My plastic surgery quagmire

I bumped into an acquaintance of mine at the gym this morning. I say acquaintance because we are not really friends—not even Facebook friends. We both live in the same town, our children are the same ages and go to school together, and they do a lot of the same activities. We have mutual friends and I have even been to her house for a birthday party. But I forget her name sometimes and I doubt she took the time to ever remember mine since she used to refer to me as Veronica’s mom.

To put it bluntly, I don’t fit into her world and she doesn’t fit mine. She drives a $65,000 car and spent $9,000 on her new boobs a few years ago. I drive an old minivan and I spent $25 on a push-up bra from the clearance rack at Victoria’s Secret in an attempt to recycle my God-given goodies. She won’t let her kids eat at McDonald’s and I won’t let my kids eat off of the floor. I guess you could say we have different priorities…

We pass at the gym during the week. I usually just wave and say “hey” and she gives a nod and says “hi.” But today she caught my attention. She had that “deer in the headlights” look and I noticed she didn’t have a reason to look surprised. Apparently she hadn’t taken the time off to stay at home and let her recent plastic surgery procedure “settle.”

Joan. Van. Ark.
Mother. Of. God.

I found myself looking at her face trying to get a good look at her forehead and eyes. I even tried to just look at her reflection in the mirror during sculpting class so she wouldn’t think I was staring at her. Then it hit me, “Am I really at the age when my friends will start getting face work done?”

I’ve become accustomed to seeing friends with new boobs. I even have an acquaintance at the gym who has a fake butt. To say you could bounce a quarter off of that thing is an understatement. I used to think she spent her days doing squats and running up and down stairs. Boy was I relieved to find out that thing was fake. It’s hard to compete with plastic.

I have mixed feelings about plastic surgery. I understand why people do it—I seriously considered having some work done before I went back out into the dating world. I was worried about a man seeing my naked body. My boobs have seen better days and I have had two C-sections so my tummy has a sagging pooch that never seems to shrink no matter how many sit-ups I do. One day I was at the gym and I saw the lady with the fake butt and I thought to myself, “I’m just going to go get a consultation and find out what it would cost to get my tummy fixed and my boobs lifted.” About that time, I looked up at one of the TV screens and I saw a lady who was giving a news conference about her new face transplant—this lady was worried about having a face and I was worried about gravity's affect on parts that I can keep covered up. I realized that was God’s way of telling me that I was being shallow. I haven’t thought about plastic surgery since that day.

Ms. Connie Culp--face transplant recipient

I also feel that I have a responsibility to my daughter. She is obviously physically handicapped. I tell her every day that God made her perfect just the way she is. What kind of message would I send her if I had unnecessary cosmetic surgery? I would lose all credibility with her if I chose to alter my appearance.

And while there is this part of me that would love to get a few quick shots of Botox to relax my furrowed brow and laugh lines, there is a bigger part of me that knows I should just save what little bit of money I do have for push-up bras, Spanx, and dark lighting. I mean it’s hard enough to feel sexy at my age without looking like a hunter just jumped out from behind a tree and shined his spotlight in my stunned face. After all, my Mama always told me that God made me perfect just the way that I am. Who am I to try to prove my Mama wrong?

It's time to unplug



Early morning at the camp site...
I can only hear the sounds of nature

About a month ago, Robby asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday. After a little thought and an outdoor cooking class at Oatland Island, I decided I wanted all of us to go camping. We settled on Ft. McAllister State Park which is about 15 minutes from the house and began compiling our gear.

I wasn’t sure how the camping trip was going to mesh with my school schedule. I try to get all of my homework finished during the week so that my weekends are free, but it doesn’t always work that way. Luckily, my homework load was light and I was able to spend the weekend “unplugged.”

I don't remember the last time I got to read a book
and take a nap in the middle of the day.

I use the term “unplugged with the kids. It means they have to spend the afternoon or day or weekend without turning on a computer, gaming device, or television. They have to be creative and find alternate ways to entertain themselves. They used to hate being “unplugged” but now they have come around to the idea.

We spent Friday and Saturday night at the campground. That was almost 2 full days of being “unplugged.” The kids explored the woods, we took walks, read books in our tents, skipped rocks on the river, and fine-tuned our outdoor cooking skills. I even left my cellphone in the car and ignored my email.

