Losing a Recent Student

On Tuesday morning, the faculty and staff at my school was called to the lecture hall. There, the Dean of Operations tearfully broke the news that one of our recent students had been killed in a car accident the night (or early morning) before.

We've had a lot of staff turnover, so for some her name meant nothing. Others of us, however, worked closely with this young lady every day for years. Speaking for my myself, I taught her either English or Advisory for over four years. I am distraught beyond words...

That doesn't mean, of course, that staff members unfamiliar with D were unaffected. It's always tragic when a child of 18 dies, no matter the circumstances, and most new staff members had to aid in supporting distraught students. D was a fellow student and peer of the group of kids that graduated in June, so many kiddos remain that were very close to her.

I teach in a very small town, and one of the great things is how everyone comes together in times of tragedy, whether they get along otherwise or not. Everyone in this small town is lifting high D's spirit to heaven and keeping her parents, siblings, and close friends in their thoughts and prayers. I fear that when the shock of this tragedy wears off, the gossip mill, the biggest thing in any small town, will go into overdrive. For right now, love is abounding, as it should be, and love and prayers for D are all over Facebook and the accident site and in the halls of my school.

D. is not the first student I've lost (RIP Teddy D...please show D. the ropes in heaven...you will like her, everybody does), but she is the one I had most recently and one I had an extremely close connection with at one point.

I don't know if this is common knowledge, but most teachers refer to their students as "my kids" or "my kiddos". For over four years, D. was one of my kids....and because I am me, she will be forever.

These are the things I will always, always remember about D.:

1. The Mickey Mouse sweatshirt she frequently wore. Every time I see Mickey attire, I will think of D.

2. The way she greeted me with, "Hey, Miss Loud, hey Miss Loud, hey!" every time I saw her.

3. The ability she had to connect with a book. D. did not love to read (although I'm pretty sure she in general liked it). When D. found a book that called out to her, she would devour it in a matter of days. She would write about it insightfully. She would discuss it intelligently and thoughtfully. 

4. She adored her niece and wrote often in her journal about babysitting and time spent with the little girl.

5. She was loved by many different factions of students. Looking at D's Facebook wall, outpouring of emotions are coming from students of all social groups, all ages and grades. She was well-known; it's safe to say that she transcended most typical "cliques".

6. Although D was delightfully sassy, she had a heart of gold. Her laugh was infectious, and she shared it generously with pretty much everyone.

7. I once gave a writing assignment where my students had to write about a "defining moment" in their lives. Some students didn't understand the depth I was looking for ("a defining moment for me was when the dog ate my homework"), but D wrote the most poignant defining moment essay I have ever read. I will never forget D's defining moment and that she was willing to share it with me.

8. D's handwriting was like the cliche of what "girl handwriting" looks like in the 2000s...it's pretty, but big...a little bit of cursive combined with a little bit of print. She filled many class journals with this interesting script...

9. D did not like to read aloud or share answers she came up with for questions in school. She tended to say in a melodramatic voice, "I just don't know, Ms. Loud. I think maybe you'd better ask someone else." The irony, of course, is that she had great insight and very often correct "answers". I spent years trying to convince D that she was a smart girl that would never, ever be dismissed as "the stupid kid". I wish I had been able to convince D of her potential and how to believe in herself a little bit more. She knew that I cared, knew that I wanted her to succeed, knew that I believed she could succeed...but she never totally believed in her own potential at school. I wish with all my heart that I had tried harder...

10. D had a tremendous zest for life. She lived fully every day that she was alive, and there are some people (including myself) that need to learn how to do that, how to suck the marrow from the bones of life and find passion in the mundane. D taught me that, if you are bored or unhappy or lonely or thinking bad thoughts, you need to find it within yourself to change that. It's not always easy, but her grit pulled her out of any unhappiness and forced her to focus on finding happiness, humor, and hope.

If you are a parent, as I am, please hug your children extra tightly today. 

Every child is a gift, a joy, a potential for greatness on his or her own terms. D taught me that, among other things.

She was loved by many (every time I saw her mother in town, we chatted about D and what a good kid she was and what she was up to these days). Her Facebook wall is an outpouring of grief from friends and former classmates that are in shock and completely brought to their knees by this terrible, tragic loss.

