My Bad Parenting
Well, more like mediocre parenting…

I may have said already that my childhood… well pretty much my entire life has been a series of random movie quotes. Sometimes, I recognize that they are movie quotes. Lately, I have begun assuming that everything I hear from other people is a movie quote. It helps me not to see everyone as a complete lunatic.

…It all began when I was a child…

I remember my dad telling me, “It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark…and we’re wearing sunglasses. Hit it!”

First, I was little, but not little enough that I didn’t  know that Chicago was way less than 106 miles away. Also, it was not dark outside and we had no sunglasses. Plus? I didn’t even smoke cigarettes then.

On a seperate occassion, he said to me, “Sissy? We are on a mission from God.”

I didn’t think so.

I thought we were going to the grocery store.

You don’t argue with people that think that they are missions from God though. You just go with it.

I didn’t learn until I was well into my teens that my dad was quoting the Blues Brothers.

I thought he was probably insane.

On an unrelated note, sometime after I had gotten my license, my dad took me down to Indianapolis with him for a hog roast and the Indy 500.

On the way home, he was tired.  So he let me drive, put the seat all the way back and fell asleep.

I drove alone, following any sign that pointed towards Michigan City, IN. Not because we lived there, but  because I knew Michigan City was fairly close to where we did live.

I think I only drove us an extra 30 to 50 miles out of the way.

Somewhere on a dark highway, and I mean dark highway… The song “King of the Road” came on the radio. When the first chorus rang out through the speakers, my Dad, who was dead asleep, damn near shouted, “King of the Road…”

And yeah, I admit it, I screamed like a little girl and almost drove right off the damn road.

Also? The color puce seemed to hold a certain fascination for my father. I don’t know when or how it began…but for nearly as long as I can remember, anything that had to be given a color as part of a description, was automatically proclaimed to be “Puce!”

This is harmless and endearing…however?

My children now proclaim any and all things to be puce.

Everything.

Teachers hate me.

Also, I didn’t actually know what color it was until about three years ago.

And then, of course, there are the puppies.

I have only witnessed one puppy creation. My dad used a chainsaw for what seemed like hours to carve a puppy on top of a stump that is in my front yard.

They had just cut the tree down… Thank God, because if he had carved a puppy for no reason on a random stump I might still think he was insane.

After his work was complete, he set the chainsaw down, wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinned and gestured to the stump, “Look! Its a puppy!”

Months later, after the kids brushed snow off the stump they were amazed to find what they assumed to be a prehistoric caveman puppy drawing.

They also discovered the joy of drawing random figures and squiggles and proclaiming them to be puppies.

Puce puppies.

That may or may not be on missions from God.

I do not remember now what Trinity’s assignment was. I do remember that it concerned describing someone. I can’t remember who it was, but it was a black person. She didn’t know what to write about the person’s physical description. When I told her that she should put his race in the description she fixed with a look I have only ever seen from my mother when I was in very deep trouble.

“Mom.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s racist.”

I laughed at her. “It is not racist, Trin. It is not a derogatory statement to say that a person is African American.” Trin glared at me, trying to decide if I was once again lying to her. “Take President Obama for example. If you had to describe him physically, you would say that he is African American and tall and whatever else he is. It is not racist to say that he is tall, right?”

Trin pondered for a moment.

Melissa piped in with her opinion on the matter, “It would be racist if you said that he was a bad president just because he was black. It would be racist to say that all black people would be bad presidents. It is not racist to say that black people are black.”

Trin wrinkles up her forehead and glares at both of us. She does not trust our judgement on this matter. She declines to put race into any part of her physical description of the subject she is writing about.

Moments later, as Trin emerges from her room to ask if we know where a pencil is, Melissa attempts to demonstrate racism.

“Trin, why would we have any pencils? We are white. Everyone knows that white people can’t make pencils. Only Koreans know how to make pencils.” Trin glares again, and I nearly double over with laughter.

Melissa is unaware of the reason of my hysterical giggling. “See Trin? That was racist. Or racial profiling at the very least. It’s when you make a generalization about someone based on their race. It’s like saying that all Mexican’s are Catholics, or that all Oriental people are good at math and science.” I laugh harder, because in her effort to explain these things, she has forgotten that Trinity’s father is half Korean.

Trinity is glaring at my friend, her hands on her hips and her lips screwed all up into a “fuck off and die” expression. She does not move for the longest time and Melissa finally asks me what the Hell is so funny. I stammer out the fact that Trinity is, in fact, part Korean and that she hasn’t the slightest idea how to make pencils.

Melissa is all kinds of apologetic for a few moments, before taking full advantage of the situation.

