I Need Better Visual Aids

I thought I had made it clear to these guys that all the household chores had been scheduled on my super-nifty organizational wall calendar (thank you, Momma) for each day of the week, each week of the month, and each month of the year. And yes, I filled out every single day of the year. I have the household chores listed, family/friend birthdays listed, scheduled appointments that I know about, school holidays and grade reporting days, rotating kitchen duty, and bi-weekly house/yard projects planned out. It's all there. It's command central. It's hanging right at the entrance of the kitchen - a room I know for a fact that they will be entering several times a day - so it will be seen. I even gave a little presentation about it ... identifying how it was organized, the color coding, and how to find what you were supposed to be doing on any given day.

I think it was too much for them. They weren't ready to see Command Central in all its glory. They had these horrified looks on their faces.

"Geeze guys. Its just a calendar, for God's sake."

And my husband reached for it to flip through the pages while his face was frozen in horror, "Good Lord! She's filled out the ENTIRE YEAR?!"

And the step-son fell to the kitchen floor and flopped around like he was having a seizure.

Obviously these people just don't have the ability to appreciate the pursuit of perfection. That's all I've got to say. Well, actually, I have a lot more to say. Not only can they not appreciate my attempts to help them organize their lives, they don't even have the common courtesy to UTILIZE this valuable tool in their everyday lives.

"When should I take out the trash?", asks the boy who has taken the trash to the street every Tuesday night for the past 6 years. That's 52 trips to the street on a Tuesday night in a year. That's 312 total trips to the street with the trash since he has lived at this address. He's almost spent an entire YEAR carrying the trash to the street on Tuesday nights and he STILL can't remember when to do it. So I have written it down ... the chore for Tuesday ... TRASH. Go look at the calendar!

"Do you have plans for this weekend?", asks my husband who has no plans to follow my plans unless he has no other options. But I wrote down what I wanted them to accomplish during the weekends ... every other weekend so they wouldn't be overwhelmed ... this weekend it is WIPE BASEBOARDS. Go look at the calendar!

"When do I have kitchen duty?", asks the boy who has enjoyed a two-month vacation from washing dishes because my blood pressure couldn't take finding dirty dishes all over the kitchen because he was too lazy to do a decent job and really get them cleaned. Every time I reached for a plate, fork, pot, pan, spatula, glass, etc. ... it was DIRTY and GREASY and would have to be re-washed before I could use it. It got so bad that I just couldn't take it anymore and put him on kitchen restriction. He wasn't allowed in the kitchen at all; nor was he allowed to use anything for himself except paper plates, styrofoam cups, and plastic utensils. Of course, he really got what he wanted - he didn't have to do any dishes for two months. But I just couldn't take seeing it anymore and having to scold him about it all the freaking time and my rage level was increasing exponentially and my husband just didn't seem to understand why I was getting so upset until he saw me clutching a dirty butcher knife and stepped between the two of us before I carved his son into tiny pieces. So the boy didn't have to wash dishes for two months. Now he has to start doing it again. But he's not allowed to put the dishes away before I have inspected them first. So he'll wash them again and again and again until they are clean. It's up to him. Do it right the first time or stand there all night washing the dishes over and over and over ... dumbass.

I can't talk about that anymore. My blood pressure is going up.

Suffice to say, they have alternating kitchen duty three nights a week. And they each have a specific chore. The boy changes the doggie poop papers in the garage because he's the only person in the house without a sense of smell and the husband is supposed to dust things in high places because he is SIX FOOT FIVE and can easily reach stuff that most folks don't even notice. But I notice. And I want it dusted! Otherwise they are free to negotiate and bargain amongst themselves on who's going to do what as long as it all gets done on time. Sometimes when I am out of the room I hear them mumbling to each other as they trade off chores, auction off chores, and try to bribe each other into doing each other's chores. Keep in mind that we've only been on this schedule for a WEEK, for God's sake, and you'd THINK that they were working on a chain gain or something.

And in the midst of our week, they keep asking me what they are supposed to be doing. CAN YOU PEOPLE NOT LOOK AT THE FREAKING CALENDAR FOR GOD'S SAKE?! I mean ... SERIOUSLY ... READ THE CALENDAR ... RESPECT THE CALENDAR .. LIVE BY THE CALENDAR!

