All we can do is our best

Today is Mother’s Day. I woke up this morning to my daughter’s sweet voice, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.” No doubt I am truly blessed to be a mother. It’s a role I wasn’t sure would ever happen for me. But once I was able to have my children, the inevitable thought of “am I going to be a good mother?” began to sink in.



Mom and me Christmas morning 1980





I think as parents we always strive to be better than our parents. I know my parents are better at parenting than their parents and I feel I am better than my parents. I know that’s a bold statement to make but I’m sure my mom would be the first to agree with that sentiment.

As bad as my life has been, I truly believe my mom had it much worse as a child than I could ever imagine. I’m amazed at the fact that she was somehow able to raise us 4 kids and keep her own marriage together.

My mom was the youngest of 9 children and grew up on a farm in rural North Carolina. It’s obvious that seeking the spotlight was a role she starting fine tuning at an early age.

My mom’s free-spirit nature boggled my Southern Baptist grandmother. My mom loved to sing, dance, and paint pictures—my grandmother didn’t understand these things.



But like every good Southern girl, she married her high school sweetheart when she was just 18. They had my sister and I and the marriage ended in divorce after my mom caught him cheating when I was just a few months old.



Mom the dance teacher 1988



Separated from her family in NC, mom stayed in Texas and met my dad, the artist, and they were married a few days before my 1^st birthday.  They settled in Dublin, TX and added 2 more boys to the mix. They still live in my childhood home and they have had the same phone number for over 30 years. 

When I was a baby, Mom always waited tables—I’m sure her beauty brought in a lot of tip money. Then Mom taught yoga and did some part-time secretarial work here and there while we were little. When I was in first grade, Mom opened a dance studio in our house.

A few years later, she moved the business out of the house and opened a dance studio down the street and then a second location in the next town over. Her dance business is still going today and she’s been able to turn that little side business into quite a lucrative project.

Mom and I were always very close. I shared her love for dance and I was always that quirky kid with the weird clothes and big ideas. I was the only other person who loved hanging out the in the dance studio more than her—I loved turning up the music and watching my reflection in the big mirrors as I spun around for hours. In high school, she offered me part ownership of the studio and it became Kim and Wanda’s School of Dance. I worked with her until I graduated from college.

Dad, Me, Amy, Mom, David in Texas 1979.



Mom was one of those cool moms that bought me a beer when we went out to eat on my 16^th birthday. I could make a very vulgar and sexually inappropriate joke to her and she would laugh so hard she would have tears running down her face. And when we went out, she always got hit on more than me.

Her creativity always paid off and she taught me how to make a dollar last longer. She helped me put together quite a classy wedding for $600. She was there the day both of my kids were born. And she was on the phone with me for hours when I found out my husband was cheating on me.

“Baby, if it helps, I know exactly how you feel,” she would say. And I felt horrible because at that moment I realized that she did know how I felt and I never acknowledged that before. I never acknowledged the fact that she was able to keep everything together after she was left alone in Texas. I never acknowledged how hard it must of have been on her to raise us 4 kids on a dance teacher’s salary--always hopeful my dad would sell a painting. I never acknowledged how living with a manic depressive like my dad would make being a good mommy so much harder.

I spoke to Mom on the phone this week and she told me that, “The only way to be a good mother is to just accept the fact that we all fail on some level as mothers. I know I wasn’t a great mother, but I also know that I tried my best.”

She’s right, too. She did do her best. I am grateful to my mom—I would never be the person I am today if it wasn’t for her.



Mom the Grandmother 2010



 When I told her I was going back to school to give this writing thing a shot she said, “I know I really did a lot of things to mess you guys up when you were growing up and you have my permission to write anything about me you want.”

That’s a huge gift to any writer. It’s a gift her mother should have given her but never did.

So, thank you Mom for raising me with love and for loving me enough to put your own fears aside and allowing me the chance to write from my heart. I don’t know anyone who has been given that gift. I love you.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Kim



Texas, tornados, and a lack of furniture



Destruction from Alabama tornado



It’s been less than a week since a string of tornados ripped through Alabama, Tennessee, and Georgia and the death toll is lingering around 250. Reading the stories of the horror inflicted by these tornados forces me to think about my childhood. As a kid growing up on Tornado Alley in central Texas, tornados were just a part of life for me.