“So? Is it racist for me to say that you are Korean?” Trin glares in silence still and Melissa gradually gives up the conversation.

For my part, I giggle more and ask Trinity to please, please say “Pessi” for me. She declines. She also declines to say “flied lice. flied lice.” I then reminder her that her face may get stuck like that forever if she doesn’t get rid of the “fuck off” expression.

Quinn loves popcorn. He loves popcorn more than he loves just about anything else in the whole world. More than his toys, more than his sisters, more than his parents. He loves popcorn more than he loves Oreos and that kid seriously loves his Oreos.

Cadence has taken it upon herself to teach her little brother how to make popcorn. She opens the packages, places them in the microwave, presses the popcorn button and then lets Quinn press the start button. They high-five and Quinn is all kinds of cheesy-grin-proud of himself.

The drawback to this is of course Quinn is now more than willing to press the buttons on the microwave whenever the whim strikes him. You would think that this would be okay, as the microwave has a lock system that prevents any of the buttons from working… except when I lock the microwave.. no matter how many times I show him, Quinn’s daddy is convinced that it is broken. After countless times of unlocking the microwave, I had largely given up on locking the damn thing.

To make matters even worse there is a quick start program on the microwave. That means that pressing any button between 1 and 6 starts the microwave at full power for that many minutes.

Quinn would like to make some popcorn while I am writing something or another on the computer. I hear the door to the microwave open, and then I hear it shut. Hmm. I didn’t really worry about it, because I thought I had locked the damn thing. I hadn’t. Quinn could not find any popcorn. So he decided he could microwave his sister’s bottle of lotion instead. When I hear the microwave kick on I run to the kitchen and throw open the door and discover the boiling plastic tube of lotion. I swing the door shut half a second before the lotion tube explodes. It would have caused some severe injuries had I not shut the door. As it happened it made a hell of a mess and made the house smell really, really good for a day or two.

You’d think I’d remember then to lock the microwave…I don’t. Mostly because I have the attention span of a squirrel. On crack.

Quinn decided days later that he wanted more popcorn. Unfortunately, he was unable to locate the popcorn. So he settled on cooking some Ramen noodles. In the package. With no water…while I was in the bathroom. I didn’t even hear the door or the thing turn on. What I did hear was Quinn’s little voice as he threw open the bathroom door and proclaimed, “Momma! Cook!”

Aw shit.

When I make it out to the kitchen I discover the package of noodles is actually in flames…tiny ones, but flames just the same. I deposit the flaming package of noodles in the sink and lean down to tell  Quinn never to do that again in the most authoritative voice I can come up with.

Quinn stares up at me with tear filled eyes and says as sadly as he can manage, “Momma. Cook?”

“No. No cook. That was fire. You made fire.”

Quinn looks so confused. And sad. And maybe hungry. I think probably I should feed the kid. And lock the microwave. First lock the microwave, then feed the kid.

I don’t know when Karma started to hate me. All I know is that I was maybe a serial killer in my last life, because Karma has been out to get me for at least the last month. And I am not even talking about the crazy husband part!

Let’s see…. It probably started with the broken tooth. The tooth itself did not hurt so much, it was the incredibly sharp edge that kept making my tongue bleed everytime I tried to speak. People kept asking me what was wrong. I declined to comment…as my fucking tongue bled every fucking time I talked! Most people? Just thought I was bitchy. And I was. Because my tongue was fucking bleeding!

Then I broke everything on the van and fixed most of it. No big deal until the van was stolen  from behind the gun shop. Yeah. Someone stole the minivan from behind a gun store. Why? Because I left the keys in the ignition and also because Karma hates me.

The van was found in Gary the day after we bought a new car. Which was just as well because the engine in Art’s truck blew up the day the van was stolen. On the way to Gary to pick up the van… which we had to pay for by the way, I discovered that someone close to me had been lying to me for approximately three months. I have never physically wanted to hurt someone so badly in my life as I did that day. Seriously.

We bond the van out of jail and one would think that that would be the end of the bullshit for the next few weeks, right? Nope. Because Karma is seriously pissed off at me. I go to the dentist, discover I will have to have two teeth removed by an oral surgeon, I also end up in the ER with a decent case of bronchitis.

So I am sick and I am feeling all kinds of betrayed and sad and angry. And I then find myself breaking up a bar fight at work at 1:30 in the afternoon. This does not help me find my happy place at all. A few days after this bar fight, I get fired for not calling the police… even though we are never supposed to call the police.

Fuck it!

I decide to stay in bed for the next three to four days, feeling sorry for myself and crying on and off. Art brings me some St. John’s Wort. I don’t know if it helps, but I get out of bed. Only to run the new car into a guardrail in the ice. The car warned me. I turned the ignition and it said “Drive with caution. Ice possible.”