The site of the accident has become a shrine to D (pics taken from Facebook walls of those honoring D)

The world will sparkle a little less without D, but she was the kind of person that touched pretty much everyone she met in some way or another. For that gift, she has impacted many, many people and left many legacies for those she left behind to follow.

D, I will always be honored that I was your teacher. I was proud of you all the time, more than you know. 

Fly high, beautiful angel...you will always be loved by those of us here on earth lucky enough to have had you in our lives.

I will never forget you, D ❤️

Stillbirths: What Nobody Wants to Talk About

When I read John Irving's The Cider House Rules, one of the lines that always stuck with me was when Wilbur Larch says, when arguing with his protege Homer Wells over the sanctity of life, "I give them what they want, an orphan or an abortion."

And really, it seems like there are three options when a child is conceived:
a) The child is born and raised by a loving family
b) The child is given up for adoption
c) The child is aborted (and I choose to add that this is almost always because the mother feels this is in the        best interest of the child)
d) The child is miscarried in early pregnancy

There is a silent e), though, that no one wants to think about, talk about, or otherwise mention. Those are the babies that are stillborn, that are either born just a little too early to survive or who have some sort of problem (I don't want to use the word deformity) that keeps the pregnancy from being viable.

With scenario a), which is obviously the best option, there is a child born, and children make most people happy.  The child is healthy and wanted and read to and tucked in at night, and it's a win/win for everybody involved.

Scenario b) is a bit stickier, as giving up a baby after carrying it for nine months would, I imagine, be tough.  I also know a couple of people very closely who were adopted as babies or young children, and it definitely plays a role in defining who you are.  With that being said, though, in most cases the child is healthy and wanted and read to and tucked in at night, and it's a win/win for everybody involved.

I will say that, when I had an accidental and unplanned pregnancy when I was seventeen, I considered giving my daughter up for adoption.  Once she started moving, though, I started to know her.  Now, I could never imagine life without having been bettered through being Emily's mother.  She is a treasure (she's the one playing the piano for her sisters here).

Scenario c) is stickier yet.  I think the idea of people running amok having abortions is frightening and disturbing.  That being said, there are times (rape and incest come to mind, or situations where a pregnant woman knows that she will be unable to care for the baby from the start) when I can see where abortions under, say, 8 weeks might be the best thing for both mother and baby.  I pontificate on this issue more here, but let me just say that it is sometimes best for both a fetus and its mother to not be born.  That sounds harsh, but I've seen enough abused kids whose parents blame their existence for all of their problems (and the damaging cloud those kids have been raised under, destroying every shred of self-esteem), enough women destroyed by family estrangement due to pregnancy, and so on.  I am not pro-abortion, I am pro-what's-best-for-everybody.

Scenario d) is quite sad, in large part because some women are prone to miscarriage, so they experience this over and over again.  I have a friend who tried for years to have a child, and she had miscarriage after miscarriage before finally carrying a baby long enough for her to survive.  I have had a miscarriage, and it is distressing, but it usually happens early enough that you haven't made big plans or bought clothes or had a baby shower or even told anybody.

Stillbirth, though, is the worst of all scenarios, in my opinion.

One day, I got a text from "Joanie", someone I am very close to.  It was very clearly an ultrasound picture, and I started jumping up and down with surprised joy.  Joanie already had a precious (and precocious) son, and while I'd speculated that she'd one day have another, this was a treat.

Joanie texted and called regularly as her pregnancy progressed, joyful tales of heartbeats on Doppler and plans for the baby, which Joanie and her husband learned was a girl.

And then one day, I got the news that the latest ultrasound showed a deformation in the baby girl's nuchal cord.  Poor Joanie, who is in the medical field, knew what that meant.  We all hoped and prayed that the next ultrasound would show better news, but instead, it was worse.  The pregnancy was not viable, and the baby would not live to term.

Joanie asked me to come be with her while she figured out if she should induce the birth or let it happen spontaneously.  I knew how serious this was because I do not fly.  My parents decided that it was easier to schlep three kids to Disney World in a station wagon than try to get me on a plane (the one time we did fly to Disney World, I evidently caused such a scene that we drove every time after).

Needless to say, I got on a plane.

When Joanie picked me up at the airport, I noticed that her hand was on her stomach.  It was caressing her stomach.  And as the weekend went on, her hand rarely left the gentle bump of her stomach.  She loved that baby, loved her dearly, and the fact that she knew the baby would  never reach viability was just terrible.  As I write this, I'm thinking about the gentle touch of a mother's hand on her baby, the being living within her, and I am crying like you cannot imagine.