Being a mom, I see the importance and making the kids “unplug.” But it’s hard for me to understand why I need to take my own medicine sometimes. Being “unplugged” forces me process memories and “think about things” that I can normally push to the back of my mind.

Mmmm...biscuits and bacon taste better
when they are cooked on an open fire

But this weekend was different for some reason. Putting up the tents and cooking on the camp stove brought back a lot of memories from the early part of my marriage. My ex and I used to camp a lot. When we were 18, we drove from Texas to Yellowstone and camped out the entire trip. When we moved to Alaska in 1997, we camped at almost every park from Georgia to Fairbanks. We set up our tent in places like the Yukon, British Columbia, and Montana. We camped on the banks of Valdez and caught some amazing salmon that we cooked on an open fire.

But it made me sad to realize that we never shared those types of camping trips with the children. We camped a few times in Disney World with the kids, but it was different. Veronica and Jude never got to see us when we were young and happy—they only got to witness a very sad and frustrated couple trying to make everyone believe that everything was okay.

But I realized this weekend, that it doesn’t make me sad any more to think about those fun times we used to have. As much as I would like to write off my past as a total mistake, I have to admit that it wasn’t all bad. As a matter of fact, some of it was pretty amazing. I mean, how many people can say they camped at the Article Circle or woke up to a family of black bears catching spawning salmon a few feet from the door of their tent?

I’m glad I had the chance to “unplug” this weekend and allow myself the time to let these good memories flood my head and not push them to the back of my mind. I’m glad I took the time to accept that it’s okay to admit that my past wasn’t all tragic.

Skipping rocks and breathing fresh air...

I’m glad Robby is comfortable with me talking about my past—even when I’m not badmouthing my ex. And I’m glad I had all those camping adventures even if they were with someone that I don’t like to think about anymore. But most of all, I’m glad that I didn’t refuse to go camping again in an effort to not be reminded of my past. I realized this weekend that it’s okay for me to think about my past and smile a little—I guess it wasn’t all bad after all.

Taking Stephen King's advice

So, it’s been a while since my last blog—I don’t think I have ever gone this long without posting something. It’s been quite a week. I have to sit and look at the calendar so I can remember what all I have done these past several days.

1.     Valentine’s Day

2.     Savannah Book Festival

3.     Veronica’s audition for art school

4.     Stephen King

And of course I had my normal course work with school, delivering the hundreds of boxes of Girl Scout cookies Veronica sold, and sending out resumes for an internship.

Everything about this week was completely surreal. I think it was because there were so many events taking place that I have anticipated for over 3 or 4 months-- to finally see them take place made me feel like I was dreaming.

Robby and I got to spend our first Valentine’s Day together. He took me out on Saturday night to an upscale restaurant in Savannah known as the Mansion. I had never been there and I have wanted to go for years. Robby arranged for the sitter on his own and made all of the plans. We even dressed up.

When Tuesday rolled around, we were both giddy with the fact that we finally had a special someone in our life for Valentine’s Day. There is no doubt that no matter how much you try to tell yourself, “I don’t care about Valentine’s Day. It’s just a made-up holiday,” it is still hard to be alone. It doesn’t help when people call you on the phone and say, “I just wanted to check on you because I knew you were all alone today.” Thanks for the reminder.

After 3 months of constant tagging, posting, liking, sharing, and tweeting, I finally got to see my efforts as the social media intern for the Savannah Book Festival pay off. The event lasted 5 days this year…5 full days of sitting at the computer answering people’s constant questions on Facebook like “Where do I get tickets? Do you still have tickets for Pat Conroy? Can I see Stephen King without a ticket? Where can I park? Where is the festival? Do you know of a hotel that still has rooms?”



No zoom needed, I was really this
close to Stephen King



I got some cool stuff out of my internship though. I got 2 VIP tickets to see Walter Isaacson speak about his best-selling biography on Steve Jobs. I got to finally meet some of the authors face-to-face and say, “I’m the crazy person who has been stalking you on Facebook for the past 3 months” which would lead into some nice conversation that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I’m happy with the work I did and the connections I was able to make.

Veronica had her first audition as an artist on Saturday, too. We are trying to get her into the art magnet school here in Savannah. Since she will be in 6^th grade, she had to present her art portfolio and draw a picture in front of the school officials. Luckily she inherited my dad’s art skills and not mine.