My mother gives me this fantastic calendar every year at Christmas. I look forward to sitting down at the table and filling it in with everything that has to be done. I always feel so much more organized, prepared, and comforted to know what is going to be happening.

The calendar is a valuable resource. But it might as well be a painting of dogs playing poker for all the notice it gets from the other two people in the house. I am going to have to tell my mother that next year she's going to have to ask my Daddy to go buy me a Playboy calendar. I bet if the calendar had pictures of naked women all over it, I wouldn't be able to pry either one of those dingleberries away from it with a crow bar!

We're Beginning A New Journey in 2010 ...

After spending 21+ years as an over-the-road truck driver, my husband has decided to go back to school full time. He started classes today - Jan 11, 2010 - and is enrolled in an 8 month course of study that should, as we have been told, result in full time employment. This post-school-employment commitment was the key in making the decision to leave his previous job and enroll in school as a full-time student. And of course there is no time like the present. He's 50 years old. In 8 months he'll be close to 51 years old. He might as well get some education and a new career while he's aging. He has at least 15 more years in the workforce and he might as well spend that doing something he likes rather than loathing his job every single day.

Isn't it fabulous? Isn't it wonderful? Higher education, lofty goals, expanding his horizons; indeed, becoming the Renaissance Man we all know him to be. He may finally have found his niche. And it's a good thing because he's not getting any younger. Most people don't spend 50 years looking for their niche. By their 30's they've pretty much either figured it out or are drowning in diapers and are too tired to go looking for it. But not my husband. Being in the Navy didn't help. Being in the Merchant Marines didn't help. Going to Iraq didn't help. During his formative young-adult years being a nightclub bouncer, gun shop manager, computer fix-it geek, electrical contractor, truck driver, advertising salesman, taxi driver, insurance salesman, and Kentucky Fried Chicken fry cook (I know I'm probably leaving a lot out) did not provide enough experiences for him to formulate some idea of what he wanted to be when he grew up. He had to wait until he was 50 ... supporting a wife, 16 yr old son, and 3 dogs who need a safe, secure, and financially stable life in order to thrive ... before deciding he wanted to throw caution to the wind and jump off a cliff in order to explore a new career and find his niche. Isn't it fabulous?

All of which explains how I found myself in the kitchen at 5:30am this morning making breakfast, packing lunch boxes, and supervising the medicine-taking, chore-finishing, dog-feeding, gathering-your-stuff-so-you-don't-forget-anything-errands, and checking the weather to confirm that short sleeve t-shirts are not appropriate when it's only 19 degrees outside. Of everything I accomplished this morning the thing that I am most proud of is that I remembered to put on deodorant and a bra before leaving for work.

Women all over the country are performing this mind-numbing military operation every single morning. I'm not alone. I probably have an easier situation than most so I won't complain. But isn't it interesting how everyone's lives impact and influence what everyone else is doing? And all it takes for the whole thing to break down is one person to step out of bounds and disrupt the routine. I know there will be disruptions. I'm dealing with two people who have ADHD. I speak to them with one and two-syllable words in short, concise sentences. I've got about two minutes to make my point, issue commands, and demand some proof they heard and understood me before their eyes glaze over. So I am realistic enough to understand that there will never be a perfect morning in my house.

Today was probably as perfect as it is going to get. Everyone got up on time, dressed on time, ate their breakfast on time, and did their morning chores. On the way out the door I took them through the first of what will be many Pre-Weekday Departure Check Lists to verify they were prepared to leave the house:

• School books and papers? Check! Check!
• Lunch boxes? Check! Check!
• Cell phone, wallet, glasses, and keys? Check!
• School ID Badge, clean gym clothes, last Friday's homework? Check!
• Coats, hats, and gloves? Check! Check!
• Clean underwear?? Check! Check!

Then let's go gentlemen ....

And we're off ... like a herd of turtles ... welcome to the start of our new journey in 2010.