Seriously? Fuck you Karma. I am going back to bed for a few more days.

It seems though, for the moment, Karma has found a new victim. Because after another round of crying in bed I got up to write.

I sold an article, talked to an old friend, who gave me a lead on a job that I started the very next day, so getting fired from the shit hole I was working in may have been the best thing that ever happened to me!

And finally I am feeling some hope! I got the teeth pulled and spent another two days in bed, not feeling sorry for myself this time, just moaning and groaning and eating tylenol 3 like it was my job.

Finally though, I am feeling almost like myself, coming out of the gray fog that surrounded me for the last month or so and feeling like maybe everything is going to be okay after all.

I heard Cadence screaming at Trinity from their bedroom… something about how she had something or another first.

The entire horrible week somehow boiled down to that single moment. On Sunday the tie rods on the van had to be replaced. On Monday I broke a tooth. I had to replace two tires, and discovered that there was a sway bar missing on the van as well. I worked all week, ran my ass off getting the kids to and from school and back to work again and then on Friday? Some asshole stole my minivan. From behind the gun shop.

The fuck?

Who steals a minivan?

And now? These girls were actually arguing about what I assumed was the bouncy ball that my mother had sent home with Cadence. I was wrong. It was worse.

“Girls! Enough. I have had enough of your arguing about stupid shit. Trin the ball is Cadence’s. Let her have it and leave her the hell alone!”

“It’s not the ball Mom. It’s my stick.”

“Your…Stick? As in that twig off of the tree? You are actually arguing about a stick?” I am at a loss for words at this point.

“Yeah and Mom, I had it first.” Cadence tells me.

“No you didn’t. It’s mine. I brought it in the house.” I can only watch the exchange between my daughters and hold my head.

A stick.

Fucking really?

“I had if first because I got it out of the garbage.” Cadence tells me, and I lose any measure of self-control I may have had left.

“What? Trinity Anne? You are arguing about a stick that you threw away?!”

“Yeah. I threw it away because I didn’t want her playing with it.” Trin tells me.

“Uh. So, you had a stick and you threw it away strictly to stop your sister from having it?” I ask.

“Right.” Trin does not seem to see any problem at all with the conversation.

“And you are now arguing with your sister about the stick that you obviously did not want because you threw it away?”

“Right. Because it’s mine.” Trin seems slightly bewildered by my confusion.

“Okay. So you threw the stick away just to be an asshole to your little sister? Right?”

Trin shakes her head. “No, I just didn’t want her to play with it.”

“So you threw it away.”

“Right, because…”

“You threw away the stick. Just to be mean to Cadence? And now you want the stick back? Just because you don’t want her to have it?” I am ashamed of myself for even having this conversation, but I am unable to stop myself.

“Cadence?” Cadence looks up from the stick. “Don’t pick stuff out of the garbage, okay? It’s just gross.” Cadence nods, alligator tears on her cheeks.

“Trinity?” Trin looks up from the stick as well.

“If you throw something away? It is no longer yours? Got it. In fact? When you throw things away, the police can use it as evidence and not even get a warrant.”

Trin says nothing, but her expression suggests that I have probably grown another head. With fangs. Another grotesque head with sharp evil fangs.

“When you throw something away, it becomes public property and therefor no longer yours. So now? It is Cadence’s stick.”

“And now, the both of you can go sit on the couch and think about how absolutely ridiculous this argument was and about how you should not be an asshole to your sister just for the sake of being an asshole.” And I walk away from the fit Trinity is now throwing on the couch, wondering just how in the hell I have allowed myself to become so involved in a discussion about a god damn stick.

I decide that whether they are in time out or not, both of them have just scored massive points over me. I also realize that Trinity will probably never again throw anything away.

My Daddy collects stuff. Just all kinds of stuff. He goes to auctions and buys box lots and other stuff. He sells some of it on ebay, gives some of it away, and then piles the rest of his stuff in my parent’s computer room. He has every intention of selling the stuff someday on Ebay. Since he is working and has little time to take pictures and create listings on Ebay, there are gigantic piles of STUFF in the computer room.

It was the eve of Cadence’s sixth birthday party. We were expecting about eight little kids. My mom called me to come over and help clean up the dining room, which was full of STUFF and also various tools because my parents have been doing some remodeling. I don’t know why I did not claim to be sick or dead or something.

I went to assist in the de-stuffing of the room and also with the decorating, which we all know I am all kinds of bad at.

