It's hard to be special

Veronica finally got the cast off her right foot Monday. She had surgery on April 18^th to correct her club foot.  I can’t even describe the feeling of seeing her foot “straight” for the first time ever.



Veronica in her wheelchair



Imagine having a child with a disfigured limb. You learn to live that it is “just the way God made them.” And then you find a doctor that can fix it. You make the appointment. You sit by the phone every day waiting for the call that tells you “sorry, but we can’t do the surgery.”

But the doctor never calls. You begin to realize that this surgery was meant to be. But you’re taking a big risk. Your child’s foot may be “fixed” but if she can’t bear weight on it then she will never walk again.

So you buy airline tickets and you plan your trip to the hospital for another surgery of a lifetime (I’ll explain the other surgeries in another blog.) All your close friends are totally siked but you know in the back of your mind that they have no idea what you are up against. It’s so easy for something to go wrong—and if it does then it’s all your fault.

Before you get on the plane, you speak to your child’s Sunday school teacher on the phone. She says, “I just wanted you to know I love your daughter. We’re all praying for her. What is this surgery going to do exactly?”

Well that’s a big question, so you search for answers. “It’s supposed to make her foot flat so she can walk better—you know help with her balance.” But in the back of your mind, you know that there is no way to really know what this surgery is going to do—it will either work or it won’t.

Having a disabled child is never easy. Not only are you faced with making decisions about surgeries and therapy, but you are faced with the daily challenges of feeding them, dressing them, and getting them from one place to the next.

Veronica has been wheelchair bound since April 19^th, and I have to admit that it has been an eye-opening experience to me. My back is in constant pain from picking her up and carrying her 85 pound body up the stairs and into the car. And I now notice how limited handicap parking can be. Sidewalks usually suck for a wheelchair and most places are not as handicap accessible as you might think.



On a recent trip to NC to visit family--Veronica had to ride
 the gator while everyone else went swimming.



But I know that now that the cast is off and her foot looks almost perfect now, then it won’t be long until she is up and walking again. The wheelchair will be put away and only used for long trips and school.

When I’m not feeling sorry for  myself, I realize how lucky I am as a parent that my child is not wheelchair bound forever. I also realize what a blessing it is to have a child with special needs—it has forced me to look beyond myself.

When I was pregnant with Veronica, I found out she has Arthrogryposis. I was lucky enough to connect with other parents who have raised children with this disabling joint disease. One mother sent me this poem and I carried it around with me for several years until I passed it on to another mother who just found out her daughter was born with Arthorogryposis. I think about the words in this poem on the days when my back hurts so bad I can’t sleep and I’m sick and tired of dealing with insurance companies and a hurt and frustrated child. It reminds me that we all have a purpose in life and that it takes a special mom to raise a special child.

“The Special Mother “by Erma Bombeck
Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice,
a few by social pressure and a couple by habit.
This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children.
Did you ever wonder how these mothers are chosen?
Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth
Selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.
As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.
"Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew."
"Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia."
"Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint...give her Gerard. He's used to profanity."
Finally he passes a name to an angel and smiles. "Give her a handicapped child."
The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."
"Exactly," smiles God. "Could I give a handicapped child a mother who knows no laughter?
That would be cruel."
"But does she have the patience?" asks the angel.
"I don't want her to have too much patience, or she'll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair.
Once the shock and resentment wear off she'll handle it."
"I watched her today.
She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother.
You see, the child I'm going to give her has a world of it's own.
She has to make it live in her world, and that's not going to be easy."
"But Lord, I don't think she even believes in you."
God smiles. "No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness."
The angel gasps, "Selfishness? Is that a virtue?"
God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive.
Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect.
She doesn't know it yet, but she is to be envied.
She will never take for granted a spoken word.
She will never consider a step ordinary.
When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it.
I will permit her to see clearly the things I see--ignorance, cruelty,
prejudice--and allow her to rise above them.
She will never be alone.
I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life
Because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side."
"And what about her Patron Saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in the air. God smiles.
"A mirror will suffice."