The ANGST Has Arrived

Teenage Angst is a horrible thing. I remember going through it. I remember feeling trapped in a black hole of uncertainty, indecision, powerlessness, and anxiety. When you’re a teenager you’re caught in “No Man’s Land”. You’re too old to be living your life like a three year old with no cares. You’re too young to do anything to really help yourself move forward. The angst of teenage years is centered on the waiting required to get old enough to do something about your life. In our society of instant gratification, no one wants to spend time waiting on anything anymore.

Speaking as a female, I think we suffer through an emotional rollercoaster when we’re working our way through ages 15 – 18. And our emotions push us to make horrible, knee-jerk decisions that we end up regretting. Everything seems like it is a “life or death” situation … if I don’t have a pair of those new jeans everybody is wearing I’m going to die … if I can’t get my haircut before picture day I’m going to die … if I don’t loose weight I’m going to die … if no one asks me to the Prom then I’m going to die. Each day brings its own mini-disaster that must be dissected and examined and wallowed in until it is worn out and we’re ready to move on to the next disaster. It’s almost like spending 3 years with permanent PMS. Not a pretty sight.

I am currently watching the step-son begin his teenage years. He is 15. And what he seems to be dealing with is about as polar-opposite as it can get from what I dealt with during those years. “Boys are different.” is what my husband keeps telling me. He’s right. Because this boy is becoming a creature I’ve never encountered before. If this boy has a brain, it is still stuck in the packaging and no one has taken the wrapper off to give it a try. He’s the most unconscious, unaware, oblivious, unconcerned, person on the planet. His shoes could be on fire and he wouldn’t notice because he’d be too busy staring off into space daydreaming about God knows what. That’s what is different about males and females in puberty …. The girl is highly and emotionally invested in every single detail as if this time in life is training camp for becoming a future control freak. The boy can’t seem to connect with the three year old brain anymore and the teenage brain isn’t ready to be used so he just doesn’t have a brain right now. This is his training camp for becoming a future de-sensitized butthole.

The step-son is experiencing all kinds of physical changes. One day I looked at him and he had two or three tufts of whiskers scattered across his face and neck. He started to develop a habit of pulling on them when he was reading. He looked like an old man pulling on his beard while deep in thought. I went to the drug store and bought some disposable razors and shaving cream for him and showed him how to shave.

We stood at the bathroom sink and I started my lesson by explaining how to put on the shaving cream. Then I gave him a razor and cautioned him to be careful so he didn’t cut his throat and bleed to death. I made him practice a few strokes with the safety cap on the razor. Then I let him take it off and try it for real. He took on such a serious face and did that thing of sticking his tongue under his upper lip to stretch it out so he could shave that. While he was shaving, he asked me how I knew how to do this.

I thought to myself, “Are you seriously that oblivious? Like this is some secret ritual of the Masons or something?” But what I said was, “I used to watch my Daddy shave all the time. I would stand in the bathroom next to the sink and watch him lather up and shave every Sunday morning. I’m showing you how he did it. He’s over 60 years old and hasn’t slit his throat yet so he must be doing something right. And besides, girls start shaving much earlier than boys so I’ve been doing it myself for years.” He gave me this look like he was considering how much truth was in what I had said and then gave me some kind of enlightened nod and went back to shaving.

About the time he got to his chin line, he nicked himself. You would have thought he cut his bottom lip off or something. “What do I do? What do I do?”

I tore off a tiny piece of toilet paper and said, “Here. Put this on it.”

“But don’t I need a band-aid?”

“Did you loose a body part? Good grief. No, you don’t need a band-aid. It’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”

“But what if I do this before I have to go somewhere? I can’t go do anything with toilet paper on my face!”

“You’re not a hemophiliac. It’ll stop bleeding in a minute. Calm down and work on another part of your face. We can’t be here all day. You’ll have to practice so you’ll get better and faster at this. You spend too much time in the bathroom these days, anyway.”

And that got the blush going. As if I don’t know what he’s doing in the bathroom all 400 times a day he goes in there for 15 minutes at a time and comes out red-faced and glassy eyed? Of course I know what he’s doing. Back when I had “the talk” with him, we discussed that aspect of life and I told him it was a personal and private thing and he needed to conduct those activities in private. With the most evil manipulative intentions in mind I said, “When you want to do that, you just close your door for some privacy. If your door is shut, I won’t walk in. I will knock. So just close your door so I’ll know you want to be private for that.” Well, he hasn’t closed his bedroom door in more than a year and has since found the privacy afforded by the bathroom to be more convenient. How he thinks no one is noticing all those 400 trips to the bathroom each day just adds more fuel to the argument that he is still in the larvae stage and mostly unconscious.

