For Wolfio

I have a good friend on Yahoo 360.  Wolfio is musician with a heart and a brain and a soul that reaches around forever.  He rants and raves, but he also writes some of the funniest stuff I’ve seen here.

His life hasn’t been particularly great lately.  He’s going through a divorce from a woman who adores head games.  She even had her boyfriend call him up and invite him to Thanksgiving dinner with them.

His oldest son, from his first marriage, recently moved home and was seriously depressed.  The young man had suffered some blows that left him despondent almost beyond life. Wolfio despaired that this adult child would ever even get out of bed, much less get a job and lead a normal life.

Then, as parents are sometimes able to do, he reached within himself and found something to inspire that young man who had no direction in life, that young man who felt he had lost all hope.  What Wolfio said to his son was powerful.  I think what he said bears repeating.

I killed a guy.

It was not planned. Most killings are like that.

It was long ago, before I knew who I was or wanted in life.

Fern. The guy’s name was John Fern. You don’t forget a guy you kill. Most killings are like that.

I never spoke to him. I never met him until I killed him. It was his choice, the only one he may have believed he ever made, that he really wanted. Decisions are like that.

I didn’t want to kill him. I would rather have gone on, never running into him at all, but…. That’s how I killed him. John. By running into him. Over him, really. Crushing him. Huge trucks do that.

I was at work, on the job on a four lane highway, of course, in the fast lane. Driving is like that.

I saw him on the overpass. He disappeared behind the sign showing the next exit. I was thinking of something – I don’t remember now – it was not important I’m sure. It’s hard to remember what you were before you became something else. Hindsight is like that.

It did seem strange. Why would someone put a leg over an overpass railing? But, what are the chances? He didn’t drop something. “He’s right there, dead center. Why, if he was to…”

That part I remember: how I forced my vision not to look directly into his eyes just before he hit the windshield, rolled down and under the truck. I would imagine he was in a lot of pain. I dragged him maybe fifty yards. Somewhere in there he died. I wondered if he may have reconsidered while under there. Stupidity is like that.

After I pulled over I got out, walked to the back of the truck, lit a cigarette and sat on the bumper. His body was still. I could only make out the shape. I found his sweater had been pulled off. It was tangled on the drive axle under the truck. I wanted a drink. I asked the state trooper, “Look no cameras, I don’t want to be on the news…” Yep, I was an asshole, even then. Karma is like that.

I’ve wanted to off myself millions of times since then. It’s clear I will not.

It’s funny…

I told that story to my son while he was here, staying with me during this whole wife/whore fiasco. His mother died in a car crash 3 years ago. He was in the backseat. T-boned in a fucking Neon.  It took her head clean off. The kid wanted to end it. He was not kidding. Reality is like that.

I couldn’t fucking believe it. I was crying, not knowing what to say, but if I didn’t say something he was going to do it. I can’t kill again by accident.

And then there was John. John Fern. I never knew what I thought about it all before this moment. I never spent much time on it. Then I knew.

After the story I told him, “John Fern was his own man. I never knew him but he chose to do the one thing he could do without anyone’s OK. He offed himself. They told me he had been in years of therapy and he just gave up.

“Would you be able to just give up like that, and still have hope to see your mother again knowing the one thing she would have wanted for you was to grow up the be a fine young man? She would be proud of all the sacrifices she made for you. It will be all worth it, even her passing, if the most important work in her life was successful: raising a good son.

“John Fern did what he had to do. You have to live to the betterment of your mother’s memory, and if that fails then you’ll also be man enough to go like John.”

Two weeks later he had his old job back, got an apartment, and told me – me! – “Thanks, Dad.” Luck is like that.

Thank you, John. I’m sorry I killed you, but you saved my son, and at least I forgive you.


Dedicated to John        Wolfio182

Another Typical IM Conversation with a Troll

I OUGHT to publish this retard’s name, but I won’t.  My thoughts and what was going on at the time are in italics.