Anyway, Joanie's baby was stillborn, and it was just as traumatic as you would expect.  She texted me a picture, and the baby was tiny and gray (she had died in utero before Joanie ever reached the hospital), but she was beautiful, absolutely beautiful.  In typical Joanie fashion, she noted that she had the same nose as her son.

The thing is, though, if you are visibly pregnant, you generally have a baby to show for it.  If you have an abortion, it's rare that you would show as anything more than a little fatter around the waistline, so no one would have to know.

A stillbirth, though ...

Everyone knows you are pregnant ... but then suddenly you aren't.  A lot of people, including Joanie and her husband, had bought stuff for their baby girl.  The baby's grandmothers had already gone nuts with shopping sprees.  I myself had bought at least two items (which, and this could be seen as either morbid or an honor, Gabrielle has worn.

I don't know how Joanie managed to survive the questions as her baby bump dissipated.  I know she cried a lot, that she was very sad and angry, but I do not know how she handled the issue with her colleagues (she was far enough along to have told her co-workers and superiors). I don't know what the neighbors thought, or her friends that lived close by.

I do know that I am closer to Joanie than almost anyone, and I had no idea how to handle it.  I mean, do you say, "I am so sorry!", or "What can I do to make this better?", or even "Wow, you look great, you've obviously lost some weight"?

There is no etiquette for stillbirths.  Instead the women who arguably need the most support are left with the greatest void.  I mean, sure, there's counseling, but the idea of paying someone to listen (and what are you going  to say, anyway ... "My baby died inside my womb and I'm freaking sad?") is kind of...I don't know, sterile, I guess.

I know that I talked to Joanie a lot, but I did not talk about the baby, who they named H.J., unless she broached the subject.  For a long time, this did not happen.

Then one day, Joanie had another baby.  Her son was born a couple of months before Gabrielle, and I spent some time in the hospital with her before her husband got there, and she was talking about the difference between her pregnancies with her older son and with H.J.  It hit me hard, that she had gotten to the point where she could talk about it as just any other event. I was very proud of her.

By some strange fluke that involves chlamydia (not either of us having it, but we sort of have an inside joke about it now), Joanie happened to be there when I was in labor with Gabrielle.  She was talking, again very comfortably, about the difference in the births of both of her sons and with H.J.  I should also note, in case you haven't read Gabrielle's birth story, that Joanie was the rock I leaned on when things got bad. Her strength is amazing.

The thing is, why do we avoid talking about stillbirths?  I think Joanie is an exception in that she is able to talk about H.J. in casual conversation without going to pieces.  People talk about abortions they've had, children they've given up for adoption, even early miscarriages without batting an eye; they just take this as a matter of course.

I guess I am curious about one thing.  How many people have had stillbirths that I am not aware of?  I mean, I'm sort of in Joanie's inner circle, so I know the whole story, but I wonder sometimes how many stillbirths I've been woefully unaware of?

What do you think?  Why is it that it's easier to talk about early miscarriages, children given up for adoption, children that have died young, and even abortions than stillbirths?

I would love to get your thoughts on this as I can't seem to wrap my head around it.

**This post is dedicated to H.J., a baby I love dearly and deeply and will never forget** 

"Hesitating Sharing of the Joy"...or "The Fragility of Life"...or "How I Almost Died Giving Birth": Not Your Typical Birth Story

I almost died giving birth to my daughter Gabrielle on December 16th.  

There, now I've said it.

When my other daughters were born, I shared every detail.  I am a compulsive "over-sharer" on Facebook.  I have had this blog (and mostly written regularly) since 2009.  I am not one to keep my mouth shut (or, I guess it'd be keep my computer keys clickless or something).

But I have been very reluctant to talk about that day despite people asking (and being a bit bewildered by my recalcitrance, I suspect) because frankly I have never been more scared in my life.  Also, it feels wrong to talk about a day of such great joy as being terrible and scary.

Virtually all new mothers have that "first pic", the one where they are holding their baby for the first time.  I have one, too.  

The difference is that Gabrielle had been born some time before this picture was actually taken.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that my husband captured this moment--the first one of my newborn and I--just after her second bath.

I've been struggling with how to write this piece, grappling with whether I should do a play-by-play of Gab's birth or just focus on the strange and intense feelings the extremes of that day brought forward in me, which is of course the philosophical bend that I try to find in everything that happens.

