With the pulled rib I am careful and conscious of every motion, the swing of my arms, turning of my trunk, the way I bend over to turn on the hot water for dishes. A miscalculation and I hear and feel the pop! like a slippery chicken tendon sliding over the bone, and then pain, and then the pop pop pop with every motion for hours afterward. Ever moves like an octopus now, over 2 pounds and a foot long, with her hair color in place and eyes open, swallowing amniotic fluid, hiccuping:
I feel her move along my pubic bone and up against my lungs at the same time, push her tiny bum into the rib cage and kick quickly in swift karate chops. She moves more when she hears her Daddy's voice and her sister's voice, the two most common now outside of mine. Lola talks to my stomach as if it's actually her infant sister there, without the enormous globe of my ( still completely free of stretch marks, something small to celebrate ) stomach and distended belly button in the way. She kisses where Ever's head might be, talks to her about how much she loves her.
Most of Lola's intense fears about what will change after Ever is born have dissolved, she is looser finally, less snappy, tearful, argumentative, demanding. Relaxing into our reassurances that she will still have her routines with Mr. Curry and I, still be an individual, our special daughter, our Lola Moon, and not just the sister. She gets sent to her room for five minutes a few times a day for MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM when Mr. Curry and I are talking, or CAN I NOW CAN I NOW CAN I NOW when we ask her to wait a minute for an answer. Having two teenage brothers brings a certain snap and brat to her facial expressions and tones that need instant pruning less she turns into the kind of girl who wears I'm a Brat, So What tee-shirts and actually thinks it's cute. When I pick her up from school and see her shining blonde head and sweet expressive face, long long limbs and distinctive walk I feel a leap of joy, every time. Even when she has a look on her face that says don't even ask.
Ian's second family is breaking up, and that's all I will say about that here, except for that he is an exceptional child, with exceptional self discipline and intelligence so that I would not be surprised if one day I'm telling people I can't tell you what he does, it's secret, but he's very high up in the CIA. Ian has an uncanny knack for spotting and most impressively dishing out the most logical and fruitful path toward a goal, not something that 14 year old boys are normally known for.
He was on the phone with Mr. Curry tonight when his little sister in his second home, Evangeline, apparently climbed up on top her dresser, grabbed her glass piggy bank and threw it one the floor so that it broke into a thousand shards. One second later, baby William came crawling along the thousand shards, and Mr. Curry was quickly hung up on as Ian went into rescue mode with his mother in the background having a moment, as she took in the scene.
Note to Self: Do not give Ever a glass piggy bank
Dakota's VET ( Very Expensive Testing I keep mentioning here ) was carried out on Tuesday. On Wednesday his drug test came back positive for pot smoking, also with a huge dent in the area that shows Yes or No, which Dakota attempted at first to explain by saying he was - let's see if I can quote this directly- Trying to make the results come back faster. Hm. Let's see how stupid Mom is? How tired she is, how pregnant and stressed and not wanting to believe what her eyes are showing her? Sorry, son. Not that stupid, not that stressed, not that tired.
Finally an hour later he came into where I was washing dishes, flushed in the cheek, and admitted he'd been smoking pot. Oh my boy. My boy. Dakota is grounded until a drug test comes back clean. Outside of that, we are in holding pattern until receiving his ( now possibly invalid but not telling the school system that, because we are spending A LOT of money, way TOO MUCH MONEY on this testing to have the school refuse to make adjustments because the test is considered invalid ) results at the end of the month.
Now survival mode. We must survive living in a small house with a 16 year old boy who hates being in school all day and is as agitated as a mountain lion with a burning rope attached to it's tail led in circles with dripping meat it cannot ever actually eat. We must attempt to keep him busy with Grandma and MMA after school and the rest of the time try to avoid the smashing of any holes in the wall, the calling of the police, the running away in a fit of despair, the screaming match or any other stressful and miserable acts brought into life when you are sixteen, and don't know what the hell to do with yourself. Dakota is many things, many beautiful, unique things, and he is also chronically dissatisfied. Something wild in him will not tame. It is our job to help him. We are helping. It doesn't mean it will work. That is what you have to live with as a parent of a troubled teenager, and it can keep you up nights holding your guts and mewing like a wet kitten. Trying to protect Ever in my womb from the poisons embedded in this environment is easier than trying to protect one healthy loved teenage boy from himself.
Your dad is an addict, we plead with him. We've taught you how these things work. You've had dinner with my friends husband, the DEA agent who busts young men like you who go to jail for a long, long time. We pulled you from one school and put you in another. We found the perfect therapist. We give you multivitamins and fish oil every night. We make your lunches. We have family night every Friday. We never compare you to anyone. We don't demand you get great grades, just pass. We got tutoring. We keep you active. We...we love you. We love you. Please. Please stop.
Robert Downey Jr. said, It's like I've got a shotgun in my mouth, with my finger on the trigger, and I like the taste of gun metal
Seeing the positive strip on that test did something to me. It took all the anxiety from me and formed it into a weapon of mother fucking power, which is what happens when you alert a mother that her child is in danger. I am calm. I am focused. I am laser minded. I am going to do everything that is possible under the sun for this boy, and then I will wake up and do one more thing, and one more after that.