Something is better than nothing

This is the fourth blog that I have written today. The other 3 have been deleted and are floating around in some sort of electronic wasteland in my computer’s trash can. I hate it when I have days when my attempts at writing do not work out.

I remember when I was younger and my dad would have these same moments (some would last weeks) where he couldn’t paint. His art studio was behind our house. So he would get up in the morning and eat breakfast. If we had a dog at the time, he would take it for a walk at the park. Then he would come home, get a glass of water and head out the backdoor to “work.”

I knew he was having one of those bad days when he was in the house when I got home from school. He usually worked in his studio until 5 o’clock. Then he would come in and wash the paint from his hands in the kitchen sink and ask “what’s for dinner?” I hated the times when he was in the house during the day—a frustrated artist is not your friend.

I didn’t understand his inner struggle. I would think to myself, “How can you be an artist and not be able to paint? Just pick up the brush and start putting stuff on the canvas and cheer-up already.”

But now I get it. Here I am at 36—full-time grad student at Savannah College of Art and Design. I’m getting my masters in writing. I expect to write for a living—I want to write for a living.



What in the hell am I going to do when I have those days when I just stare at the blank computer screen and all I can think of is that I should get in my car and drive over to Oglethorpe Mall in Savannah and hit up Latin Chicks for churros—they are almost as good as the ones the Mexican vendor sells at the Chicken House Flea Market back home. My love for good churros runs deep and makes for an easy distraction.



There are times in my writing classes at SCAD when the professor will say, “Let’s just pull out some blank paper and write a possible first chapter for your memoir.”

My eyes would get big and I would anxiously await the entrance of Ashton Kutcher and his hidden camera and everyone in the classroom would start laughing and clapping and giving me high-fives.  I would let out a sigh of relief and smile, “You guys really got me." I would chuckle, "I was so scared.”



Aaww...churros...so yummy...



But I would soon realize the professor was serious. “Come on people,” he would say. “You want to be writers, so write something.”

I want to ask a million questions before I begin—“Is this for a grade? Are you going to read these? Oh my God, do we have to read these to the class? Please say we don’t have to read these out loud.”

I realize I’m daydreaming about having a panic attack so I take a deep breath and look around the room. Everyone else is already writing stuff. Now the panic sets in again—“What are you guys writing about? How many pages are you going to write? Do you think we have to read these out loud? Does anyone know of a good churro place nearby?”

So I pick up my pen and start writing. I know if I can just start, then everything will eventually begin to flow. It may not be any good, but something is always better than nothing. I learned this skill when had to take Drawing 101 my first quarter at SCAD. All students have to take art courses to get a fine arts degree.

I hated that drawing class. When the professor asked everyone on the first day of class if anyone had never taken a drawing class before, I was the only person to raise their hand. Yes, my dad is a professional artist, but I never took a single art class in my life.

When my professor asked me why, I just said, “When your dad is a professional, it’s usually best to not even try and do something else.” He shrugged and said, “Fair enough. My dad was an engineer.”

I would just sit on my stool in front of my easel with my blank drawing pad and stare. The professor would come up behind me and whisper in my ear, “Kim, drawing something is better than doing nothing.” I would start to get upset and my eyes would begin to fill with tears. “Yes, but I’m afraid I’m going to mess up and I don’t even know where to start,” was my retort.

I could hear his deep sigh. “Just put your pencil on the paper and do something and just see what happens,” he would grit through his teeth.

My shaking hand would hold my graphite pencil inches from the paper and I would nervously say, “Yes, but I don’t know how to draw. Remember, I told you that.”

He would roll his eyes. “But dear, this is a drawing class and if you don’t even try to draw then you can’t learn anything and you’ll never know if you are any good.”

So, I started drawing. And for the next 10 weeks, I drew in my sketchbook every day. By the end of the quarter, I learned to draw and I found out that I was actually pretty good at it. On the days that I didn’t feel like drawing, I would whisper to myself, “Something is better than nothing.”