Him: How are u doing today ?
Me: good, and you?
Him: I am doing fine.  I am david and u
Me: Hi, David. I’m Anne
Him: Wow u are looking cute and charming
Me: thanks
Him: You remind me if my mom
Me:  so I look old  (his MOM?!?  WTF?!)
Him:
Yes that what u are  but age is just a number ok (Fuck you, buddy, “just a number!”)
Me:
so how old are you? 17?
Him: I am 41 now  and u ?  (41? and I look like his MOM?  What as ass.  What a smooth talker! snort)
Me:
44, so there is no way I could be your mom (Damn, I should have said I was 34)
Him:
Lol oh okay.  You must be a funny person (yeah, buddy, you don’t know the half of it.  Let’s have some fun…)
Me:
You have no idea…
Him: I am from Springfield, MO and u (god, you’re American?  I had you pegged for Arab or African)
Me:
Little Rock
Him: are u married ?
Me: no – divorced for a little over a year. You?
Him: divorced for over 3 yrs now
Me: I think that being divorced beats the heck out of the alternative (like being married to someone you’d prefer not to be married to.  Or dead.)
Him:
Yes u are right.  But my ex said she wants it and i plead on her but i think she has made her decisions (I guess she did, if you’ve been divorced 3 years. This guy didn’t understand what I mean by “the alternative.”)
Me: I’m delighted to finally be divorced.
Him: Oh okay.  i like the smile on your face  is the the way u always smile ? (No, usually I have the rictus of a grimace when I talk to idiots like you.)
Me:
On my 360 page?  oh, that’s almost a kind of Mona Lisa look, isn’t it (wonder if this moron is wondering who Mona is)
Him:
Yeap
Me: usually I have a big s
-eating grin (should have typed “shit” to see if he’d run)
Him:
I will like to look that smile on your face on day  Hope u will like that (If you ever see my face it will be with a taunting grin on it, you had better believe…)
Me: that’s a very sweet thing to say
Him: oh okay Well i am a very passionate person (passionate?  Does he know what that means? It is a big word with three syllables.)
Me:
So am I, but I laugh a lot
Him: My friend do say that i am kind of like giving (what friends?  you seem like a loser to me)
Me:
so how did you find me?
Him: My heart directed me to you  In 360 yahoo (Your heart.  What a load of crap.)
Me: what did you see there that interested you?
Him: Just the pics The little smile on your face (he didn’t read the page, obviously)
Me:
oh
Him: Do you have a cam ? (get the fuck out!  He didn’t read the first line on the page!)
Me:
you didn’t read my page, did you?
Him: Nope
Me: If you had read my page, you would know the answer to that
Him: That u can’t cam with me
Me: sort of… (god, jackass, go read the freaking page!)
Him:
well i don’t understand what the page is (wonder if you understand anything?  I bet you’d be proud if your IQ test came back negative.)
Me: 
There’s a statement at the very top of my page that says, “No, I will NOT cam with you.” and then there is a link you can click that will explain everything (so freaking READ it and GO AWAY)
Him:
Yes i saw that (moron)
Me: so, why don’t you read it.
Him: okay

(pause)