Ever will be born into whatever position the planets of this family take. She might be born into struggle, or pain, but she will be born into a unit. A family that may spend Family Night arguing, but at midnight is eating ice cream and whooping at Monopoly victories. A family that will never leave one of it's own on down on the battlefield. A family that will tell the truth.
Never give up. It's the battle cry of the human spirit, and I take it seriously.
I feel her move along my pubic bone and up against my lungs at the same time, push her tiny bum into the rib cage and kick quickly in swift karate chops. She moves more when she hears her Daddy's voice and her sister's voice, the two most common now outside of mine. Lola talks to my stomach as if it's actually her infant sister there, without the enormous globe of my ( still completely free of stretch marks, something small to celebrate ) stomach and distended belly button in the way. She kisses where Ever's head might be, talks to her about how much she loves her.
Most of Lola's intense fears about what will change after Ever is born have dissolved, she is looser finally, less snappy, tearful, argumentative, demanding. Relaxing into our reassurances that she will still have her routines with Mr. Curry and I, still be an individual, our special daughter, our Lola Moon, and not just the sister. She gets sent to her room for five minutes a few times a day for MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM when Mr. Curry and I are talking, or CAN I NOW CAN I NOW CAN I NOW when we ask her to wait a minute for an answer. Having two teenage brothers brings a certain snap and brat to her facial expressions and tones that need instant pruning less she turns into the kind of girl who wears I'm a Brat, So What tee-shirts and actually thinks it's cute. When I pick her up from school and see her shining blonde head and sweet expressive face, long long limbs and distinctive walk I feel a leap of joy, every time. Even when she has a look on her face that says don't even ask.
Ian's second family is breaking up, and that's all I will say about that here, except for that he is an exceptional child, with exceptional self discipline and intelligence so that I would not be surprised if one day I'm telling people I can't tell you what he does, it's secret, but he's very high up in the CIA. Ian has an uncanny knack for spotting and most impressively dishing out the most logical and fruitful path toward a goal, not something that 14 year old boys are normally known for.
He was on the phone with Mr. Curry tonight when his little sister in his second home, Evangeline, apparently climbed up on top her dresser, grabbed her glass piggy bank and threw it one the floor so that it broke into a thousand shards. One second later, baby William came crawling along the thousand shards, and Mr. Curry was quickly hung up on as Ian went into rescue mode with his mother in the background having a moment, as she took in the scene.
Note to Self: Do not give Ever a glass piggy bank
Dakota's VET ( Very Expensive Testing I keep mentioning here ) was carried out on Tuesday. On Wednesday his drug test came back positive for pot smoking, also with a huge dent in the area that shows Yes or No, which Dakota attempted at first to explain by saying he was - let's see if I can quote this directly- Trying to make the results come back faster. Hm. Let's see how stupid Mom is? How tired she is, how pregnant and stressed and not wanting to believe what her eyes are showing her? Sorry, son. Not that stupid, not that stressed, not that tired.
Finally an hour later he came into where I was washing dishes, flushed in the cheek, and admitted he'd been smoking pot. Oh my boy. My boy. Dakota is grounded until a drug test comes back clean. Outside of that, we are in holding pattern until receiving his ( now possibly invalid but not telling the school system that, because we are spending A LOT of money, way TOO MUCH MONEY on this testing to have the school refuse to make adjustments because the test is considered invalid ) results at the end of the month.
Now survival mode. We must survive living in a small house with a 16 year old boy who hates being in school all day and is as agitated as a mountain lion with a burning rope attached to it's tail led in circles with dripping meat it cannot ever actually eat. We must attempt to keep him busy with Grandma and MMA after school and the rest of the time try to avoid the smashing of any holes in the wall, the calling of the police, the running away in a fit of despair, the screaming match or any other stressful and miserable acts brought into life when you are sixteen, and don't know what the hell to do with yourself. Dakota is many things, many beautiful, unique things, and he is also chronically dissatisfied. Something wild in him will not tame. It is our job to help him. We are helping. It doesn't mean it will work. That is what you have to live with as a parent of a troubled teenager, and it can keep you up nights holding your guts and mewing like a wet kitten. Trying to protect Ever in my womb from the poisons embedded in this environment is easier than trying to protect one healthy loved teenage boy from himself.
Your dad is an addict, we plead with him. We've taught you how these things work. You've had dinner with my friends husband, the DEA agent who busts young men like you who go to jail for a long, long time. We pulled you from one school and put you in another. We found the perfect therapist. We give you multivitamins and fish oil every night. We make your lunches. We have family night every Friday. We never compare you to anyone. We don't demand you get great grades, just pass. We got tutoring. We keep you active. We...we love you. We love you. Please. Please stop.
Robert Downey Jr. said, It's like I've got a shotgun in my mouth, with my finger on the trigger, and I like the taste of gun metal
Seeing the positive strip on that test did something to me. It took all the anxiety from me and formed it into a weapon of mother fucking power, which is what happens when you alert a mother that her child is in danger. I am calm. I am focused. I am laser minded. I am going to do everything that is possible under the sun for this boy, and then I will wake up and do one more thing, and one more after that.
Ever will be born into whatever position the planets of this family take. She might be born into struggle, or pain, but she will be born into a unit. A family that may spend Family Night arguing, but at midnight is eating ice cream and whooping at Monopoly victories. A family that will never leave one of it's own on down on the battlefield. A family that will tell the truth.
Never give up. It's the battle cry of the human spirit, and I take it seriously.