If I walk outside and the sky is dark with thick rain clouds and there is a green tint to everything, I know that a tornado is brewing somewhere. I have stood under funnel clouds 3 times during my life. Why? Because I was frozen in fear by the sight of the swirling clouds and I had a strange curiosity to watch the tornado dip down out of the sky and touch the ground.





Tornado Alley



Tornado drills at school were practiced often. My teachers always made sure to note that if you hear the city tornado drill sound, then you should get in your bathtub and cover yourself with a mattress. My stomach tightened at that last bit of information.

I finally got the nerve to raise my hand and ask, “What should you do if you don’t have a mattress?”

The teacher cocked her head back, squinted her eyes at me, and gasped in her thick Texas accent, “What are you talking about? Who in the world doesn’t have a mattress?” She laughed and looked around the classroom waiting for everyone else to giggle and agree.



Alabama tornado 2011



 I could tell you who didn’t own a mattress—my family. And why didn’t we have beds? Because my dad got the bright idea to throw away all of our furniture when I was about 8 years old. Apparently furniture is some sort of chain that attaches you to a pampered population of gluttonous jerks. It weighs you down and we were never more free than the day he put our beds, sofa, tables, and chairs in the Goodwill collection box—of course I’m just paraphrasing one of his many rants.

So what did I sleep on? I slept in my dad’s old Army surplus sleeping bag on a hard wood floor every night. I know this sounds very romantic and sweet but I can assure you that it wasn’t. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad except for the fact that we had an old house. While old houses also sound romantic and cute, I can assure you that they are not. They do not have central heat and air or the ability to keep out rodents and bugs.

I spent many summer nights sweating my ass off in that old green sleeping bag on the floor—ever watchful of crawling bugs and running mice. The winter was a little better because the bugs and rats would go to warmer environments. I remember watching a mouse run out the front door in December and head over to the house across the street. I thought to myself, “I don’t blame you little guy. It’s probably really warm over there. They probably have lots of food to eat, too.”





My childhood home in Dublin, TX



 When I was in third grade, a friend of mine had her house destroyed by a tornado. I remember reading a story in the local newspaper where her family received a bunch of food, clothes, and beds from a community drive. “Too bad our house didn’t get sucked up in that twister,” I thought to myself.  I couldn’t even imagine having all that food in our pantry or having a soft bed to sleep in. Having your house destroyed by a natural disaster seemed like a golden ticket to the good life.



 You have no idea how exhausting it is to not have furniture until you don’t have it. Not having a sofa or chair to sit in and watch TV became routine. The embarrassment of telling your friends that they have to sit on the floor when they come over to visit is something I got used to over the years. Zipping the sleeping bag completely closed over my head to keep the mice away became second nature.  Longing for a better life became a constant theme of my childhood.  I never questioned my situation—it was just another part of our crazy life.

I now sleep in a very soft and clean king bed every night. It was my first purchase with my first paycheck from my first real job after I graduated from college. Owning a bed was a defining moment in my quest to become my own person. The plush feel of a good mattress is something that I never take for granted.

While I cannot sympathize with the victims of the recent tornados enough, I cannot think of tornado safety without thinking about my childhood in Texas. God forbid a tornado should strike my home now. But if it does, I’m totally ready to throw my kids in the bathtub and I have a large selection of mattresses to choose from to put on their tiny heads.

The return of Girl Reporter

I used to be a newspaper reporter—that was over 11 years ago. I quit my job so I could move again with my ex-husband and I never worked again after that.

I was totally burned out on journalism and thought that I would never want to be in that field ever again. My daugher was born 9 months after I quit and I have been a stay-at-home mother ever since.

In college, I worked for the school paper and I referred to myself as “Girl Reporter” and the nickname just stuck.





I originally called myself Girl Reporter as a joke when I turned in my stories at the newsroom. Most people did not take a young woman in college seriously, so I tried to not take myself seriously either.