Him: I have read it but it’s just saying funny things that i don’t understand (then how do you know it’s funny?)
Me:
What do you not understand?
Him: Everything (alert the media – we have an honest man here, folks – he’s too stupid to try to bluff his way through this one.  Film at eleven.)
Me:
really
Him: Now lets forget about the profile ok and lets talk better here (Right.  As if…)
Me:
I don’t know that we will have very much to talk about
Him: Yes i am ready to talk about anything (you wouldn’t know how)
Me:
Well, you have me at a disadvantage. You see, you have been to my 360 page, and you see what my interests are. You’ve even read how to get my attention, if you clicked the link and read that page. But I know absolutely NOTHING about you or your interests.
Him: well i am looking for a real committed relationship here and not here for head games (and that’s the only interest you have?)
Me:  So…why don’t you tell me some of your interests?
Him: Oh well My interest is  I want a woman that is faithful honest loyal and a passionate lady (um. Yeah.  You said that. Do you really think I asked you to repeat yourself all over again?  By this point I’ve started snickering out loud.)
Me: I see. Well, having a mate in mind is all well and good, but don’t you think that the friendship that comes before the mating should be based on something?
Him: Oh and what is it (No, you really DON’T have a clue, do you?  I’m laughing out loud, now.)
Me:
well, like, on common interests. Activities. Things you do besides stare into each other’s eyes. You know, the stuff conversations are made of.
Him: Yes. U are right. I was expecting you ask (Like I HAVEN’T?)
Me: so…what do you like to do?
Him: I like camping ,swimming dancing and watching movies  (Ah.  Progress.  Maybe he has a brain cell after all.)
Me:
All of those are good things. What kind of movies do you like?
Him: I like passions films and loves films (Passions and loves?  Jeez…)
Me: You like chick flicks? NO WAY.
Him: No
Me: what do you mean by passion films? (like, Passion of the Christ?  Like the Notebook?  what?)
Him: I mean loving films (But not chick flicks.  Any guy in America would think a “loving” film is a chick flick, idiot…  At this point I am laughing really loud, and Jack, my 15 year old son, comes in to see what’s up.  I show him the conversation.  “Mom,” Jack says seriously,  “the guy means porn.”  “Oh my god! Really?”  I gasp, and ask the question…)
Me: You mean porn?
Him: Have you watched dissapearing acts (disappearing porn…OMFG!  “Jack!  he means snuff films!”  We’re both dying laughing.)
Me:
um, no
Him: That’s the kind of film that i am saying very interesting (Jack and I are both laughing hysterically.)
Me:
You mean snuff films? (“Mom!  I can’t believe you asked him that!”  Jack is shocked, but laughing.)
Him: It’s a kind of loving film  he teaches how someone needs to take care of women . it’s emotional  (What an idiot!  How should I respond?  Oh!  I know!)
Me: Oh. well. I like comedies and drama and suspense
Him: Oh nice  i hate suspense (It’s nice you hate what I like and you’re trying to hit on me?  Idiot.)
Me: really? Why?
Him: I hate someone keeping me in suspense (god, you must be dull)
Me:
oh. You like to know what’s going on, huh
(pause)  (Jack is trying to convince me to mess with him really bad – to concoct some lies and see how he responds)
Him:
Yes  what are u doing right now?
Me: talking with my son
Him: Oh i c
Me: He desperately needs a father figure  (I’m about to wet my pants I’m laughing so hard at what Jack wants me to say)
Him:
i will be there for him one day (The hell you say!)
Me:  His father won’t have anything to do with him. He says that the disease the child has makes the boy unfit to be considerd his son (This is ALL Jack’s idea – I swear.  I’m laughing so hard I’m having trouble typing.)
Him: Oh that’s bad
Me: Yes. His father is very rich and powerful, but is not a nice person at all.  (ok, that part is my idea – and untrue)
Him:
Oh that’s bad . I care for my kids so much and i tried to see them once in every month (Once a month!  You’re too good to them!  Most noncustodial parents get alternating weekends, asshole.  Why aren’t you doing that?!)
Me:
That’s wonderful! Well, My ex-husband beat me regularly(no he did NOT), even when I didn’t deserve it (deserve it?!?) , so for my sake I am glad I don’t have to see him, but little Johnny misses him terribly. He is three, and doesn’t understand (Jack’s story line, again.  We’re holding onto each other laughing as he comes up with more outrageous things to tell this loser that I nix because it’s just too … OUT there)
Him: Well u will need to be consoling him.  I am a caring person and god fearing (really?  I’m a pagan-athiest-rastafarian)
Me: Well, I have to go.  (Jack:  “Awwww, Mom, we could have more fun…!”)
Him: Why are u going anne (Because you’re an idiot and I’m laughing too hard to type any more)
Me:
bye
Him: will you come back ? (fat chance)

Nothing

 

I have contributed nothing to my child’s genetics. I was an incubator.

I caught my 15 year old son doing a Man Thought Process tonight.
Busted him flat.
Nailed him.
Caught him red handed.

 

    It’s a Man Thought Process I used to tease my ex about, and now my son is proudly performing the same Man Thought Process.

    Here is what happened:

    I walked into the living room. The TV was on, but he wasn’t watching it. He was just kind of staring into space, slack-jawed, a vacant look in his eyes.
    “Hi, honey,” I said. “Whatcha thinking?”
    “Oh. Hi, Mom. Um, nothing.”
    “Oh, you can tell me. I’m wanting a parent-child bonding moment, and what better way than to share your thoughts?”
    “I really wasn’t thinking about anything.”
    “Now, dear, I know you were thinking of something. Do you not want to tell me?”
    “Mom, really. I wasn’t thinking of anything!”
    “Nothing at all?”
    “Nothing!”
    “Oh, come on. No one can just think of nothing. You were thinking of something. What was it?”
    “Nothing, Mom! I wasn’t thinking of anything!”
    “You mean to tell me you can just sit there and stare into space and think of nothing at all.”
    “Yes!”
    “Your mind is just empty, not a single thought wafting through it.”
    “Right!”
    “That’s impossible, son. You had to be thinking of something.”
    “NO! I WASN’T! I WASN’T THINKING OF ANYTHING!”
    “You were thinking of absolutely nothing.”
    “YES! I WAS THINKING OF ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”

    It could have gone on in this vein for quite some time. I am quite good at goading him. It’s the skill of cross-examination coupled with maternal skepticism. With every question I let him know by my tone and cocked eyebrow how silly I thought his response was. He got more and more defensive of his vacant brain. It worked with the ex, it worked with the mini-him. For that matter, it’s worked on every male I’ve ever encountered. Well, all but three. Those three were much to fast on their toes to let me think I had caught them with helium between their ears.