Sunday ended with my visit with Stephen King. I mentioned in a past post that I was one of a handful of writing students chosen to have a private meeting with the master of horror. Before the meeting with King, Robby and I stood in line with about 500 other people waiting to see King at another venue for the book festival. For about 2 hours, I was able to hang out and talk with some of King’s biggest fans. It was a great way to gear up for the rest of my afternoon.

The meeting with King was surreal. When I describe the event, it sounds like one of my typical weird dreams--I was sitting next to Dr. Lough, the head of the writing department, talking about SCAD stuff with my classmate Jason and my former classmate Amy. Then 2 more of my classmates arrived and waved at me as they sat a few rows back. Then Stephen King walked in and sat in a big leather chair about 5 feet away from me and talked about writing.

King described the moment when he was standing in his rundown apartment alone on the phone with his agent and he told him that the publishers would pay him $400,000 for Carrie. “My knees gave out and I just slid down the wall,” said King. “If you want to be a writer, you just have to fucking write it, man.”

After that, I walked across Broughton St. to the Trustee’s Theater and sat next to Robby and we listened to King talk for another hour. He read us the first chapter of his sequel to “The Shining” which hasn’t been published yet. He talked about writing and how much he hated Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation of The Shining and how he thought people would hate “Pet Cemetery.”   

I was able to get my book signed and I walked out of the place feeling inspired. I needed this week. I needed to completely immerse myself in the business of writing and remind myself why I put my life on hold for 2 years to set myself up to be a “real” writer. I wonder how long it will take for these moments to not feel so dreamlike.

Maybe one day I will be able to hand someone my business card which reads “Kim Wade, writer” and not feel like a poser. Maybe one day my agent will call me with a book offer that will make my knees buckle and open up a new world for me. But until then, I just need to take King’s advice and “just fucking write it, man.”

I quit for a good reason

Today was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Living in Savannah, GA, this day is definitely observed and celebrated. Growing up in Dublin, TX, we finally got a day off of school when I went to Jr. High School, but we got the day off for Stock Show Day, not MLK, Jr.

 I’m glad my children are growing up in a place where this holiday matters and they get at least 2 full weeks of lessons in school teaching them the importance of Dr. King and his journey. They have learned the importance of sacrificing a bit of their own happiness to ensure others have the freedoms and opportunities in life that they deserve. While we didn’t do anything significant to celebrate this day, something did happen that will make this very special to me.

 Veronica sat in her bedroom this afternoon and took off her shoes, leg braces, and socks all by herself for the first time ever today. For most people, taking off shoes and socks is a mundane event that happens several times each day. But for an 11-year old girl with a disability, taking off socks and shoes on her own is quite a challenge.

But I have to be honest—Veronica should have been doing this on her own long ago. Before her last foot surgery, she was taking off her tennis shoes and one of her leg braces on her own. But the surgery slowed her down and I have been doing this task on command ever since.

To sum up, I have enabled her to remain disabled and completely dependent on me. Why? I have no idea except to say that I wasn’t strong enough to do the right thing.

Robby and I were talking this morning before I left his house. We always spend our weekends together either at my house or his and saying goodbye gets more painful with each week. This morning we were doing our usual pep-talk that gets us through another week apart.

We realized that we have a little over 4 months until we move in together and begin our new lives as a family.  To me, 4 months is not a lot of time. I began to flip through the tasks in my mind that I wanted to complete before we move in together—making sure my children are independent was #1 on the list.

I realized that my original plan with going to graduate school had been that I would receive small alimony checks for 2 years. During that 2 years, I would try to live off of that money while I earned  my master’s degree, started my new career, and became completely self-reliant financially. During this time, I would also help my children to get used to the idea that I was not going to be around every day after school to cook their meals and help them with homework.

The big idea in my head was to get Veronica completely independent before I joined the workforce. Two years seems like a long time in the beginning. Now my two years has become 4 months and I still haven’t enabled Veronica to figure out how to get her shoes on and off on her own—I began to panic a bit when Robby held up 4 fingers and said, “We only have 4 more months until we are together all of the time.”

 

I let her master archery,
but not shoes?





During the drive home, I zoned out in my head and thought about what I needed to do to get Veronica more independent. I realized that she wants to be independent, but I wasn’t helping her. She wakes up in the morning and gets dressed on her own—something she has only done for the past 3 months. Once she puts on her socks, she screams, “Mom! I need my shoes on now!”

