13-year-olds. God love 'em.

 

Cheyenne is going through her latest and by far greatest phase lately, diving into the black depths of her middle-school soul and becoming, at least for the week, an emo.

 

What the hell is an emo, you ask? I had to do some research on this one. You see, once kids get out of elementary school, they break off into many different groups, and in those groups, there are many different categories and sub-categories, and Cheyenne? Is dangerously close to the bottom of a little family tree I like to call "The Freaks."

 

Let me break it down: In the Freak Family, you have soft-core freak and hard-core freak classifications. For instance, soft-core freaks include your average band geek (who can flit back and forth between the Freak family and the Nerd family), and Punks (who are freakish, no doubt, but are bad-ass enough to hang with the popular kids from time to time). Some examples of hard-core freaks are Goths (obsessed with celtic crosses, black lipstick, and dog collars) Vamps (who have officially taken it--whatever "it" is--too far), and perhaps the most angsty of all the teen groups: The Emos.

 

Emo stands for emotional (ie, "an emotional wreck", "full of emotion", "EMO, MY ASS", etc., etc.) Emos can wear all black, or they can dabble in other colors such as gray, dark gray, navy blue, blood red, and maybe, if they're feeling froggy, eggplant. Emos (both male and female) go heavy on the black eyeliner. Hair is worn either stick straight all up in the face, or greased up in a grungy little frizzball under a (gray, dark gray, navy blue, or eggplant) beanie. Emos write poetry about hating life and loving death. Emos listen to Green Day, Evanescence, and My Chemical Romance, even though less than a year ago they were totally into Aly & AJ's "Walking on Sunshine". Emos don't care that their stay-at-home mommy drives them to and from school everyday, gives them healthy snacks when they get home, and buys them those $40 black converse sneakers they just had to have. Emos talk to each other about cutting themselves. They swap suicidal ideas and they only laugh when someone makes a joke about running over a cheerleader.

 

Some emos need serious help.

 

Here are some things you could say to make an Emo mad. Not that you would want to make an Emo mad. Because then they'd have to stop sulking and muster up the energy to pout and perhaps speak. Nevertheless:

 

 

 

 

September 25th. Homecoming Day. Big parade in which kindergarteners partake. Floats involving hay and spray-painted crunched-up newspaper. I made posters with crayon. Never again, although they did turn out damn good if I do say so myself.

 

Cheyenne will be in the parade as well. Marching band. Flute. So proud.

 

Cheyenne has also discovered boys. And texting. And texting boys.

 

Dark Chocolate Espresso Beans seem to have more caffeine in them than 12 cups of coffee. Note to self: Don't pop these suckers like candy right before bedtime.

 

Mia asked if she could get out my big honkin' bible and take a little look at it. Of course, I proudly said yes, only to discover that she just wanted to pretend she was reading "The Never-Ending Story".

 

Boys II Men are doing a little East Coast swing at the Oklahoma State Fair tonight. Should be pretty bumpin', but we'll be checking out the hometown football action, so Motownphilly's a no-go.

 

Curses.

 

The firemen were at Walmart again today. Only this time, they scattered their hotness throughout the store rather than patrolling the fruits and veggies in one large beautiful group. Me? Coincidentally, I had on the same mommy jeans I had on the last time I encountered firemen. I did change it up today, though, and topped off my ensemble with a dowdy red cardigan from JCPenney. No make up. And I think I forgot to brush my teeth. But at least I didn't drool all over myself.

 

That is all.

 

 

 

I honestly can't believe it.

 

It's been one whole year since Merrick's skull was hacked to pieces, and we've managed not to knock/bump/bang/jab/stab his exposed brain since then.

 

Don't get me wrong--Merrick is a wild man. His forehead's taken a beating; his nose has cushioned many a fall. But the rest of his perfect little head is not our doing--only by the grace of God has he survived in our house, on our tile floors, around our sharp corners, our pushy dogs, and my clumsiness. Without a helmet. Or a padded cage.

 

2008 was super-eventful for our family. Looking back, I know there were worse things that could've happened. I have friends who have gone through so much more with their own sweet babies. But at that point, I felt like life was bitch-slapping us left and right. Our old golden retriever died. Caleb got laid off one month before Merrick was due, and then, of course, Merrick came--and then, there was something off with his head. Our pediatrician noticed it only a few hours after his birth--"Hmm. We'll just keep an eye on that head shape"--but I blew it off, thinking that the good doctor must've been smoking crack since the kid was still crunched from, oh, BEING BORN.

 

Note: turns out, doctors sometimes know what they're talking about.