    Would a woman ever be so proud of thinking of absolutely nothing?

Foster Children

Amber Alert issued for baby boy; social worker dead

As my friends and regular readers of this blog know, I’m a lawyer.  For most of the past 18 years, I have focused my practice on a much-maligned and little-understood area of the law: juvenile justice and child welfare.  I’ve been a lawyer for kids and families.

I have stopped doing this work in the last year, though.  I’m burned out and disgusted by a system that is designed to make families fail.  I’m also tired of parents who can’t get it through their heads that their conduct endangers their children.

The story that is described in the link at the beginning of this blog entry tells of a social services worker who was apparently murdered when she brought a foster child to his biological mother’s home for a visit.   The wire service report doesn’t begin to tell half of what brought the situation to such a point.  As someone who has worked in the system for nearly two decades, I can easily fill in the missing facts.

No mention is made in the article as to why this child came into foster care.  The fact that the child is developmentally disabled may mean that there was abuse or neglect in his home environment, or it may have nothing at all to do with why he was removed from his mother’s custody.  Please keep in mind, though, that courts do not remove children from their parent’s custody unless there is evidence that the child is in some sort of danger or at risk for serious abuse or neglect.

When children are removed from their parents and placed in foster care, federal law mandates that the social services agencies involved make reasonable efforts to rehabilitate the family so that the child can be returned safely to the parent from whom he was removed.  To this end, visits between the parent and child must take place.  Normally these visits are supervised at first, but as reunification of the family becomes more likely, visits often take place in the parent’s home.  The fact that the social worker had brought the child to his mother’s home for a visit probably means that the mother was soon going to be given custody of her child again.

A 33-year-old mother whose child is in foster care and who has a 23-year-old boyfriend is most likely not exercising good judgment in her life choices.  Although many of us see a ten-year difference in age as a small hurdle, the difference in the maturity level between someone 23 and someone 33 is usually pretty marked, especially where marginally functioning people are concerned.

I have been involved in many cases in which the judge has ordered that the mother not have any boyfriends around the children.  Before the First Amendment “freedom of association” arguments are made, let me explain why I often agree that this is wise on the part of the judge and that such an order is often in the best interest of the children.

A mother who is moving from man to man, from relationship to relationship, does not display the stability a child needs.  Furthermore, the men that rotate in and out of the mother’s life are frequently abusive both to her and to the children.  The mother is the parent upon whom the children depend, and it is the mother who must be able to provide for them.

So, in a nutshell, revolving door-type boyfriends are frowned upon.  If the boyfriend and the mother are in a long-term, serious relationship, though, and the boyfriend participates willingly in the services designed to reunify the mother and children, he is not a liability.

Often children are removed because of violence between their mother and her sexual partner, be it a boyfriend or a husband.  Judges frequently require that the mother not allow the violent man around the children at all, and if he is still in the picture the judge is extremely reluctant to return the children to their home.  Children who see their mother’s lovers brandishing guns and knives tend not to forget such traumatic events.  And although a judge will never order a woman to get a divorce as a condition to her children coming back home to her, the message is made more than abundantly clear: she must choose between her man and her children.  Sadly, these mothers often prefer their men.

Typically, the mother is the parent from whom the children are removed.  The mother is usually surviving on minimum wage income or on government assistance alone.  Frequently there are no sympathetic family members able to help the mother financially.  The mother turns to the only person willing to help: a boyfriend who is looking for a place to live.  He moves into her government-subsidized home contrary to the terms of her lease.  This jeopardizes the roof over her head, but food stamps are never enough to feed a family. She needs money to pay for utilities, clothing, and additional food.  She needs this extra income to provide food, shelter, and clothing for her child and herself.

The financial stresses of a middle-class existence are sometimes overwhelming, so imagine a family living on $200 worth of food stamps a month and perhaps an additional $800 coming from a combination of government assistance, unemployment checks, or minimum wage jobs.  There simply is not enough money to survive.