As I moved on to the real workforce after I graduated, I soon realized that most people wouldn’t take me seriously as a woman or a reporter, so I continued to refer to myself as Girl Reporter. Everyone in the newsroom would laugh when I would walk in and say, “another day saved by Girl Reporter.”

Today I went to interview some students at the annual SCAD Sidewalk Arts Festival for a project for one of my writing classes. As I walked down the sidewalk on Bull Street on my way to Forsyth Park, I thought to myself, “Girl Reporter on assignment in Savannah, Georgia.” I smiled to myself—the thought calmed my nerves and helped me to remember to not take myself so seriously.

I soon found my zone as I walked down the sidewalk lined with chalk drawings. The artists were mostly barefoot with colored chalk smeared on their hands, knees, and faces. I spotted my first targets and walked up to them. “Would you guys mind answering a few questions for me?”

It was one of the easiest things I have done in a long time—no pressure, no nerves, no worries. By the end of the afternoon, I realized that I enjoyed being Girl Reporter again.

Perhaps I just needed a break from journalism. Or maybe I’m just becoming the girl I used to be—the girl who believed she could take on the world and win.

This may seem simple to you, but it’s huge to me. I am now forced to rethink what I want to do with my life once again. Perhaps there is still room for that young bright-eyed girl who believed she could change people with her stories.

Awkward Silence, my ex-husband, and online dating

“Life is weird.” That’s a phrase I find myself saying several times a day. And today is no different.

Here I am stuck in this dark hospital recovery room watching my sweet little girl sleep. She is recovering well from her foot surgery which is such a blessing. Before we flew out to Texas, I had two major concerns—Veronica’s recovery and having to be around my ex-husband.

It’s no secret that we split on less than amicable terms. To say we hated each other’s guts would be putting things nicely. So, now I am faced with the fact that he showed up for his daughter’s surgery and wants to be here for her.

It’s his right to do so and I didn’t plan to stop him from doing that. So, after Veronica’s surgery was over, I was paged to come down and speak to the surgeon.

My ex was sitting by himself in the recovery room. My parents and I had not made any effort to include him in our conversation and I didn’t feel guilty about that.

As I gathered up my belongings, I looked over at him and said, “Well, are you coming or what?” He looked surprised and followed quietly behind me. We spoke to the doctor and found out that the surgery went great. We were asked to sit and wait for Veronica to wake up before we were allowed into the recovery area.

Sitting together alone in the hallway was awkward. I hate that weird silence, but I honestly couldn’t think of anything nice to say to him. Then I said it, “How’s everything going?”

“Pretty good,” he said. Then he proceeded to tell me about his brothers (whom I used to be extremely close with but haven’t spoken to since our split). The conversation began to get a little more casual and we even managed to laugh a little and make eye contact a few times.

Then it got quiet again. With a deep breath he asks, “Are you seeing anybody?”

I nodded and said, “Yes, I am.”

“Is it serious?” he asks.

“Yes it is,” I say with a little smile.

“Has he been around the kids?”

“No, not yet,” I answer. “But it’s definitely moving in that direction and I need you to be okay with that.”

He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. I noticed I was holding my breath.

He looked over at me and smiled. “Of course I’m okay with that. I’m actually very happy for you and I am really proud of you for moving on with your life in such a graceful way.”

I was a little shocked, and I hated to ruin the moment but I had to ask one more question. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because the last time we had this conversation you said you would kill anyone that I brought around the kids and I know that you meant that.”

He nodded slowly and sighed. “That was the old me,” he said. “I’m not like that anymore. I’m too tired to be mean to you anymore.”

Relief settled over me and I smiled at him—a real smile, not the fake ones I usually flashed him when he came to the house to pick up the kids.

“So where did you meet?” he asked.

“Online,” I said with a laugh.

And then we sat and talked for about 30 minutes about our adventures with online dating. It was one of the best conversations we have ever had.

What can I say? Life is weird.

You are not forsaken

My daughter Veronica was born in December 2000. Before she was born, the doctor told me, “There is something wrong with your baby and it probably won’t live. We can send you to a clinic in Seattle to have the pregnancy terminated if you wish.”