 

When we first found out Merrick had craniosynostosis, my family was visiting--and thank God for that, too. Although we waited for the results of x-rays and ultrasounds and CAT scans to come back before we let ourselves believe it, Caleb and I suspected. Every night I'd sit and rock him and stroke his hair, and I'd run my fingers over and over the little bumpy ridgeline that ran right down the middle of his head. I'd look at his forehead as I fed him and I'd notice how it protruded so much more than the girls' had, and I knew. But it was still a blow.

 

Craniosynostosis is a big word for a woman with 1 newborn, 2 other kids, 3 dogs, and a husband who'd just been laid off. It's not something I could easily wrap my head around (Get it? Head? As in skull? Head--you know, because...um, nevermind.) Merrick's skull was closed. Where a normal infant would have a nice soft spot, Merrick had none. And as his brain grew, the parts of his skull that were open would be pushed in all kinds of wrong directions, and his head shape took on the look of an...I don't even know what. Maybe a hammer, or a boat. It was long. He looked angry all the time. There had to have been a great deal of pressure on his brain, because he threw up constantly--literally, constantly. I was either feeding him or changing his clothes, or my clothes. My parents, my friends, specialists, doctors, nurses--they all said he'd be fine, that we'd get through the appointments and the tests and the surgery, and within a year's time, it would seem like a dream. But I felt like the world was coming to an end.

 

I'd never had to worry about anything so serious in my life. I'd never had to make the really tough decisions--although, in this case, there was no decision to make. Merrick had to have surgery. There was no question.

 

At 4 months old, on a Wednesday morning in late September, Merrick had his craniosynostosis surgery at OU Children's Hospital. Despite needing a blood transfusion in recovery (and despite getting Caleb's jacked-up blood) he came through it extremely well. It was so hard to see him all bandaged and wired up...and bruised and swollen. It was hard seeing him lying in a hospital bed, period, and knowing that I couldn't pick him up, even if he cried. Every little beep from the machines he was hooked up to freaked me out, every squirm he made had me calling for a nurse.

 

And yet, as terrible as I thought he looked, he was far from helpless. He was stronger than I was. "Pain? What pain? I'm just pissed because you won't take this stupid velcro bootie off my foot. What the hell, Mom?"

 

We were outta there by Friday afternoon.

 

Things since then have gone great. Merrick was a trooper, I tell you. The biggest complication we had in the weeks after sugery? An ear-infection, brought on by a runny nose which came with the cold he must've picked up in the uber-sanitary place that is the hospital. Once he was over that, we tore up the town. I got some dirty looks just about everywhere I went with him--that scar was gruesome, and while the stitches were in, there was to be no covering it. A few people would ask questions--I'm sure most people thought we had either dropped him accidentally or beat him on purpose. Ah, good times.

 

You'd never know just by looking at him today that in his very young life, Merrick was as courageous--well, mostly oblivious, but I like to think he was courageous--as he was. He's got a gorgeous (perfectly shaped) head of silky blond hair, a smooth forehead, and, most of the time, a happy, happy look on his face. He walked at 9 months. He's running, climbing, talking, laughing, and getting into everything he's not supposed to. Children in general can change your life, and that's been true of all mine--but Merrick in particular has taught me--and my husband--more about strength and gratitude than we ever imagined possible.

 

Just got back from a cookie-infested PTO meeting, and, like you, I'm surprised I'm even going to these things. It's so anti-me. But I was to understand there would be cookies, and well, you know...

 

I accidentally signed up for Relay for Life in May. But then again, it's a good thing to do, you know, for the world. And it's fun...and they had cookies, so what was I supposed to say? "No?", while I was stuffing my face? Besides, May is a long, long way away. They might even find a cure for cancer before then and I won't even have to worry about it.

 

I finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. I understand now why the book was banned in certain places back then: people just didn't want to know what was really going on--because they didn't want to feel ashamed of themselves for not helping. Just my opinion. Of course, some would say the whole breastfeeding a grown man thing was somewhat controversial, thus the need for the ban...and on kind of a side note: isn't it interesting how people can look back at the 30s and the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl and the Okies in California and say "What a horrible situation, what a horrible time, how terrible it must've been for those people"--when, if you think about it, the same thing is happening still today with immigrants--legal and yes, illegal, too, but still people, still human--and not immigrants, too--selling everything they own and risking their lives for just the chance that their children will have it a little better, starving, working for peanuts, no access to healthcare, living in unsanitary conditions, being exploited, being treated worse than dogs, yada yada--you get it...I'm just sayin'.