Other than poverty, probably the leading cause of child abuse and neglect, though, is drug abuse.  In the area where I live, and in growing frequency nationwide, crystal methamphetamine is the drug of choice for poor people.  It offers a euphoric high for not very much money.  It can be made at home.  It kills personalities, brains, and relationships.  Meth is worse than crack ever dreamed of being, in my opinion.  The brain damage caused by meth use is immediate and irreversible.

Add to that the inertia of depression that overtakes parents who are overwhelmed by their lot in life or by drug or alcohol abuse.  The home is a wreck, knives are within easy reach of children, hot irons are left plugged in where children pull them off ironing boards, trash is not removed from the home, and roaches, fleas, and lice are jumping everywhere.  If there are school-age children, it is unlikely that the parent gets them up and to school regularly, even though the children can be fed two or three hot meals that don’t require food stamps to be expended.

The financial and environmental stresses take their toll.  In anger, the boyfriend or the mother lashes out at a baby who won’t stop crying, a toddler who refuses to take a bath, or a child who is making too much of a mess.  The results are a shaken baby with brain damage, a toddler with second-degree immersion burns from being held in a tub of hot water, a child bruised black and blue from repeated beatings.

At this point, all it takes is a single telephone call from a daycare worker, a teacher, or a neighbor. Social services investigate the home.  The children are then taken away from everything they know and placed with strangers in a foster home.

A very telling statement was included in the AP report on this murder.  A neighbor described the mother as “goofy, like a little kid…..But every time I talked to her, she was sweet as can be.” This statement speaks volumes to me.  The mother is probably functioning at a low level.  She probably loves her child but is unable to care for him the way he needs because of his developmental delays and her own limited mental capacity.

Many, many of the parents whose children are removed for abuse and neglect function at a mental level so low that they cannot manage many of the skills the working class and middle class take for granted.  They cannot budget their income.  They cannot consider the long-term implications of their decisions.  They can perform jobs only at the most basic level.  They may receive disability benefits not because they are playing the system but because they are truly disabled as a result of mental illness or mental impairment.  More often than not, the parents of abused foster children were themselves abused children.  They have no role models for good parenting.

Parents whose children have been removed from their care have tried to run away with the children.  They have hidden the children from social services workers and from the police, moved across state lines, and simply refused to turn the children over to foster care.  Now, it seems, that there is at least one child over whom murder has been committed.

One of the dangers of being a social services worker is that home visits have to be made.  This is the case whether or not visits are occurring in the home.  The social service workers have to know whether or not the home is physically suitable for a child to live there.  Sometimes social services workers are assigned to actually go to the parent’s home to teach housekeeping and home-making skills – everything from how to clean a toilet to how to budget income.  Parenting classes in the home are also effective, but require the social services worker to go to the home.

Parents usually hate to see the social services workers come.  These workers are the same people who took the child from the parent in the first place.  They virtually have carte blanche to open any door, look in any cupboard or closet, remark on deficits in housekeeping, and spin their tales in court of the parent’s lack of cooperation.  The parent usually has no one on her side, other than her lawyer, to refute the allegations.

Imagine, for a moment, that your neighbor has sued you because they do not like the way you trim your grass.  The judge has said that your grass trimming is substandard, and orders your neighbor to monitor how you keep your lawn and report back to the court in six-month intervals.  You do everything the judge requires, even to the point of taking special classes in lawn maintenance, but you cannot seem to please your neighbor who continues to find fault with your lawn maintenance.  Within one year, according to federal law, the judge says you have had long enough to learn effective lawn maintenance and orders your home and lawn sold.  You will not be allowed to retrieve your belongings from the house, but must find somewhere else to live.  You will be allowed one last night in the house but that is all, and an armed guard will stand watch to ensure you do not vandalize the place.  After you leave the house, your neighbor arranges for his friend to move into your old house.  The friend’s lawn maintenance skills may not be much better than yours, but the neighbor does not complain.

Can you imagine the cries of injustice if this were to happen?  This does happen, though, with our foster care system.  The children are the lawns, the social services agencies are the neighbors, and the parents are the proprietors of that substandard lawn.  Shockingly enough, sometimes the lawns may have been substandard only once, maybe by accident, maybe because a caretaker hired to oversee the lawn while the proprietor was on vacation left town himself.