And just like this blog and my first attempt at drawing, my stab at free-writing a first chapter for my memoir slowly began to take form. The words began to come easier to me and the loops, dots, and crossed T’s just seemed to take shape effortlessly. My breathing steadied and my focus set in—I was in my zone.

When we were told to put down our pens, I was slightly disappointed that we didn’t have to read our papers out loud.

Now I know that if I will just pick up that pen and let go, then everything will begin to flow and life will turn out the way it was meant to be. The life I have now is better than the life I lived when I just sat home alone staring at the blank wall--scared to even try to live. Something is always better than nothing and now I know that the fear of allowing myself to love again is better than the certainty of being alone.

The man in the van



Dad painting in North Carolina--
probably in the 80s

Yesterday I woke up early and decided to get dressed and get the kids ready for church and then I remembered it was Father’s Day. I hate dragging the kids to church on Father’s Day where they will be forced to sit in a room with other children and make crafts and hand-drawn cards for their dads. Those used to be fun things to do—we would pack up the hand-drawn pictures and crafts and send them to my ex in Iraq or save them on the kitchen counter until he got home from where ever he was.

Now it’s just a blah day that I try to ignore unless I have the great pleasure of being near my own dad. For those of you who know my dad, you know that he is freaking hilarious and most the time he isn’t even trying. But for those of you who haven’t met my dad, allow me to introduce you to the man who raised me (did I mention that he's not even my biological father?)

Dad is an artist—meaning he paints pictures for a living (I use the term “living” loosely). I don’t remember him ever wearing clothes that didn’t have paint drips all over them. Mom always cut his hair and apparently he told her he wanted the “I just walked out of the cave after 100 years” look. His facial hair paled only slightly to Abe Lincoln’s and his boisterous laughter paled only to the explosion of a fireworks warehouse.

The white rapist van revealed...

Due to the nature of his work, he drove a white rapist van that sported a wood floor—it’s easier to transport paintings to the gallery that way. Probably not the best way to transport your 4 children, but we enjoyed the way we could slide on our bottoms from the back of the van to the front when he had to slam on the brakes.

The only time I ever fully appreciated that van was when we went to the local drive-in movie theater. I could hear the gasp of the jealous crowd when we backed into our spot and opened the large double doors and everyone could see us kids already laid out on our futon—homemade popcorn in paper grocery sacks in hand.

The shagging wagon minus the hand-painted curtains

My pride in the van began to wane about the time I started getting boobs. It’s hard to look cool when you have to jump out of the side of a rapist van in front of the school. I can’t tell you how happy I was to know that Dad was finally getting rid of that big white van. But my excitement turned to horror the day he drove up in a bright orange Volkswagen camper.

My younger brothers squealed and jumped in joy as the small bus pulled into our gravel driveway. I can still remember my Dad’s first words after he set the parking brake and jumped out of the front seat, “Who wants to help me paint the curtains for this shagging wagon?”

By this point in my life, I was too much of a bitchy teen to appreciate the fun the “shagging wagon” had to offer. I can’t imagine a vehicle that fit my Dad’s personality more than that orange nightmare.

He loved the bus so much that he bought a white camper just like it—except it didn’t run as well (which was hard to believe that was possible). Poor Dad decided to drive my brothers down to Big Bend National Park to camp in the white camper for Spring Break. Somehow the van made it down there, but coming home was a whole different story.

Dad and I in Taos, NM. We almost moved there in the early 90s
until Dad decided there was too much stucco there...

Not only did the van run like total shit on a good day, but the latches that hold the camper top down to the van had broken during their trip. Dad had to drive about 45 miles per hour with his left arm out the window in hopes of holding down the camper top all the way home—his usual 8 hour trip out of the South Texas desert took about 20 hours.

I have never seen an arm more sunburned in my life. Dad was defeated and he ended up selling both vans soon after that failed trip.

As much as I hated those vans, one thing is for sure--no good stories ever come out of a good car. Some of the best stories my sister and I have revolve around that white rapist van without the seats.