 

There's a little girl in Mia's class whose mother just died last week, suddenly. This little girl is also on Mia's soccer team, and tonight I met and talked with the girl's father for quite a while. I didn't say much except to say how sorry I was about his wife, but I did listen when he started talking. And he talked. And to hear him describe how he gave his wife CPR, while his 9-year-old son tried to dial 911 but was too overwhelmed and scared to do it, how she said she couldn't breathe, how she wouldn't take in any air, how he couldn't grasp what was happening even as the paramedics wheeled her out. She died at home, in front of him, in front of their kids, and it was the saddest thing I've ever heard, sadder than any movie I've ever watched or book I've ever read. Now there are 3 children without a mother, and a man without his wife, his best friend. I held back tears as I listened, but after practice I just wanted to come home, curl up in my bed in a ball and cry and cry and cry. I don't know this man, I don't know his kids, and I didn't know his wife. And I can't even imagine the pain they've all gone through and will continue to go through. And I wish there was something I could've said to him or something I could do for them to help. But there's nothing in the world I can think of.

 

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

Noah is the biggest shithead dog that ever lived, and I'll just leave it at that.

 

Mia is getting run ragged. Kindergarten alone is wearing her out. She's also in soccer again this season--on a team with girls and boys, and they're called "The Sharks" and they practice on a grassy field here in town twice a week. If I thought she was tired at the end of the day normally, then she's half-dead by bedtime on soccer days. The Sharks' first game is Saturday.

 

Cheyenne has a band-marching contest thingy Saturday. She also has a football game tomorrow night, from which she won't get back until midnight. I'm surprised she's holding up as well as she is so far this year.

 

Merrick is just. A. Nut. He's happy and crazy and rambunctious and coy and sweet and so cute that I can't even stand it sometimes.

 

Caleb is a working maniac.

 

And I'm going to bed.

Great weekend, rainy weekend. Caleb is feeling better and he borrowed the neighbor's lawn mower Friday afternoon. Did the entire yard in 3 hours--a small fraction of the time it normally takes. Awesome.

 

My stomach hurts like the dickens.

 

The kids are driving me crazy. It's one thing after another with Cheyenne these days. Cell phone? Confiscated. Got it taken away initially because she was texting after bedtime. Now? She's been getting a few "inappropriate" texts (read: "SOUPA SALTY IN MA PANTS!") from some kid in her grade, and I just don't know when she's getting it back.

 

I'm a crotchedy old man when it comes to 13 year-olds and technology. Cell phones are the devil and texting is the gateway to hell. In my day, we passed notes--wholesome notes...full of cusswords and inappropriate comments like "SOUPA SALTY IN MA PANTS!" In my day, we listened to good clean music like Dr. Dre and Snoop Dog--none of this "Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips" crap that the kids are crazy about now.

 

I thought I had at least one more year of peace and quiet until the teenager hit the fan. Now it looks like Cheyenne will be keeping me busy until 2014--just in time for Mia to step into the spotlight (thus making it possible for Merrick to get away with murder.) See how this works? You do? Well I don't. But I wish I did. I wish I had seen it back when we started having all these fun kids. Oh yeah, they're great under the age of 5. They're cute and cuddly and all they do is love you and worship the ground you walk on. At 8, they're tolerable and entertaining. And then...well, you see how it works.

 

I love my kids. I love my kids.

 

Thursday night is PTO night with a themed-twist: everyone brings yummy cookies. I fully supported the idea until I remembered that I CAN'T COOK. I can't even make Tollhouse taste good. So I'll do what I do best: arrange store-bought cookies lovingly on a platter and pass them off as my own. "Oh, the recipe? Why didn't I write down the recipe? I simply forgot! So busy baking, you know. Had flour and sugar all over the place--the dogs had a field day! Merrick was covered in chocolate! Mia got salmonella from eating the raw eggs in the batter! Ha ha ha! Bless her little heart! Happens everytime I bake cookies. In my own home. In the stove--the oven? Oh, yeah, cookies fresh from the oven. Yum! No, no recipe. I'll get it to you some other time. Actually, it's a secret family recipe. So, no, I can't share it. Now shutup and eat the cookies that I've worked so very hard on all day."

Lawnmower's broken. There's spiky stickers all over the yard. Don't care. Caleb's got a funk and a fever of 104. Care, but can't do much about it. Pretty sure it was passed to him from lady at gas station who sat miserably clutching her stomach behind the register Saturday evening. Wish sick people would stay the heck home. Wish the cupcake craze would hit central Oklahoma. Wish there was a cupcake store here in our little town. Wish I could just bake decent cupcakes. Wish I had a cupcake.