The other day he walked through the kitchen barefooted. My God! He’s got some HUGE UGLY feet! I can remember my mother noticing that same thing about my brother one summer day. “My God! Look at how huge and ugly your feet are!” she sputtered in amazement. My brother raised an eyebrow and gave her a shrug as he walked off. I didn’t blurt out what I was thinking about the step-son’s feet. But I pondered on it a while. I looked at him again when he came back to the kitchen for some water. Good Lord! He’s covered in body hair! When did that happen? It was like one night he went to bed and the next morning he got up looking like Cousin It from the Addams Family. Holy hell!

I can remember him being 8 years old, standing in the doorway of the bathroom with his underwear all rolled up like a thong around his waist because he didn’t bother to dry off after getting out of the tub and putting them on, and whining that he couldn’t get them untangled and begging for help. Not much has changed since then. I think he just started using a towel a few weeks ago. He seems to be developing an increasing interest in personal hygiene. I am sure I have some nubile young teenage girls at the high school to thank for that. But regardless of how it started, I don’t care because I am just thrilled beyond belief that he’s actually brushing his teeth and putting on deodorant all on his own without me having to harass him about it. There is no stink worse than sweaty-bad breath-sullen teenage boy. Yuck. Oh, well actually there is … its sweaty-bad breath-sullen teenage boy with dog poop on his shoes. Don’t even get me started down that road ….

And that brings me to the new attitude he is practicing. Have you seen this? It’s that sullen, apathetic, blank stare, open mouth posture. It’s the physical translation of the mental thought of “I don’t give a shit and wish you would shut the hell up.” And the eye-rolling? You can translate that as “What the hell would YOU know about it?!” What I really hate is when he’s staring right at me seemingly as if he’s listening and he’s nodding his head as if he’s engaged in the conversation; but, if you look closely, you can see Bugs Bunny Cartoons playing across his pupils. And when I say, “What did I just say?” he just sits there with his mouth hanging open and giving me the larvae stare and mutters, “Huh? What was the question?”

He is experiencing the complete antithesis of what I went through as a teenager. Of course, I can not relate to any of it. I am constantly asking my husband, “Are you SURE he’s going to snap out of it one day? How’s he going to get a job if he spends 20 hours a day in the bathroom in 15 minute intervals? Who’s going to hire him if he stands around with his mouth hanging open and staring off into space? He’s still in the larvae stage! When is the cocoon going to crack open??” And my husband tells me to have patience and that he’ll get there but it just takes boys longer than girls.

Oh really? Are you SURE? Are you CERTAIN that the boys EVER become conscious?? Because sometimes I look at my husband when we have conversations about topics he’s not so interested in and I see that SAME blank stare with that “Please shut up so I can watch this episode of COPS for God’s sake!” impatient posture. He’s not 100% awake yet, either …so what would HE know?!

The Hordes Are Coming

Halloween is coming! Halloween is coming! Are you ready? I am!

When I bought my house and moved in, I was so looking forward to actually having trick-or-treaters coming to my door. I carved two pumpkins. I decorated my front porch. I bought a load of candy. I set up a "waiting station" at the front door ... chair, the candy, a book to read, and a drink. I would be sitting there, entertaining myself and sipping my Diet Coke, while waiting for the doorbell to ring. And because I was curious, I had a pen and tablet of paper because I intended to count how many trick-or-treaters came to my door. I was ready!

I am sure that sounds rather ridiculous - counting the trick-or-treaters. But I wanted to know. So every time the doorbell rang, I counted how many kids I gave candy to, and after shutting the door I would record the number. And at the end of the night when I was out of candy and turned off the porch light, I got my calculator and added it up. 148 trick-or-treaters. I had spent about $25 on candy that year. That meant that I spent about $0.17 per kid. That didn't seem bad.