I don’t miss a beat in dropping everything to put her shoes on her feet.

At the end of the day, she enjoys taking a long shower. Again, she has only starting bathing on her own over the last few months. But before she can undress, she sits on the toilet and screams, “Mom! I need my shoes off!”

Again, I drop everything to squat down and pull off her tennis shoes, leg braces, and sweaty socks. It’s tiring and I have been frustrated with the task—never sure when it would ever end.

So today, I handed her the dressing stick and reacher and told her that she needed to try to get her shoes and socks off by herself. This suggestion was met with a tantrum. “What? You know I can’t do that by myself!” she screamed.

Veronica's tools--reacher, dressing stick, and sock tool

I calmly said, “I need to put your brother’s clothes away. Why don’t you see what you can do while I do that and then I will come back and help you.” I walked out of the room while she continued to scream and throw her fit.

I stayed in Jude’s room and listened to her cry and shout, “Mom, please come help me! I can’t do this!” I hung up Jude’s clothes in his closet while she continued with, “Mommy? Mommy? Please help me! I need you, Mommy!”



If you have a disabled child, then perhaps you have been through this tug-of-war. The only thing worse than having to ignore your child’s pleas for help, is knowing that you are the reason that she cannot do most normal tasks on her own. On my drive home today, I realized that I was the reason Veronica wasn’t putting on and taking off her own shoes. I can blame it on her disability, but the truth is obvious—she is capable of so much more than I allow her to do.

Gearing up for zip line at camp--
I let her fall from sky but I didn't make
her take off her own shoes?

As tears streamed down my face in Jude’s bedroom, Veronica’s pleas began again. I heard her beating her dressing stick on the wall in frustration. I heard her banging her head on her metal bed frame. I heard her gasp for air as she cried in frustration—but mostly I heard fear.

After her father left several years ago, the realization that her mother might one day leave her became a fear in the back of Veronica’s mind. What would she do if she didn’t have me around to dress her and bathe her?

Not forcing this child to man-up and conquer this fear was one of the worst mistakes I have ever made as a mother. I kept hearing the voice of a friend who had to overcome her own disabilities—“She is mad at you now, but one day she will thank you.”

Veronica’s screams began to slowly subside and I heard her begin to try to take off her shoes. I heard a shoe hit the floor and she let out a deep breath. Then I heard the steady rip of her Velcro straps on her braces. I heard her gasping for air and pushing with all of her might.

She can scuba, so shoes should be no problem

I finally walked down the hall to take a peek at her. She was sitting on her bed with no shoes or leg braces on. She was pulling off her socks with her dressing stick and refusing to recognize my presence at her door.

She can dance in public,
so shoes should be cake

After the last sock was off, she looked up at me and said, “There, that wasn’t so hard after all.” We both laughed through our tears.

She stood up on her shaking weak ankles and hugged me tight. She buried her head in my chest and wrapped her thin arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I love you.”

I kissed the top of her head and said, “It’s okay, baby. I love you, too. And I’ve never been more proud of you then I am right now.”

I told her that she is one of the smartest people I know that she is capable of so much, but that she will never know what she can do if she never tries. “And trying is not the same as giving up quickly and making me finish the hard work for you.”

She seemed to get it and she walked down the hall to the bathroom to take her shower on her own. I left her wheelchair in the bathroom and I told her that she would have to get out of the shower on her own and get herself dressed. She groaned a little as I walked out of the bathroom.

She got dressed on her own and even tried to put on her shoes by herself. She said her goal is to be totally independent by summer. I think she will be independent before summer.

I let her hit the slopes but not attempt a shoe change? Why?

And a part of me is happy but a larger part of me is struggling to figure out what my role will be if I’m not the person she is dependent upon for everything.  Taking care of Veronica and knowing that her shoes are on her feet correctly gives me great peace even though I know it is wrong.

I feel like one of those mothers who is overfeeding her fat child because food makes her baby happy and hunger makes her cry. But it’s wrong. It’s wrong to make your child disabled because you can’t stand to hear her cry. I admit I was wrong. I was addicted to helping my daughter. I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t want to hear her cry. I didn’t want to admit that my time as enabler needed to end. I didn’t want to feel unneeded.