Abortion was not an option for me at the time, so I just lay in bed for weeks wondering, “Is today the day my baby will die?” I didn’t think I could go on living if something happened to my baby—I had wanted to be a mommy for so long and I just couldn’t believe that God would do this to me.



Feb. 2001, Veronica's first foot surgery



I am blessed because my baby did not die. The doctor’s initial prognosis was incorrect and I gave birth to a healthy and beautiful little girl with a rare joint disease called Arthrogryposis Multiplex Congenita (AMC) —which means hooked or crooked joints.

We lived just outside of Seattle at the time and the children’s hospital there has one of the only clinics in the world dedicated to AMC. So I was able to get Veronica the help she needed from day one. I started to think that maybe God didn’t hate me so much after all.

When Veronica was born, she couldn’t move her left arm, both hands were flat against her arms, her hips were dislocated, and she had very severe club feet. I was told she would never walk.

She now walks around quite well and she has full use of both arms and her hips were successfully reconstructed when she was about 2 years old. But her feet have been a constant source of pain for her.

 

She's wasn't fast but she had fun



Most kids with club feet are able to have special shoes, casts, or surgery to correct their feet--but not Veronica. Her feet are what they call reoccurring club feet and what I like to call the most heartbreakingly painful thing a child should have to endure.



So, now that she is 10 years old, it is time for her to have yet another foot surgery.

And so, here I sit in the recovery room at Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children in Dallas, TX typing this blog and thinking about how far Veronica has come since the day I was told that she would probably die before her birth.

I still haven’t figured out what good Veronica has gained from her disability—she is such a happy and outgoing child but her legs and feet are a constant source of pain for her.



Veronica's feet before surgery



So, as I sit here in this hospital surrounded by sick and crippled children, I have to ask myself “why does God let this happen?”

For me, the answer is easy. Through Veronica, I have learned how precious life is. Every minute of the day has meaning and purpose to me.

I never took her two-armed hugs or messes for granted. I can clearly remember her first steps and the way her face lit up as she headed toward me with outstretched arms.

I didn’t see God until I saw Veronica. I believe God puts these amazing people in our lives—even if they are only here for a minute—to soften our hearts and force us to look beyond ourselves.

I know that God will be watching over Veronica tonight as she sleeps in her sterile hospital bed hooked up to tubes and machines. I know this because I know God has a plan for her life—otherwise, what is the point to all this pain and suffering?

Going Home

I am on the plane flying home to Texas with my kids—my daughter is having surgery on both her feet. I always have mixed feelings about going home. Usually I’m excited to get out of town and go see my family and my friends, but I am making this trip with a very heavy heart.

I grew up in a little town in Texas called Dublin—home to the oldest Dr. Pepper bottling company in the world. People come from all over to sample the only Dr. Pepper that is still made with real pure cane sugar. And if you stop and take a tour at the Dr. Pepper Museum in Dublin, you may catch a glimpse of a photo of me dressed as Pretty Peggy Pepper on the wall.

I lived in Dublin until I graduated from the nearby college. For the first 22 years of my life, I lived in what is known as the dairy capital of the world. And whenever I smell cow manure, I always think of home.

My parents still live in the same house I grew up in. They have had the same phone number for 35 years. My dad is a creature of habit and likes for things to stay the same.

I, on the other hand, longed to be anywhere but Dublin. So, I married a military man and we changed duty stations on a regular basis. Our first eight years of marriage we moved to Columbus, GA then to Fairbanks, AK and then to Fort Lewis, WA and then back to Columbus and then to Savannah, GA.

Our last move together was to Denver, CO.  Luckily for the kids and me, we were able to get back to our home in Georgia and I’m pretty sure we’ll stay here.

Unfortunately my ex-husband lives in Texas, too. He doesn’t come around much to see the kids so I don’t have to deal with him often. But he called my cell phone before I boarded the plan in Savannah and informed me that he would be at the hospital for Veronica’s surgery.