The next year, I did the same thing. At this point, my boyfriend/soon to be husband was there and watching me. Of course he thought I was insane when I set up my waiting station and got my pen and paper. He made fun of me. But I counted again anyway. There was a huge jump in trick-or-treaters! Word must have gotten out that our neighborhood was giving out great candy or something. I had 215 trick-or-treaters this time until the candy ran out. I spent about $35 on candy this time. So I spent $0.16 per kid that year. Not too bad.

The next year, I counted again. I don't know why. I just HAVE to know for some reason. My husband participated this year and sat in the chair at my waiting station and counted trick-or-treaters for me while munching on candy. We had a surprising 275 trick-or-treaters. I spent $50 on candy that year. So I spent $0.18 per kid. But now I was getting alarmed.

Where were all these kids coming from? I knew we had a bunch of kids in my neighborhood, but this was getting ridiculous. I saw big vans and SUVs cruising the street in front of my house and gaggles of kids roaming around. These didn't look like the people who lived in my neighborhood. When did it become OK to trick-or-treat outside your normal territory? And who were these people busing their kids into my area?? This didn't seem fair. And my cynical side kicked into high gear.

The following year, I counted again. I made it to 250 before I just got overwhelmed and couldn't keep up. I still only spent $50 on candy. I refuse to spend more than that on bags of candy to give to strangers. Maybe if I was giving out frozen ears of corn, which are nutritious and delicious, I would spend more. But kids don't want corn when they are trick-or-treating and would, of course, leave it littered all over my yard. But I just am not going to spend more than $50 on candy.

And then, these kids coming to the door were so lazy! Some of them hardly bothered with a costume. Many of them just stood there, holding out their stuffed pillow cases for me to drop candy into. They didn't even say "Trick-or-Treat!" They just stood there - silent - just EXPECTING the candy for doing nothing. That's what is wrong with this younger generation. They're probably pissed they have to walk door to door to even get the candy in the first place and that their mother or father don't do it for them. I don't give candy to the kids who don't make an effort.

"What is that costume?"
"I'm a country singer."
"You look like your wearing what you wore to school today."
"Yeah, well. I put on some boots."
"That's not a costume, then. No candy for YOU!"

"Hello? Aren't you going to say anything?"
"What?"
"Aren't you supposed to say Trick-or-Treat?"
"Huh?"
"No effort - no reward. No candy for YOU!"

"You look like you're 18 years old? What are you doing trick-or-treating?"
"I'm getting free candy, dude."
"Not from me, you're not. No candy for YOU!"

I started hearing their comments as they walked back down my driveway to join their friends or parents, "That lady wouldn't give me any candy!", "Did you hear her?", "What the hell?", "What a bitch!" I was not surprised when someone smashed my pumpkin in the driveway. It only cost $2.00.

Isn't there some kind of Halloween Etiquette?? The first Halloween I actually remember I think I may have been 5 or 6 years old. I can't remember my costume. But I remember my Daddy taking me and my brother around the neighborhood. I was TERRIFIED! I held onto his hand like it was a lifeline as he drug me up the walkways to these strangers' porches and rang the bell. The door would open and someone would pop out with a bowl. My brother would shuffle in front and bump me out of the way (I guess so he could be first and thereby get the most candy or something - he seemed much more clued in about what we were supposed to be doing than I was) and scream "Twick-ow-Tweat" at the top of his lungs. My Daddy was very specific in his instructions ... "Aaannncchhh! Just take ONE. Good girl. Now what do you say?" And I would chorus, "Thank you" with my brother and then Daddy would lead us to the next terrifying house of strangers. I actually never liked Halloween all that much.

One year I didn't even want to go. I stayed home and sat on the stairs by the front door and watched my mother answer the door. My mother had a blast doing that. She loved to slowly open the door and then jump out and scare the kids. She kept the front porch dimly lit and would open the door slowly so it would squeak. Then she would pause for a few seconds until the kids were getting skittish before jumping out from behind the door and hollering "BOO!" at the top of her lungs. One time Momma did this and the poor little kid was so freaked out she screamed, "Merry Christmas!!" and burst into tears. Poor little kid. My mother thought it was a hoot. And then one time Momma ran out of candy and ran into the kitchen and, like a Ginsu knife commercial, she chopped up big hunks of sweet potatoes, "They'll never know! It's dark. They'll feel something heavy drop into their bag and they'll think they've got something good! They won't know it's sweet potatoes until they get home! MUUUHHHAAHHHAA!" I know I spent several hours the next day picking up sweet potato chunks out of the front yard. Somehow, in the dark, those kids KNEW she was pulling a fast one on them.