 

Caleb's job tossing around different ideas. Last month? A move over to Arkansas. This month? Kansas City within a year. Or so. Maybe. Possibly. In theory. Kansas City? More snow. Urng.

 

New favorite kids' book? The Donut Chef, by Bob Staake. Cool illustrations. Rhythmic story. Love it. Movie I can't wait to see but probably isn't worth the hype? "Where the Wild Things Are." Video I can't wait to buy and perpetually play on a golden television next to my bed? "Wolverine." Is it weird that I don't have any of the other X-Men movies?

 

Finished the rubber dummies. Don't seem very authentic to me. A couple of stupid tattoos on each one--nobody's covered. Spent most of last night rubbing smudges and bogus Transformer tattoos off of their bodies. Made them very slippery--baby oil really does work wonders, though. Added on a few more tattoos while listening to Lionel Ritchie. Here's me: "Hello? Is it me you're...." (Hmmm, I wonder if I should draw a bloody dagger, or skull and crossbones?) "....looking fooor?"

 

 

The gangsterest music I own is Ja Rule. Am I the only one who thinks he looks 10 years old in the face?

 

Would be really cool to take pictures of the dummies in lawn chairs around our firepit.

 

Eating cupcakes.

 

 

It is Day 3 of Week 2 of Husband Being Gone Most of the Time. And this week, it's really not so bad. Mainly because I know he's in Arkansas, not Vegas.

 

The kids and I have settled into little routines. Marching band practice at the butt-ass crack of dawn for Cheyenne, Mia to school by 8:00, and a brisk walk around the neighborhood for Merrick and I at 9. Playtime, lunchtime, naptime, pick-up time, homework time, dinner time, bath time, book time and finally, bed time, sometimes followed by golf-course-running time for me...sometimes followed by shower time for me.

 

Cheyenne has her first football game tomorrow, AND in the course of no more than 4 days, she's had her first boyfriend (the short kid she's had a crush for years) and her first heartbreak. (He was only using her to make someone else jealous--ouch. Who does that little mutha fucka think he is?) I'm flipping out on the inside because she seems way too young to be ate up with all this drama. I casually suggested in a round-about way that she cool it with all the boy-girl stuff, to which she politely responded "Uggggg...Mo-oooommmm." But what do I know? I'm just the SCHMUCK WHO GOT PREGNANT WITH HER AT 15.

 

I get it. Backing off is no easy task for a paranoid parent such as myself. But, sometimes, in my mind, I wish she'd just listen to me. Okay, that's not my only wish. I wish she'd listen, and agree. And learn. And do. In fact, if more people just came around to my way of thinking, my world, I'm convinced, would be a better place.

 

But how do I say, "Listen to me--I know what I'm talking about. Do you want to wind up pregnant at 15? No, you don't. Trust me. I know. It works out terrible." Of course I don't say that. Because it didn't work out terrible, unless you think it's terrible that I as a 29-year-old mother cannot effectively communicate with nor can I patiently put up with the hormones and emotions of a teenage girl. So in that light, yeah, it's pretty terrible. Makes me want to stick my head in the oven. But...the good times outweigh the bad, by far.

 

I feel like I'm supposed to say that.

 

Mia and Merrick become more psycho every day. 1) I'm sure part of it's because they miss Caleb. 2) I'm also pretty sure that Mia's teachers give her crack at lunchtime, and 3) I've read books on how kids just turn straight-up crazy at the tender age of 15 months, so Merrick's...I'm going to call it "energy"--is just a natural part of the growing process. That said, here's an example of why I truly believe being stabbed in the brain with a knife can't be more painful than the migraine I have by the end of the day, everyday:

 

MIA: (screaming bloody murder) "OOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW! OOOOOWWWW! OOOOWWWWW!"

ME:  (running across the house to her room) "What?! What?! Are you okay?! Are you okay?!"

MIA: "Oh, yeah. I was just saying 'c-OOOOOOWWW! c-OOOOWWW!' "

ME:  "You were saying 'cow'? That's what you were saying?"

MIA: "Moooom. That's what I'm saying, that I said c-ow."

ME:  "You...what? You...oh. Ug. The noodles are boiling over!"

 

Enter Merrick, I run to the kitchen, knock him down, he screams, dogs whine for their food, washing machine sounds like an airplane, something in the dishwasher clangs rhythmically, Moose A. Moose of "Noggin" fame sings an obnoxious song, boiling water and goo rushes off the stovetop onto the floor, Mia slips on the tile, she cries, dogs whine, Merrick screams...

 

Ach. You get my drift. I'll stop now because I know I'm not the only one who lives the dream.

 

And I'm giving myself a headache.

 

But I do love my kids.

 

Seriously. I do.