Dad and I when I was about 4 years old in Dublin, TX.

And it’s safe to say that no one has great stories to tell about a boring dad who followed all the rules and drove a simple car. Maybe some of the memories from my childhood are less than perfect, but they make great stories. I can’t help but laugh when I think about my Dad and the way he raised us.

So thank you Dad for giving me a life worth talking about. I owe you big time—you have no idea how popular I am at dinner parties.

Happy Birthday Little Man



Getting silly at Jude's party

Yesterday was my son Jude’s 7^th birthday. For the first time ever, I paid to have his party somewhere besides our home. I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to wake up this morning and not be in a frenzy to get the house clean for a bunch of children and their mothers. The party was worth every penny and I know he had a wonderful day.

I’ve always been overly self-critical of myself as a single mom to a boy. Everyone with children will agree—raising boys and girls is different. While I struggle daily with my daughter’s emotional outburst and drama sessions, I also face an inner struggle to raise a boy into a man on my own.

Scene from Fight Club where they discuss their parents

There is a scene in the movie “Fight Club” where Brad Pitt’s character remarks on the fact that we are now faced with generations of young men who have been raised by single mothers.  His character made it sound like single women were raising a group of overly-sensitive, totally ungrounded men. Perhaps there is some truth to that, but I pray I never become part of that group.

Jude is a very sensitive boy and it’s obvious that he has a great love for his mom. He also loves tea parties and dress-up and dancing. But he is fine with crashing cars into walls, breaking boards in karate class, and slamming his sister in the face with a pirate sword. So why am I so scared that I will raise a sissy?

Jude swimming on his birthday

 I pray every day that Jude never grows up to be like his dad.  I know that is a horrible thing to admit, but it’s true. Despite my selfish need to know I raised a manly-man, I would be mortified to see Jude be like his father. My ex has zero respect for all women, he has no motivation to do anything productive, and he never follows through on his promises. Worst of all, my ex has made no attempts to have a meaningful relationship with his only son.

At first I thought my ex would be a great dad. I remember the look on the ex’s face as we sat in the doctor’s office and found out we were having a boy. I recall him sitting in the living room with tears in his eyes as he held his son and watched their first boxing match together. I thought those two guys would be inseparable.  I thought Jude was safe.

Instead, my ex moved himself out of the picture and Jude became my rock. He’s the guy that is always there for me. He’s the one who always tells me I’m beautiful and that my black high heels make me look like Beyoncé. He holds my hand when I’m watching a scary movie and he rushes to help me in the kitchen when I spill spaghetti all over the floor.

Perhaps the guys from "Fight Club" were wrong. Maybe their moms totally messed them up. Maybe I am doing something right. There is something so fulfilling and beautiful about knowing that I gave life to a boy. But there is something even more beautiful about knowing that I had the guts to stick around and raise him into a man.

I taught Jude to do a back flip underwater on his birthday

I’ll never forget the day Jude was born. I’ll always remember the little boy who wore his pajamas for the entire summer break. I will always know that I was the one who held him on my chest to get him to go to sleep for his first two years of life. And one day, I’ll remember that I was the one who never gave up on him and shaped him into the great man that he turned out to become.

The calm before the storm



Green sky plus funnel cloud equals bad Texas storm.

If there is one thing I learned from growing up in Central Texas it is that there is nothing more unsettling than a pale green sky and the feeling that a big thunderstorm is about to hit with a  vengeance. It’s the same feeling I still get today when things seem to be going great around me.

So, I look at my life today—I get to take the summer off from grad school. I saved enough money during the year that I can go without working this summer so I can stay home with my two beautiful children. I have a great boyfriend and we just planned a 4-night trip together to Florida this summer. My son is turning 7 in a few days and I have a great party planned for him and most of my dear friends will be there.  Life is great…

But I just can’t shake this feeling that a funnel cloud is brewing somewhere off in the distance and things are about to take a turn for the worse. I try to just shake it off and remind myself that I’ve been like this since I was a kid. But the truth is I am this way for a reason—a very good reason.