I begin by removing the air compressor and various tools from the room, before I even register the vast amount of STUFF laying around. The big stuff out of the way, I begin making piles of stuff. There are fishing lures and phones, a box full of watch batteries, tackle boxes and animal figurines. There are all kinds of little trinkets and big trinkets, dishes and vinyl records and stuffed animals. I am lost amidst the STUFF.

I leave a trail of twine behind me as I dig deeper into the small room, terrified that I will be lost forever in the halls of stuff. My mom wants me to take all of the stuff down to the basement. After the first few trips to the basement, I begin wondering if my mom even knows how much more stuff is down there. I consider calling that one show, something about pickers. As the evening progresses, I consider calling Hoarders instead.

It is a full hour before I reach the far side of the room. My dad has come home from work and is sitting in the living room with my mom when I discover the sink in the corner. A full kitchen sink, still in the box.

“Holy. Shit. Really? Dad, really?”

“What Sissy?” Says my dad, sounding all kinds of innocent and non-hoarderish.

“There is a kitchen sink in here Dad. A kitchen sink. Just, I mean, really Dad?”

“You have every damn thing in here… and a freaking kitchen sink!”

My parents giggle.

I do not giggle. It disturbs me that it has taken me over an hour to realize there is a KITCHEN SINK in the computer room. I know that they are remodeling, that they intend on installing the sink in a short time…but just, really?

My mother is having the time of her life, laughing her ass of at me as I discover more and more stuff. To make matters worse and harder… my father has already filled every cabinet, drawer, nook, and cranny; every empty space under desks and chairs and behind doors with more STUFF. So I had to find other nooks and crannies in other rooms, stairways, and all of our cars to hide shit stuff in.

My mother continued to make smart ass remarks and told me repeatedly that she was going to make it a point to die before my father does so that she is not stuck cleaning up all of my dad’s treasures when he dies. At some point she gets annoyed with the way I am hiding things in various places and tells me that she is writing my name in permanent marker on the bottom of all of my father’s things so that when they both die I will be stuck with all of Daddy’s “treasures”.

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

I am writing to bid goodbye and good riddance and a heartfelt thank you to the year 2011. These past 12 months  have been hell, and also bliss. Dickinson said it best; “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

I have been broken and on my knees, uncertain and terrified. I have felt, so many times this year that I simply couldn’t continue. That there was no way I could get back to my feet and push on. I did though. I have discovered a strength in myself that I didn’t know I possessed.

To April and Melissa and David and Troy: Thank you for the hand holding, the laughs and the tears. Thank you for telling me what I needed to hear without fail, whether I wanted to hear it or not. Thank you for the moments of hilarity and love and support. I can’t express how much you all mean to me. I would not have made it through this year without all of you.

To Harry: Thank you for the house keys, for the sanctuary. Thank you for the love and support. Thank you for saving my life that night I fell out of the tree… and for so much more. You all have a special place in my heart. In all this pain and fear, I have never felt so loved.

To my Grandparents; Thank you for every single thing. There is no way I will ever be able to express how much you’ve helped me, us. No way to repay your kindness, generosity and support. Without you, my stress level would have peaked considerably higher and maybe my head would have actually exploded.

To my parents: Thank you for your support and love and generosity. For listening and supporting without judging. For loving us and for your patience as you waited for me to process and then open up. It means more than I can ever adequately describe.

To my brother; Simply, thank you for always being there. For making it known so many times that you would be here for me if I needed you, in whatever way that was.

To Art: Thank you for getting the help that you needed.  For your strength and your determination to get through this thing. You have been through Hell and back. I lose sight of that sometimes, all wrapped up in my own pain and fear. I’m sorry for that.

To Robert: Thank you for stopping my endless rambling to ask me how I was doing. It meant more than you know.

To Christy and Diane and their friends and family: Thank you for so much. Your generosity and love has touched a place in my heart I didn’t know I had. You made this year’s Christmas so wonderful for our children and for us. You made me want to be a better person. You gave me gratitude and perspective. When I was all broken and scared you showed me how awesome people can be.

To Paul Gomez and Seth Bailey and Ken Williamson and Mike Marcon, whom I have never actually met.. thank you for the support and the advice.  Thank you for allowing me to vent and cry on your shoulders… and text your phones and answering my emails at all kinds of ridiculous hours. You are exceptional men.

To Rodney Anderson and Sean Wilkie and other members of Ironworkers Local 395 for dropping everything to help us in one of the most incredibly desperate and frightening times of my life. You, too, are exceptional men. I love you guys.

To everyone else that offered their assistance and guidance and love. I can’t express the level of my gratitude.

This year has broken me, wounded me and healed me. It has brought me so much pain and fear and unprecedented levels of stress. It has also brought me more love than I have ever known, more strength and acceptance and wonder than I have ever imagined.