As I got older, I started having more fun because I wasn't so scared. I would roam the neighborhood with my brother and our friends and we would get piles of candy. This was before the razor blade in the apple scare and people gave out cupcakes and slices of cake and popcorn balls and cool stuff like regular sized candy bars or toys. These days I look at the haul my step-son comes back with and wonder if everyone shopped for candy at Goodwill or something. Then I remember that an entire third world country just came through our neighborhood like a plague of locust and we're all lucky we were able to afford enough to appease them and keep them from taking our cars and lawn mowers or something. My step-son comes back with the usual "fun sized" candy. But actual chocolate candy is rare. There's an abundance of suckers - yuck - and taffy, gummy, sour stuff - yuck - and someone gave out kool aid packs and someone covered a pencil with white cloth like it was a ghost and several people gave out RELIGIOUS PAMPHLETS. What the hell is up with THAT?!

Anyway, I expect these beggars to be polite and participate in the activity if they come to my door. I try to compliment their costumes if they went to a lot of trouble. I try to be nice and friendly to the very little ones who are just as scared as I remember being. But I don't put up with the riff-raff anymore. If you can't participate - no candy for YOU!

Oh, and one year seemed to be the year of uncontrollable kids. Oddly enough, several times I opened the door that year, the kids just came barging into the house! They just walked right in and started wandering around. Their parents stood on the doorstep, "Now Katie, you come back here. You're not supposed to go inside. Katie? Katie??" Meanwhile little Katie is in my kitchen opening the fridge and getting ready to make a sandwich or something. I was like, "Hey - woman - get your damn kid outta my house! Jesus Christ!! She needs to be dressed like a dog so you can put a rope on her or something!" I mean, can you imagine?? Just WALKING IN??!! Good grief. After that I let my dogs loose so their barking would intimidate the kids who wanted a home tour in addition to free candy. For God's sake!

Now I've been through 8 Halloweens. I don't count the trick-or-treaters anymore. I spend about $35 on candy and although I still set up a waiting area at the front door, I don't bother trying to read a book while I wait. I participate until the candy runs out. Then I turn off the porch light and sit on the couch in the dark eating the stash of candy I culled from the bowl, feeding my doggies the skittles, and waiting on my step-son to return with his haul so I can check for razor blades, pull out all the Reese cups, and catch up on my religious pamphlet reading.

Get ready - the hordes are coming to your neighborhood soon ....

I Have a Shadow

Have I mentioned before that I enjoy my solitude? If you left me stranded on a deserted island, all I would need would be an endless supply of books (and food). I wouldn't need anyone to talk to. I wouldn't need anyone to entertain me. I wouldn't need to socialize. I am happy being with myself. After living alone so long, it has been an adjustment to get used to having a child around. Children require your attention. They need to be watched after. You have to talk to them. You have to check on them. You have to do stuff for them. They need to be coached, led, supervised, encouraged, taught, loved, hugged, fed, tucked into bed, given clean clothes, safe guarded, and paid attention to. When I got married, I knew my husband came with a son. I didn't realize that the child was going to be a black hole of need.

When I came to this realization, I called my mother ....
"Mom, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for being such a black hole of need for you and Daddy. I have realized that no matter what you do or what you've done that I'll always need something from you and you'll have to give it to me because I'm your child. I'm sorry about that."

"Jacque, have you lost your mind? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that I am learning that providing for a child is much more complicated and involved than I ever thought it could be. This isn't like babysitting. At eleven o'clock in the evening I can't give him back to someone. He's here. He's always gonna be here. It's up to me to take care of him all the time. It's like trying to fill up a hole that is bottomless."

"Well honey, your father and I have done, and continue to do, whatever we can to help you no matter what because we love you. We'll always be here for you."