Amy and Me--1975

Things were never normal in our house growing up—that’s probably a huge understatement but I’m not sure how to describe my childhood.  I remember my sister and me playing Barbies only to be interrupted with my mom yelling up the stairs to us that we needed to wash the dishes and clean off the stairs— right now! I was probably six at the time, but I was smart enough to know that Barbie time was over and we needed to get the house cleaned immediately.

As a child, I awoke on Saturday mornings to the sound of my mom singing to us from the downstairs, “Good morning, good morning, it’s such a beautiful morning, good morning, good morning, to you,” mom sang with the voice of Debbie Reynolds. The song and my happy feelings would abruptly end with, “You need to get up and clean your rooms, get all your stuff off of the stairs, vacuum the living room, and wash the dishes before your dad and I get back from shopping.” I was probably about 7 years old then—old enough to know that I needed to get up, make breakfast for everyone, and start cleaning.

Amy, David, and I would usually mess around for the first half of the day—we never knew for sure when Mom and Dad would make their way back home. But we knew one thing for sure—the house better be clean or we would be “in trouble.”

Over the years, Amy and I learned not to clean too early in the day or else our younger brother David would mess things up. We also learned not to wait too long or else we would never get everything cleaned and we would be “in trouble.”

To this day, I get a terrible sense of dread and panic when my parents’ car pulls up in the driveway. I get the feeling that I need to be running around the house--cleaning everything in a massive terror. As kids we learned we could vacuum and straighten up the living room in the same amount of time it took Mom and Dad to get out of their van and open the front door.

David, Me, and Amy on the bull at Six Flags Over Texas--1983.

Amy, David, and I had some really great times when we were growing up. We got to relive some of those moments last weekend when we shared a small motel room together for my niece’s high school graduation. Unfortunately old habits die hard and our moments of extreme laughter were interrupted by the sudden emergence of my parents’ voices at the front door—they were staying in the room next door.

Perhaps I’m just nervous by the fact that my ex has once again threatened to show up uninvited at Jude’s birthday party or I’m just reverting to my learned instinct of knowing that at any moment these good feelings that I am finally able to enjoy will end in fear and panic. Maybe this is the reason that so much research has been done on the effect of habits and learned behavior versus instinct—do you recall a man named Pavlov and his drooling dogs?

So despite the smiles and boisterous laughter, I can hear the faint chimes of bells ringing and I begin to drool for the storm. There is no doubt in my mind that the funnel clouds are forming and the twister is about to touch down in my backyard. I just hope that I have the good sense to cover my ears and allow myself to be happy once and for all.

How did ya'll meet?

A dear friend of mine named Holly is getting married tomorrow. This will be her third marriage and the fact that she had enough faith to give true love a chance gives me hope. She and her soon-to-be husband Kevin made a Webpage with their wedding information and one of the topics they wrote about is how they met.

I found it interesting that they grew up in the same area so they met when he was 21 and she was 13 through a group of mutual friends. But at the time neither took much notice of the other. How could they ever know that so many years later they would be soul mates raising a blended family together? I’m so happy for them.

Tarleton State Univeristy--rodeo captial of the world

Holly and I had a similar experience in our friendship. We met in college at Tarleton State University working at the school newspaper, The J-TAC. We grew up near each other and we felt like we knew each other for some reason. Then one day we discovered that we went to the same church when we were kids and we hung out with the same circle of kids.

There was a priest named Father Denison who took a bunch of us around to go to fun events in town. Apparently he had been good friends with Holly’s parents. Father Denison always gave me the creeps and my sister and I spent a lot of time alone with him.

My last memory of him was he was chasing Amy and I up a tree in our backyard while we were waiting for my parents to get home. For some reason we were scared to death of him and I remember he had been biting on my ear and rubbing on my legs all day—I was about 6 years old at the time.