I am not about to make excuses for parents who abuse and neglect their children.  I have seen cases of abuse that have made me physically ill.  I have seen children who are little more than wild animals because of the emotional vacuum to which they have been subjected.  I have seen children who are permanently maimed or scarred by physical abuse.  I have listened to children talk about horrific sexual abuse in a matter-of-fact way as if they could not imagine a world where such things did not happen.  I have been in the homes of children that reek of feces and vomit, in which fleas and lice make a living slipcover for sofas and chairs, and where food has been left to grow old and moldy and full of maggots on the kitchen counters.  It is despicable what some parents do to their children.

But I have also seen miracles of parenting and achievement where there was no apparent hope.  Those cases are the ones that kept me accepting these cases year after year.  Those, and the happy smiles of children who get to go back to their homes and families.  It is rare that even abused and neglected children don’t want to go home.

September 18, 1991

Exactly fifteen years ago I was in very hard labor.  No epidural.  No progress.  I had this incredibly big little person inside me struggling to get out, and my body was not cooperating. My poor husband was massaging my lower back for all he was worth.  The Three Stooges ignored us and went on with their antics on TV.  Jack was almost three weeks late making his appearance into the world.

At about 10:00 in the morning, after 11 hours of no progress in my labor, the decision was made to do a Caesarian.  My regular doctor was  not on call, and young Doogie Howser, his new partner, showed up for the surgery.

“Why is my side hurting so much?”  I screamed at him between contractions.
“I don’t know,” he responded with a worried look.  Great, I thought to myself.  Then I yelled with another contraction.
The epidural, which came after 12 hours of contractions less than two minutes apart, was a blessing.    As the epidural kicked in and the pain left, I was exhausted but relaxed.  It was a welcome relief.

Almost as soon as the pain dissipated, Jana,  one of my best friends, breezed into the room.  I don’t think she was supposed to be there, but as a federal prosecutor she tends to go wherever she wants.  My husband left to grab a meal. There was a monitor hooked to my belly that measured the contractions on a visible graph.
“Wow,” she said.   “That was a big one.  Did you feel it?
“Um, not really.   I was feeling them earlier, but the epidural made the pain go away.”
“Oooooh, check that one out!  It really peaked!”
“Jana, I don’t want to know.  I’ve been kinda suffering here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t feel it now.  Wow.  See how it starts out low and the just surges up?  Are you sure the baby isn’t coming?  Because that contraction looked like it went over the top of the meter.”
“Jana!”
“Oh.  Sorry.  But it’s really cool to watch the muscle contractions on this machine.”

At that point Doogie Howser came in and fiddled with one of the other machines I was hooked up to.  “Hmmmm,” he mused.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, we ought to go on and get you prepped for surgery right away.”
“Is the baby ok?  Is there something wrong?” I asked, feeling a surge of hormonal emotion through the seductive sedation of the epidural.  At that moment I was almost panicked because I didn’t care – I just wanted the ordeal over with.
“No, no.  He’s doing fine.  We just need to get him out of you.”  Doogie looked a little worried, and left the room quickly.

“Did you hear that?  What he said about the baby?” I asked Jana.  She had a serious look on her face and I wondered if she could see something on a monitor that I couldn’t.
“The baby’s fine,” she said reassuringly. “They’re going to do a C-Section and both of you will be fine.”
“No, I mean he said the baby is a boy.  He said ‘he’ is doing fine.”
Jana’s mouth formed a silent “oh.”

My husband and I had intentionally refused to know the sex of our baby.  We wanted it to be a surprise, the old-fashioned way.  Now just before delivery, a doc slips up and tells me I have a boy.  I had wanted a girl so bad I could taste it.  Damn.  My husband wanted a son, of course.  I hated the name a son would have.  And irrationally, I was more upset about the fact that I knew the gender of my kid than I was about the fact that I was about to have major emergency surgery.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell,”  I said.  Jana nodded her agreement.  When Doogie Howser came back he launched into a long explanation of why they had to do an emergency C-Section.  I never heard a word he said.
“Hold on,” I interrupted.
“You have a question?” he asked.
“No, there’s something I have to tell you,” I said.  “When you said the baby was doing fine you used the word ‘he.’  We didn’t want to know whether the baby is a boy or girl until he’s born.”
In 1991 it was much more common to know the child’s gender before birth than not.  Poor Young Doogie had a horrified look on his face.  I could tell he was worried about how his bedside manner was coming across.
“Please, just don’t tell my husband, ok?” I asked.
Doogie blustered, “Well, ‘he’ is kind of a generic pronoun, you know.  I just said ‘he’ for the heck of it.  It might be a girl.”  I knew he was lying.  Poor Doogie.  I felt sorry for him.  But I really didn’t want my husband to have the same flash of disappointment I did when I learned too soon that Jack, not Laura Elizabeth, was to be our baby.  I wasn’t disappointed that it was Jack, I was disappointed to know, before he was actually born.