But my job is not to raise a child—it is to raise a woman. I want Veronica to be a strong and independent woman who can go and do whatever she wants whenever she wants and not be tied to me. And today I made the decision to let her go.

It hurts a little to know that I have spent the past 11 years doing everything for my little girl and now that must end. I have no doubt that Veronica will know exactly what to do with her new-found independence. I just pray that I can continue to be a good mom and enable my child to grow up.

Can't you see I've waited long enough?

Those of you who know me know that I love the Foo Fighters. Despite the hundreds of songs I have stored on my iPod, I tend to listen to a random shuffle of the six Foo Fighters' albums I have on my playlist.

This morning, I went to the gym to do my morning run on the treadmill. I don’t exercise for fitness or weight loss—I run for my sanity. So, this morning I had to crank up the speed to run off the stress that lingered from the holidays and starting a new quarter at SCAD.

Wasting Light is the last album the Foo Fighters put out. It has been nominated for several Grammys including their nod for album of the year. In my opinion, it’s the best album they have ever made.

I don’t have a favorite song on the album, but I do have a favorite running tune, “Walk.” It’s the last song on the album and Dave Grohl reportedly said he wanted to put the song at the end because it wraps up the album's theme of time and second chances.

The end of the song is the segment that resonates with me. Here are those lyrics:

Now
For the very first time
Don't you pay no mind?
Set me free again
You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a liar
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first decline another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm praying for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die
I never wanna leave
I'll never say goodbye
Forever, whatever
Forever, whatever

I'm learning to walk again
I believe I've waited long enough
Where do I begin?
I'm learning to talk again
Can't you see I've waited long enough?
Where do I begin?

Several days ago I realized when I sat down to think about my New Year’s resolutions that something was very different about me this year. I couldn’t figure out what it was though. Then it hit me yesterday when I was walking onto campus to start my fourth quarter at SCAD—I don’t want to quit anymore. I’m excited to be alive—I’m excited to be living.

It may be hard to believe that behind this tough exterior is a very tired person. I’m tired of fighting and struggling to make ends meet. I’m tired of trying to balance my duties of mom with full-time student. I’m tired of looking at an empty bank account.

I’ve never considered suicide, but there have been days when I wished someone would come to my house and pick up my children and take them away for a while so I could hide from the world under my blankets. This thought has always bothered me because I love my children dearly and I hate the idea of being separated from them.

This morning I could feel the lyrics speaking to me-- “I’m dancing on my grave, I’m running through the fire…I never wanna die.” And it all became clear to me—not long ago, a part of me did want to die. It’s not the part of me that loves my children and wants to watch them grow up. It’s not the part of me that wants to earn my master’s degree. It’s not the part of me that wants to marry Robby.

So, I had to ask myself, “What other parts of me are there?” And I realized that the parts of me that wanted to quit seem to be dead now. They don't exist anymore. They don’t whisper “you’re stupid” in my ear any longer. I haven’t thought about having someone pick up my children in a very long time.

I have this new sense of energy and love for life that I cannot fully describe. I truly want to live again. And in the words of Dave Grohl, “I believe I’ve waited long enough.”

A trip to see Santa

It’s been less than a year since I first met Robby, and all I can think is “I’m glad I decided to open my mind to love.”

Some of you know the story of how I met Robby. I used to refer to him as Mr. EHarmony and some of my friends still call him that. We met online at the beginning of March, took our time getting to know each other, and fell head-over-heels in love by summer. 

Family photo with Santa



Robby first met the kids at the end of April. It was Easter weekend and my sister had picked up the kids and me from the airport. We had just returned from Texas after Veronica’s foot surgery. Robby had offered to make us Easter dinner and leave it at the front door. I decided it was time for him to meet the kids and I thought it would seem more comfortable if my sister was there, too.

After Robby left that evening, my sister and I did our usual—put the kids to bed, made martinis, and played cards for the remainder of the night. Amy liked Robby and she could tell I really liked him. She asked, “Do you think you guys will get married?”

I laughed and said, “No, I’m never getting married again.” I was totally serious and I truly believed it. Amy was so mad at me. “Why would you say that?” she asked with tears in her eyes.

“Because marriage is horrible,” I said. “I will never do that again.”



