God, you knew this would make me mad at you



Veronica getting ready for ropes course

Things have changed drastically since my last post. While in Texas, I took my daughter to Peaceable Kingdom Retreat for Children (if you have money then give it to this place) for Camp Just Like Me (also needs money). This a camp sponsored by Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children in Dallas, TX  and is for children with Arthrogryposis (if you have more extra money then give it to this place, too).

To say that Veronica and I love this place is a total understatement. This was our third year as campers and it has changed our lives.

For one week, we get to forget the outside world. Veronica gets a chance to be the “cool kid.” And I get a chance to just be a regular mom with a regular kid. Veronica was able to SCUBA, do a high swing and zip line, watch movies in the private theater, play unlimited air hockey and arcade games, swim, practice her archery, and make friends that will undoubtedly last a lifetime.

The last night of camp Veronica fell on stage during the talent show and broke her left knee and fractured her right leg. I cannot even begin to describe this nightmare.

Veronica getting ready for archery

I sat in the audience and watched the entire scene unfold. When you have a child that is prone to bad falls, you quickly learn that she needs a lot of open space to walk. I guess everyone got caught up in the fun of watching these children shine on stage and forgot to clear the stage.

I knew the set-up on stage was a mistake from the start. I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach that things were getting out of control too quickly. I watched Veronica and her best friend walk too closely to each other and then I did something—I lowered my video camera and watched the horror unfold in slow motion.

The girls fell and Veronica’s legs got pinned underneath her. She began screaming, “Oh my Gosh, oh my gosh!” I don’t remember much after that. I ran onstage and grabbed my little girl and I could tell her little legs were twisted in an unusual shape.

I held her close to my chest and whispered in her ear, “it’s okay baby, Mommy’s got you.” I looked over her shoulder and mouthed the words, “her leg is broken” to the nurse—she nodded in confirmation.

Veronica's SCUBA lesson

All of the sudden I realized that everything was very quiet and everyone was looking at us. The young camp counselors seemed to be in shock. But the parents in the room seemed to know exactly what was going on—this scene was all too familiar to them. We all know what it is like to watch your child fall down and break an arm or a leg or both—their joints are static and it leaves them vulnerable to these types of injuries.

I have been told that I have an amazing ability to appear to be a very composed and rational person despite the fact that my world is constantly throwing me curveballs. For some reason, I was able to keep my composure again despite the anxiety. But for the first time in a long time I wanted to hold my child to my chest and scream at the top of my lungs.

Veronica's first catch

At that moment I hated God. If he had been standing in front of me I would have told him to “fuck off.” I would have asked him, “Is this some sort of sick joke?  Has this child not suffered enough for you?”

But I kept my wits and held in the tears and waited for our ride to yet another emergency room. The camp is in a rural area of Texas, so I had time to calm myself on the 30 minute ride to the ER. 

I kept thinking, “Why is this happening? What will I say to Veronica?”

While Veronica and I were hanging out in the back of the ER waiting to see the doctor, I felt it was time to address the reality of the situation.

“Honey, I’m not sure if your leg is broken, but you have obviously done something bad to your knee.”

She began to cry again. “Mommy, why does bad stuff always happen to me?”

I held back the tears and took a deep breath, “I don’t know, sweetie. But I do know that everything happens for a reason so let’s try to look at this situation and see what God is trying to tell us.”

We sat silent for a moment and then I said, “Sweetheart, you want to know what I think? I think it’s time that you and I come to terms with the fact that you are disabled and that falling and hurting yourself is just going to be a fact of life. But you can’t let this destroy you—you have to find the strength inside yourself to overcome this pain and frustration and become a bright light in a dark world.”

Dinner in the lodge

Veronica sat quietly in her wheelchair for a few moments—she seemed to be soaking in my words. “I guess, but I’m just so tired of all of this. I just want to be normal.”

“I know you do sweetie, but you are not. You are special for a reason and you have to keep on living so you can find out what your purpose is.”

She nodded. “Don’t worry, Mom. Even if I never walk again, I will still be okay because my friends from camp will always like me just the way I am.”

I held in my tears until I got back to Savannah. Robby picked us up at the airport. After he hugged the kids, he turned and looked me in the eyes and hugged me. I cried like a baby. It felt good to let it all out.  He whispered in my ear, “it’s okay baby, I got you.”

Veronica having fun at camp

I’ve learned something from this tragedy—it’s okay to be mad at God. He knows that I am mad at him right now and that I don’t understand why my sweet baby has to have 2 broken legs after she has finally recovered from a very intense foot surgery.

He also knows that one day all of this drama will make sense to me. But until then, I will be mad at the world and he will just have to be understanding of me for a change.

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.

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.