"Mom. Get real. You had two of us. Me and my brother. We were just 11 months apart. Surely you were overwhelmed at times."

"Well, to be honest, yes. I got overwhelmed a lot. You were a huge aggravation. You never liked anything I tried to do for you. You never cooperated with me. Your brother always argued with me. It was a very difficult time for me. And the whole time you were growing up, your father was contributing in the best way he knew how by working all the time but that didn't help me out with the day to day aggravation."

"I'm sorry, Momma."

"Well don't apologize, Jacque. You're my baby, regardless of your age, and no matter what it may take, I will always do whatever I can possibly do for you."

"But doesn't it seem like a loadstone hanging around your neck? From the time I was born until we're no longer together on this earth you'll always be stuck with me and whatever I need."

"Don't get me wrong, honey. Parenting is a tough job and a difficult chore even in the best of times. But you love your child and that love gives you energy when you're exhausted and it gives you forgiveness when you are hurt and it gives you joy even when no one says 'thank you'. Your love for your child, and their love for you, replenishes what it takes out of you."

"Oh? Hmmm. Ok."

"Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you. You got cheated. It's harder for you than a normal mother."

"Cheated? What do you mean?"

"He is not your son. You didn't get to start a relationship with him until he was already grown and becoming an individual with his own ideas, preferences, thoughts, and pre-conceived notions about life. You didn't get a chance to fulfill his needs when he was vulnerable. You didn't get a chance to fall in love with his baby-antics. You didn't get a chance to teach him what you know he should have been taught. And you didn't get a chance to bond with him without the spectre of his previous life coloring his heart and interfering with his ability to trust."

"Oh. Yes. I see what you mean."

"You love him. I know that. I don't think his father would have married you if he didn't know that. But you're the one who gets the short end of the stick. You're doing all the work of a parent but there is no inner reward for you. It doesn't make you a bad person. It's just the way it is. It's ok. Don't beat yourself up over it."

"Oh. I see. Thank you. I've been worried about that. I don't know what else to do but to be as much of a mother as I can be and as much as he'll allow me to be. You know I'm not a lovey dovey kind of person. I've never been interested in babies or stuff like that. This feels very odd at times."

"It's all right. You can't expect a fish to fly. You are who you are. Just be glad that you are capable of doing what is needed and that you have enough sense to manage things and that I gave you an example to follow that won't fail you. Your father and I were not perfect parents by any means. But the fact that you and your brother are still alive, not in jail, and are successful and contributing members of society makes me feel like I accomplished something."

"Oh. Ok. I see."

"Honey, do you need anything else? I only have about 30 minutes to watch the episode of Days of Our Lives that I taped before your father forces me to watch something on TV I won't like."

"Oh, no. But thank you. I appreciate your support. Have a good evening and I love you."

"Night night, honey. I love you, too."

So there it was. The truth of the matter. What was I supposed to do with that? My husband told me to give it time. It's been 5 years. A lot of things are much better than they used to be. Some things are not. Now that he's 15 he wants to be talking and interacting with me. I don't know what to do with that. Every time I turn around, there he is. He follows me around the house ... talking about things at school, making observations about stuff, and cracking humorless jokes. Last night he was playing in his room while I was on the computer. I got up, left the computer, turned off the light, and walked into the living room. He immediately jumped up and followed me in there. I turned around and he was just looking at me with some kind of expectation like it was a given that we should be in the living room together ... like it was where he thought he was supposed to be or something ... with me. How odd.

Could it be possible that the one person who has forcefully shoved him through 5 years of "home training" and "mothering" he didn't think he needed is now someone he wants to be around? What's up with this? He's following me around everywhere I go. He wants to talk to me all the time. The other day he followed me to the bathroom, standing outside the closed door telling me in detail about some kind of science experiment they did in class and he kept talking while I flushed, came out of the bathroom, washed my hands, and walked back into the kitchen. What's up with that?

Just to relieve your worries, please know that I am not rejecting him in any way. I show interest, interact with him, ask questions, converse with him, and tease him about his humorless jokes. But in the back of my mind I keep wondering ... what is going on? This is odd. I am confused.