But as time passed, I began to realize that it was wrong for me to base my future decisions on my past relationships. Robby and I talked about marriage several times. I told him what I thought about marriage and he listened.

Then he said, “I understand why you feel that way, but you have to remember that we can’t base marriage off of our past experiences because those people we were married to weren’t capable of loving us back in a normal way. Those weren’t real marriages.”

Over time I began to understand what he was talking about. I began to open myself up to trusting him. When we first met, I wouldn’t accept his friend request on Facebook because I was afraid of letting him into my “bubble.” Now, I can’t imagine not hearing his voice on the phone first thing in the morning.





And I said, "Yes."



Robby asked me to marry him on Dec. 23^rd and I said, “yes!” The proposal was a complete surprise to me, but I had no hesitations—there was no doubt in my voice when I said “yes.”

Here is what happened…Apparently Robby had been planning the engagement since September. Somewhere along the way he decided to make it a Christmas proposal. His sister and his friends were involved in the planning and things just seemed to take off from there.

Robby described the proposal in his blog, so I will tell you my side of things. I was under the impression that Robby’s sister Mary wanted us to go have our picture taken with Santa while she was in town. It was supposed to be a surprise to Robby’s mom. This all seemed reasonable to me.

Robby told me that he and Veronica had some more shopping to finish and that he would drop off Jude and me at Target so they could finish shopping and then we would meet at 1:00 at Bass Pro Shop to have our photo taken with Santa. Robby’s mom called last minute and wanted to be a part of the photo, too. I believed every word. Again, this all seemed reasonable to me.



Mr. and Mrs. Claus were teary-eyed



Jude and I showed up at Bass Pro Shop and I saw that Mary and Robby’s mom were waiting for us. Robby’s best friend Dave was also there. Again, this all seems reasonable—no red flags.

We went into Bass Pro Shop and got in line to see Santa for our family photo which will now include Robby, Mary, his mom, Dave, Veronica, Jude, and me. We got our photo made and I walked over to pick up my purse that I placed near the exit.

“Hey, Kim, I have something for you,” said Mrs. Claus. I froze. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small box wrapped in red paper with a red bow—red is my favorite color.

She handed the gift to me and I looked at Robby who was standing beside Santa. My first thought was, “if this is a pair of earrings then I will hurt somebody.”

Santa said, “Come here and sit on my knee, Kim. Let’s see what is inside the box.”

I walked over and sat on Santa’s knee. My hands were trembling and I was not sure if I could open the box. Santa gave me a hand and held the wrapping paper so I could see what was inside the box.

I finally realized that Robby was on one knee at my side. “Kim, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked with tears in his eyes.

I opened the box and saw the ring—it was perfect. I reached out and grabbed Robby’s face in my hands and held his face close to mine. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Perfect ring for the perfect proposal

At this point, we were all crying—especially Santa. “This is this sweetest thing I have ever seen,” Santa sobbed. I forgot about Robby and hugged Santa and told him to stop crying because he was making me cry even harder.

Then Mrs. Claus walked over and I noticed that she was also crying. “I’m so happy for you two,” she said.

I finally realized that everyone in the store was looking at us. They were smiling and some were crying. Veronica and Jude were standing with Mary and Robby’s mom and they were obviously happy. “I have a new family,” I thought to myself.

Then I noticed that two camera men from the local news stations were filming everything. And then it all hit me—Robby just asked me to marry him. And I said yes and I didn’t secretly regret it.

My first proposal was horrible and my first marriage was even worse. This proposal was perfect. This was the kind of proposal that all girls wish for. This was the kind of proposal that I deserved.

I never thought I would get married again. I always thought I would be the cool woman who was the swinging bachelorette in the group. I would never be tied down to one man—I would just go out on a lot of dates and have fun. I wanted to be that girl that all her friends envied because she had this carefree lifestyle. And as fun as that life could be, it was becoming a lonely existence.

But I decided to give love a second chance. I decided to trust someone again. I decided not to base my future decisions on past disappointments. But most importantly, I decided to love myself again. Thank you, Robby, for loving me back.



Neighborhood vigilante

Apparently my newfound sense of self-confidence may end up getting me into trouble. I don’t consider myself a trouble maker, either. Unlike my boyfriend who tends to get kicked out of places, I like to fly under the radar and go unnoticed in a crowd.