The nurses prepped me for surgery then kicked Jana out.  As they wheeled me and my bed into the operating room, Jana called to me, “See you in a few minutes!”  That epidural sure was making me feel good.

Doogie loomed over me in surgery.  “You’re going to stay awake if we can manage that,” he said.  I just nodded.  He made the incision.  Then he went back over it.  I had a vision of an X-Acto knife going through foam.  I hoped he wouldn’t cut the baby.
“Wow, that’s a lot of muscle!” one of the nurses exclaimed.  “Have you been doing sit-ups or something?”  Yeah,  I thought to myself.  With a ten month belly I can do sit-ups.
The truth was, I really had done sit-ups as far into my pregnancy as possible.  I have a sway back, and all my life I had been told to do sit-ups to strengthen my abdominal muscles.  Because of lower back problems, I knew I had to keep my abdominal muscles strong or pregnancy would be destructive to my back.  I did at least 50 a day until my belly was too cumbersome to allow me to move.

They had to lengthen the initial incision.  From the comments the nurses were making, Doogie must have been sawing through pure Pittsburgh steel to get to the baby.  Then Jack’s head popped out.  He gave a cry immediately.  My husband was standing near my head and told me, “It looks like that scene from Alien.”  Alien. Yes.  Sigourney Weaver’s finest acting hour.  And the monster that erupts from the man’s chest and goes skittering out of the room – eeeewwww.

It did not appear that Jack would be doing any skittering, though, because the delivery crew couldn’t get his shoulders through the slit in my abdominally superior body.  Three nurses and Dougie were working on the problem, and finally they decided brute force was the answer.  On a count of three, they jumped on my belly.  Over and over again.  I felt like I was getting navel CPR.  Somewhere a baby was crying. After about five jumps, Jack’s shoulders came free.

When they gave him to me the first thing I saw were his dimples.  He has his dad’s dimples!  Deep, sweet dimples!  “Awww, honey,” I said, “he’s got your dimples.  And your hair.”  He had his dad’s blond hair and hairline and I already saw the twin cowlicks on his forehead.

Jack is the best thing I’ve ever done, and he is my favorite person.  He is the most important person in my life.  He is “Jack” because I don’t like his real name.  No, his real name isn’t John.  The nickname came from his dad’s maternal grandfather who had an awful name, too.  When Grandpa was drafted and went to Ft. Hood, his buddies decided to call him “Jack,”  and the name stuck with him for a lifetime.  It seemed like an appropriate nickname for my son, who is saddled with the same name as his father and his other grandfather.

Jack is extremely smart.  He tests higher than I do on IQ tests, which is saying something (I’m not trying to brag on myself, but on my kid!)  He tests in school at the 99th percentile in all verbal fields, and at the 85th or above in everything else.  He is creative.  He and a friend are writing a script for a TV series that will be a riot if it’s ever actually aired.  He is kind and good.  He is empathic.  He is good with little kids.  He has a crush on a girl and he’s actually trying to work up the nerve to ask her to a movie.  I am a very lucky mom.  I have a fantastic teenage baby!

I will eventually write about all of the joys of being Jack’s mom.  Yes, I adore my kid and I always have.  Even Laura Elizabeth could not have been an improvement on him.

Happy 15th birthday, Jack.  I love you most.

Ambition

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I love this old photo of my dad as a toddler. The expression on his face is so recognizable! His sense of humor and his devilishness beamed through his personality even when he was a little guy.

Because of my father, I make a great effort to be the best person I can be.

While this may not extend to wearing makeup every day, it does extend to the quality of the work I do and the interactions I have with other people.

I am ambitious. I am generally motivated by the need for achievement. I expect the people around me to be motivated by this need for achievement, too, and I am dumbfounded when it appears they are not. I have lost respect for people close to me who lose ambition or who claim to have it but just don’t work for it.

I desperately want my son to be ambitious enough to achieve the satisfaction of at least moderate success so that he can lead a productive, happy life. Being productive in society is vital to finding satisfaction and happiness, I believe. I don’t think we have to contribute to charity, volunteer at soup kitchens, or invent a new vaccine to be productive.