I have a date to the prom



My senior prom with my
brother David (1993)



So, for the first time in almost 20 years I can finally say, "I have a date to the prom!" Mr. EHarmony is a special ed teacher at a local high school and he was sweet enough to ask me to be his date. Luckily he asked in a text message so he couldn't hear me squeal in excitement.

I don't get the chance to get dressed up and hang out with adults in a social setting often (if ever). I'm normally a pretty laid back person but for some reason I'm so excited about going to prom and I can't wait until tonight.



Last night Mr. EHarmony and I reminisced on proms of our youth. I told him the story about how I went with the superintendent’s son one year. First of all, the superintendent and his wife (who was the bitchy secretary at the junior high) were like Ward and June Cleaver--if the Cleavers were older, rude, and duller.

 

Dueling prom dates



I had to stand in the photo line by myself while he posed for pictures with his parents. His mom kept patting his face and telling him he was so handsome. I saw images of them owning a creepy motel in the desert together.

 This awkward moment paled in comparison to the fact that my ex-boyfriend was standing behind me making out with his new girlfriend and the large corsage on her hand kept messing up the back of my hair.



I'm sure this couple whipped out
 some wicked break dancing moves

 I was not-so-pleasantly surprised to know that my date's mother and father would be sitting at our table all night.

 "Don't the chaperones have their own table?" I asked him. "Yeah, but I was afraid Mom and Dad would be bored sitting there so I asked them to sit with us." I didn't even bother to act like it was a sweet gesture.

While this story makes for a funny tale, it also marked the beginning of my quest to date "bad boys." So the next year I went to the prom with a guy who ditched his "sissy" tux and wore torn jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket.

We only stayed at the prom for about 30 minutes because the whole scene was so lame to him. "That's why I dropped out of this place," he said.  

I was not aware it
 was time for PETA prom again



 

Apparently, being around high school kids made him need to get really high with his boys. He dropped me off at my house at 9:30 and I spent the rest of the night watching cartoons with my little brothers. I had to admit that I had more fun with Young Norman Bates the year before--being cool was overrated.



I didn't know Beyonce's mom
 made prom dresses



I'm sure tonight will be my prom redemption night. I don't foresee creepy parents crashing our party or being dropped off early. But I do foresee a lot of bad dance moves and tacky outfits, because that's what prom is really all about.

 



 






A sack of flour and a stomach full of guilt

Today in my New Media class we had to present our ideas for a video game concept. A gal in the class (let’s call her Ida) presented an idea about a phone app that would simulate a baby. It could be used as a teaching tool for teens to show them the responsibility involved in raising a baby—perhaps even help guide them away from premarital sex?



A sack of flour in a dress can't prepare you for this kind of love



Before there were apps and computerized babies, I had the pleasure of lugging around a 5 pound sack of flour in a dress for a week when I was a senior in high school. Of course I got paired up to co-parent this dusty-bundle of joy with the weirdest guy in school and sadly it did nothing (Dad don’t read this) to slow my teenaged libido.

I did learn you need a lot of patience and planning to raise your children right. But what I didn’t learn was how much guilt I would take on once they are born.

I feel guilty for everything that happens under my roof. Let me list a few items off the top of my head

·       Divorce

·       No milk in the fridge

·       Forgetting they were serving meatloaf in the cafeteria and not packing a lunch

·       My son’s favorite shirt is not clean and he couldn’t wear it to school     

·       Dog chewed up a favorite toy

·       Dog threw up in daughter’s room

·       Son used daughter’s toothbrush to clean the dog’s throw-up breath

·       No money to buy (insert favorite toy/video game here)

·       Mommy has a new boyfriend

·       Daddy never calls

·       Divorce

           

This is actually a short list—most days the list can go on forever. Why? Because I feel guilty about everything. Let me rephrase that—I used to feel guilty for everything. I’m really working on the whole guilt thing and I can tell that I am getting better.



Can your app do that?



I realized something very important this morning while I was sitting in family counseling with my daughter, who is very mad at me right now for having a new boyfriend at the same time she is stuck in a wheelchair from her recent foot surgery and her dad hasn’t called her in over a month.

I realized that my life needs to more about me and less about making everyone else feel good about themselves. I realized that I am a good mom and I make good decisions. I realized that God put this very special man in my life to give me some of that happiness that I have so desired over the past years.

Yes, I hate to see my daughter so sad. But I know that her happiness depends on my happiness—not the other way around. I am the mother. I am the adult in this relationship. I am the one who needs to shed the guilt and lift her up when she is down. But I can’t do this if I am not happy.

A sack of flour never made me this tired...

I guess there are things about motherhood that no one can teach you with a sack of flour or a cell phone—you have to figure these things out for yourself.  But, if Apple could make an app to alert me when my guilt levels are getting too high and unnecessary then I would download it, back it up on my hard drive, worship it, and share it with all my friends.

           

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.