But this week I did something that surprised me. I’m not ashamed of what I did—as a matter of fact, I’m pretty proud of myself.

We live in one of the older neighborhoods of Richmond Hill. It’s small and self-contained—only two streets and they come together in a loop near the back end and we are surrounded by a small creek and wooded tree line. My house is on the back end of the loop.

Jude and Veronica take the bus to and from school every day. Veronica rides the special ed bus to accommodate her wheelchair, so it stops at the end of my driveway each day to pick her up and drop her off. Jude has the option to walk down to the end of either side of our road to catch the bus. He chooses to ride his scooter or bike down to his friends’ house each morning so they can hang out and shoot some hoops while they wait for the bus.

The problem is that in order for Jude to get to his friends’ house he must go around a corner where some idiot planted a row of evergreen trees. Over the past few years these trees have grown a lot and now they completely block the view on either side of the curve. Every day one of the children in our neighborhood has a close call with oncoming traffic because drivers can’t see the children on the road until after they pass the trees.

About a month ago, a driver had to slam on her brakes in order to not hit Jude and his pals riding their bikes. I saw the entire incident unfold and for a brief moment, I thought my child was going to be killed by a speeding teenager.

The trees sit on a foreclosed property. So, I dialed the number on the realtor’s sign in the yard and spoke to the person in charge of selling the home for the bank. I explained the situation about the trees and she came to the house the next day and took pictures to send the bank. The bank’s response was, “We’ll think about it, but removing trees is expensive.”

Last week, I called the city and explained the situation. Their response was, “We don’t cut down trees in people’s yards.” So, I called someone else at City Hall. Their response was, “We don’t remove trees unless they are in danger of falling on power lines. And in that case, the electric company would take care of the trees.”

My response was, “What is your stance on paying for funerals of dead children?”

I hung up my phone and decided that I wasn’t going to wait for one of the children on my street to be hit by a car. My garage is filled with tree cutting devices—hand saws, axes, and clippers. With the weapon chosen, I decided to wait until dark and make my move on the trees.

On Wednesday night, I put the kids to bed. I washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and organized the mail. At 10:00, I sat down to watch an episode of Dexter. At the end of the show, I put on my boots, jacket, and gloves. I grabbed my flashlight and handsaw and walked down the street.

I’m not good at sneaking around so I was a nervous wreck. I kept thinking that I heard a car coming or someone walking up behind me. I crouched down on my knees and laid the flashlight on the ground so the light was focused on the base of the biggest tree. I began sawing through the wood like my life depended on it.

It seemed like the creak, creak, creak sound of the saw was going to wake up the neighborhood, but I began to calm down and focus on the task at hand. My arms were beginning to tire and I realized that I was being stupid for fearing someone would catch me in the act.

“I’m doing them a favor,” I thought. “This is the right thing to do and I should have done it months ago.”

I sat back on my heels and wiped the sweat that was running down into my eyes. “This is ridiculous,” I thought. “I’m coming back tomorrow and finishing the job during the day.”

I stuck my flashlight in my pocket and walked home with the saw in my hand. “I hope the cops don’t drive by right now.”

Yesterday afternoon I finally finished the job I started—I finished it in broad daylight and not a soul noticed. In the end, I cut down 3 trees and I stacked them in the driveway of the foreclosed home. I’m not sure if what I did was illegal, but I know it was the right thing to do.

On my way home, I stopped by my neighbor’s house and told her what I did. “Good for you,” she said. “I hate those trees.”

I guess we’ll never know if I saved any lives—I wasn’t willing to “wait and see” what would happen. I told Veronica and Jude what I did and explained to them why I did it. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” Veronica told me.

This morning, we got up to leave the house for Jude’s karate class and the kids noticed our neighbor’s had also cut down their trees in their front yard (completely unrelated to my trees). Jude’s eyes got big and said, “Whoa, Mom, did you do that, too?”

I laughed and said, “No, honey, my tree cutting days are over for now.”

Even though I shouldn’t need to cut down any more trees for a while, I hope I continue to remember that it is easy to “wait and see” if others around me are willing to step-up and do the right thing. It’s hard for me to step out of my comfort zone and do what I know is right. Doing the right thing is usually never easy, and I may end up getting into trouble for what I did. But I don’t regret a thing and I would cut down a hundred trees if that is what it takes to keep my children safe.