Parents are productive when they give their children values, structure, and education. When they teach a child how he or she may succeed, a parent is fulfilling his obligation to his child. Possibly one of the most productive things my dad ever did was to imbue each of his children with the confidence to surge forward, to try. He gave us the courage to fail and then to try again.

He loved to quote this poem to us:

 

It Couldn’t be Done
By Edgar Guest

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it”;
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.


Sometimes, ambition counts more than actual success. Trying matters if the effort is an honest and assiduous.

I quote Yoda’s “Try? There is no ‘try.’ There is do, or do not.” But the truth is, Yoda’s maxim really only applies when “do” or “do not” is a choice. It applies to turning in homework. It applies to keeping the house clean. It applies to meeting reasonable deadlines. It applies to yard work. It does not apply to playing the guitar perfectly, to making A’s in math, or to mastering the nuances of the Force without a mentor to demonstrate how the force can be used.

I have to make sure my determination and my belief that others should share my ambition doesn’t cost me my close relationships.

I think it cost me my marriage, in part. I could not understand how my husband seemed to have so little interest in personal achievement, especially as bright as he seemed to be when I first knew him. This was not a failure of his personality, it was simply an aspect of it that I found unfathomable. I failed to recognize this characteristic of his for the destructive force it could be – not to me personally, and not to him because it simply WAS him, but destructive to our relationship.

I lost my respect for him because I perceived his lesser drive to achieve to be a shortcoming that he refused to address. For a long time I did not understand that he couldn’t change it, and why he really had no interest in changing that part of him. But just like my drive and ambition are an integral part of my personality, his are an integral part of his personality. He and I simply don’t manifest our desires for success in the same way, nor do we consider “success” to be of the same importance.

Even when I later came to understand that his level of ambition simply WAS, I could not regain the feelings I had for him before ambition became a defined problem for us. I just didn’t feel the same. I didn’t love him any less, but I recognized how mismatched we were and how frustrated I was by this one aspect of his personality. Recognizing that his level of ambition simply WAS didn’t help me to accept it, because I just didn’t approve of it for someone so close to me.

People with ambition take on projects and see them through to the end. We have ideas, we start planning and collecting information, we put the people and materials together, we oversee the work, we build the ideas up and take them to the next level, and we run the course of things. We don’t quit before we succeed. We are focused and determined. On the rare occasion when a project sputters out or doesn’t work the way we intended, we chalk the failure up to experience and move on to the next idea. We are Movers and Shakers.

Shakers, the people with the ideas, need the Movers to gather the committees of people who can actually make the dream a reality. The Shaker explains to the Mover what the goal is, and perhaps explains a couple of steps along the way. The Mover listens to the idea, considers how to implement it, and puts together a team of people and materials who can get the job done.

Movers direct the Managers and tell them what the Shakers’ ultimate goals are. The Managers are perfectly willing to carry out instructions, but Managers don’t have the innovative ideas. They can take a vision, though, and make it a reality.

Some people are the Craftsmen. They can take an aspect of an idea, hone it to perfection, beauty and grace, and incorporate it into the great scheme of things.

Some people are the Data Entry Operators. They are willing to help and work hard by organizing things or putting them in their places.

Others are the Drones, who are not interested in the work they do but can be counted on to perform adequately and then to put their energies into other aspects of the greater whole: the community or their families.

Each type of person is vital to the operation not just of a business, but of a government, of a society, of a community, of a family. Every person plays every role at one time or another, but the dominant roles they play often are a result of their personal ambitions.

Compatible relationships are those in which the level of ambition are complimentary or alike. A Mover and a Shaker can do well together, but a Shaker and a Data Entry Operator don’t necessarily communicate in the same language. I cannot and will not say where my ex-husband fell in these categories I’ve described. Most likely he fits into more than one depending on the task at hand, just like everyone else. but he and I did not communicate very well when it came to ambition and work, and thus we were frustrated together.

This isn’t the only reason we divorced. There were so many other reasons. This is only one contributing factor. We were very frustrated by each other. I am so glad we parted when we did rather than wait until our frustration levels with one another were so great that we could not remain civil. I treasure my relationship with my ex-husband. It is a sparkling emerald to me – not the hardest or most perfect stone by any means, but a beautiful one that can be clear and bright as well as shattered or murky.