALL of them AWESOME, and COMPLETELY enamored with, and protective of, him (I liked that a lot)---and I can honestly say that it was the BEST first date of my life.

As he was seeing me to my (borrowed from Mom) car that night, he asked if he could see me again tomorrow.  For a movie, lunch, hanging out.  As I have NEVER been adept at playing coy, I jumped at the chance, and drove home feeling like I had just had the most wonderful dream.

The next morning over coffee, when my mom asked how my date went, I quite honestly said that my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.  (I couldn't stop smiling even then =)
Best first date I ever had, and I hoped there would be many more. 

That was the beginning.

We met for lunch the next day, and I couldn't even tell you what I ate.  I was too interested in the man seated in the booth across from me.  After lunch we went to see 'Pineapple Express', and we both laughed so hard, and at the same times, that I realized I was liking him a little more every time I saw him.

After that, the Birmingham Art Walk was coming up, and since he and Buck lived right in the center of the Art Walk district, they used their loft as an art gallery/party.  I got to meet Buck's future wife, Stacy, and Michael and I had our first photo taken together.

Then we walked around and checked out the local art and had a blast.  Buuuutttttt. . . after about 2 cocktails (I am a COMPLETE lightweight when it comes to drinking), I decided that I would do best not to drive home.  So I called my mom to tell her just this, and that I would be staying at his loft for the night, and not to worry.

. . . I remember later Michael said he was impressed because most 31 year-old women wouldn't call their moms to tell them not to worry.  I responded in my usual self-deprecating manner with:  "Yeah, but MOST 31 year-olds don't live at home."  =)
It was our first sleepover-date, and he was a total gentleman.

I was falling.  Already.  I was terrified and thrilled and happy and leery and filled-with-that-breathlessness all at the same time.