I’m surprised he even remembered her surgery. He forgot the last one. I can think of a million other things I would rather do than see him—having an icepick shoved into my eye seems like a better alternative right now. I don’t want to watch him pretend to be a caring father at her bedside.

But that’s just the way life goes. I married that man and had kids with him, so now I have to put up with him several times a year so he can check the “father of the year” box on his list of pretend duties for 2011.

Growing up I always had the feeling that I just didn’t belong in Texas. I’m not sure why. There are so many things about Texas that I love—Texas rock, Austin, the desert, Shiner beer, and amazing Mexican food.

But I already have that “I don’t belong here” feeling now sitting here in this airplane 30,000 feet above the “in between” of Texas and Georgia. I long for the tall oaks draped with Spanish moss and the cool breeze that comes in off the Atlantic while I’m sitting in the sand at Tybee. The smell of the marsh on a hot summer day has replaced the manure and the sand gnats don’t really bother me much anymore.

Coastal Georgia is not the home I ever imagined as a kid growing up in the middle of nowhere Texas. But it’s my home now. And for the first time in a long time I finally feel like I belong somewhere.

I said "I do" then "I don't" and now I say "maybe"

After two years of solitude, I decided I was ready to start dating.  After all the flirty comments and promises of dates, I figured it would be only a matter of days before my social calendar was full.  Months later, I realized that apparently it is easier for most men to say "they would like to date me" rather than to actually date me.
I should probably mention the fact that I am totally turned off by the stench of desperation which seems to be the popular fragrance these days.  I truly believe that most men hate to be alone and would be willing to do just about anything to convince you to move in with them and play house for eternity or until they found the girl they were really looking for.
That being said, I took the plunge and joined the growing majority of adults in the online dating world.  While I'm not an expert like my single cousin, I did learn a lot about online dating in just a few short days. 
If you have a few dollars in your pocket, then don't even look at the free websites unless you are desperate to find high school dropouts who spend more money on their gold and diamond encrusted teeth than actual trips to the dentist to clean their real teeth.  Also, some websites are total meat markets.  If you aren't able to take a good picture of yourself, then don't even try.  It's all about image on these sites.  And FYI to those who are clueless--No self-respecting woman wants to date a man wearing acid washed jeans and no shirt who resorts to taking his picture of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  The passport photo guy at Walgreen's will take your picture for $5.00--just saying.
So, I went with Eharmony.  I felt ridiculous the entire time I was signing up--and it just kept going and going and going.  You have to answer about 50 or more questions about yourself.  Most of the questions are the same only re-worded a little different each time.  I guess this is how they are able to do your full "personality profile" that will link you to other singles in the area.  They also do these daily posts that are supposed to help you navigate the world of online dating--they are so helpful... 
I have to admit I was a little scared after I read the section about safety on the first date--one bit of advice suggested that you have a buddy who knows where you are going on your date and that you should call that person every hour so that they know you haven't had your head cut off and your body stuffed in the back of your date's car.  That's when they offer you another opportunity to purchase a quasi-background check on yourself.  If you pass the check, then you have this special icon that appears next to your photo so that other singles can have a warm and fuzzy feeling about picking you as their next potential date.
The whole thing is ridiculous to me, but what's a single girl to do these days?  I don't do the whole club scene and most of my friends are married and don't know a lot of single men.  Also, I don't have a lot of patience with people and I feel confident that I can tell if you are a total douche bag by just looking at your picture--yes I'm talking to you, guy in the acid washed jeans.
So I came across a guy whose profile made me laugh out loud--which is hard to do these days.  After weeks of emails, we finally met face to face the other night and I have to admit that it was rather nice. I haven't been on a first date since I was 17 years old. I'm not sure what will happen next but I have to admit that it was nice to talk to someone who has the same weird sense of humor that I have. 
So would I recommend online dating?  I don't know--maybe.  But I would recommend taking some time for yourself first.  I needed these past 2 years to get myself straightened out and to be comfortable with who I am.  I know most people don't even want to think about going years without sex, but I can promise you, you will survive.  Maybe that's too much information for you, but it's the truth. 
Love,
Kim