Holly told me he ended up getting accused of molesting children and everyone who knew him was devastated by the news. She and I both agreed that there was something weird about that guy. But the thought of knowing each other at such a young age made us feel a little closer—like we were destined to be best friends.

I find myself thinking about fate a lot lately. These days Robby and I get the “how did ya’ll meet?” question a lot. Most of you know that we met online through EHarmony (which I would highly recommend). But there are times when we wonder if we ever crossed each other’s path here in Savannah before we met. We also wonder if we would have met without EHarmony.



Ellie and Carl falling in love in "Up."



The other day we were talking about the Disney Pixar movie “Up.” Robby said he went to see that movie the first day it opened at 5:00—I also took the kids the exact same day at the same time at the same theater.

It gave me chills, but Robby just shrugged his shoulders and said that he would have remembered seeing me there. I doubted it—I kept a pretty low profile back in those days. I had no desire to date or meet anyone during that time in my life and I think I did a pretty good job keeping men away.

Either way, it made me realize that there is a plan set up for all of us. I could have run into Robby a year ago, but it just wasn’t meant to be. It’s hard to know if a chance encounter will turn into a life-long friendship or just a one-time meeting. I doubt Holly would ever believe that some random guy she met when she was 13 would become her husband 23 years later.

And for me, I cannot believe that over a year ago the same man who has turned my life around and made me believe in love again was sitting in the same theater with me and my children—both of us crying over the fact that the old man from “Up” had lost the love of his life. Little did we know that we were destined to be together and we would find each other online.

What did you pack in that box?



Leave the trash behind.



There is a long-standing joke in the Army about how the movers will come to your house and pack everything—even the trash in the trash cans. I always thought this was an urban legend until I unpacked a small wicker wastebasket full of dirty tissues and a very old banana peel after we moved from Washington to Columbus, GA. I thought it was hilarious and I wanted to show my ex-husband, but he was gone and I was left alone to unpack all the boxes on my own as usual.

I always wanted to know what went through the mind of the mover who packed that box. Did it occur to him to come and find me and ask me if I wanted the trash packed or did he just think that it was funny? I remember thinking that it was truly disgusting at the time. But after my last move from Denver to Richmond Hill, I realized that I have been packing up my trash and moving it with me during my entire adult life.

Today I realized I still had some unpacking left to do. Every time I think I am done unloading the garbage from my past it always sneaks up on me and I can smell it a mile away. Robby made the comment that he would like to take the kids with him to do some grocery shopping. I told him that I thought he would regret the trip. He told me that it makes him feel like I don’t trust his judgment when I dismiss him like that. He also mentioned that I was probably just projecting my fears on him and I realized he was so right.

I think Robby is possibly the smartest and most capable person I have ever met in my life. So, why would I question his judgment? Because I have some trash that I have been carrying around for a long time and I need to unpack it.

For some crazy reason I feel like bringing 2 children into a relationship should be a burden on my mate. For the record, my children are amazing. I also realize that I am an amazing person, too. So why should I feel like anyone wouldn’t be thrilled to have us in his life? I’m not sure, but I can smell the rank trash getting older by the minute.

When you love someone and he doesn’t love you back, it’s a horrible feeling—probably the worst feeling in the world. It makes you feel like garbage. And if you don’t deal with that then you will carry that feeling around with you every time you try to move on.

So today I finally threw that garbage away. I realized that Robby is lucky to have us. I can see why he would want to do things with my children. He is a very lucky man. He didn’t just get me, but he got 2 more people to love and they love him back. He also gets the privilege of having a very independent and head-strong woman telling him that she needs him in her life. I now realize that these are all good things—not garbage.



Only a grouch loves trash.



Allowing me to love myself was the most freeing experience of my life. But allowing Robby to love me takes a close second. It has opened my eyes and heart to a life that I thought I would never have. For the first time in a long time I can see my future clearly in my mind.



Maybe there are other places in my life where I have forgotten to take out the trash—I’m sure something else will pop up as life continues to move forward. I never know when I will open another box of rotten garbage, but at least I know I don’t have to dump it on my own anymore.