Forgive me if I go too far one way or the other ...

My water broke around 2:30 a.m., and we headed to the hospital pretty quickly as it was almost an hour away and we already knew that I would need to have IV antibiotics during delivery.

The doctor decided to start pitocin right away because I was only 2 centimeters dilated.  I was very upfront about wanting an epidural as soon as possible; this was my third go-round with childbirth, after all, and I saw no reason to suffer agonizing pain needlessly.


The epidural started off okay, with the cold wash, the burning lidocaine, and the need to stay completely still. However, it started to hurt as the anesthesiologist moved the needle then the catheter around. A lot! She seemed to think I was being something of a drama queen as I got lectured on the difference between pain and pressure. I didn't care as long as the contractions stopped hurting.

All of a sudden, my bottom felt ridiculously hot, I couldn't move my feet, and my blood pressure started dropping. The anesthesiologist seemed to think I wasn't trying hard enough to move my feet at first, but I was too scared to be angry as my blood pressure continued to plummet...and Gabrielle's started to follow. I got dizzy and faint and started throwing up with an oxygen mask hooked onto my head...it was terrible.

The scariest part was that the nurses, the anesthesiologist, and my OB were clearly alarmed. I later learned, of course, that my blood pressure had dropped dangerously, had nearly disappeared for a moment or three, that I'm very lucky that ephedrine exists.  

They restarted the pitocin, and I was very quickly in agony.  If you've ever given birth, you know what "it's time to start pushing pain" feels like, and that's what I was feeling.  When the OB checked and I was only at 4 centimeters, I knew something was going on.  4 centimeters just didn't mesh with the frequency and intensity of my contractions, so she did a quick ultrasound. Turns out Gabrielle was facing outward (called "sunny side up" on birth boards), which explained the pain and the lack of quick progress.  (Not to put too fine a point on it, but the back of a head slides down the birth canal a lot more smoothly than a face)

I was kind of at the end of my rope (okay, I was about to scream in pain, with tons of dilating still ahead of me), so the OB said the only option for pain management was reattempting the epidural. Because of the epidural/blood pressure debacle, they did not want to give me narcotic pain medicine.  

The cause of the drama with the first epidural attempt was a bolus, and I was assured that it was incredibly rare and the odds of it happening again were astronomical.  In other words, there's no way I'd have another screwy reaction to an epidural.

Until it happened again...same dizziness, same blood pressure drop, same vomiting into the oxygen, and same fear.

When the OB reluctantly said a C-section was becoming increasingly likely, I was glad. I just wanted it over and the pain and fear to be gone.

This was my first C-section after having two pretty much uneventful vaginal births with my other two daughters. It was scary, to say the least. I was still freaking out over the two epidural attempts, and trusting that there would be no to minimal pain was hard to believe considering the way everything seemed to be going wrong.

They started the C-section, and my husband sat next to me and was very reassuring. I was dizzy and dozy from the medicine, and then my blood pressure dropped yet again and I had yet another round of puking into the oxygen mask.

It was only then that they realized that Gabrielle's shoulder was tightly lodged in my pelvic bone.  They could not get her out for awhile, and finally they had to get very aggressive.  As a result, my uterine wall tore and the OB had to call for backup and order blood for a transfusion...and everyone was very scared again, which of course freaked me out all over again.  I lost a lot of blood, and there was some concern that parts of my urinary system had been damaged.
Once Gabrielle was delivered, she was perfectly fine.  I heard her cry, and I wanted to see her more than anything, but they took her away while they tried to figure out how to solve the problem of me.  They called my husband over and gave Gabrielle to him.  He cut the cord, and they were ushered into a small room where they got to bond and hang out while my blood loss was figured out and remedied and I was stitched up.
It was only later that it occurred to me how serious the situation was as they literally left my husband alone with a newborn baby for an extended period of time.


This was over three weeks ago, and here is my beautiful baby next to me as I write this.

Trying to reconcile this beautiful miracle with the abject terror of that day is just ... well, difficult.  I feel like I should just forget it, get over it, say, "Well, that was interesting, guess she's going to be the kind of kid that keeps me on my toes", but I'm finding that it's not that easy.  

There is absolutely no connection between Gabrielle Rose, my surprise miracle baby, and the terrible events of that day.  But the events are still in my mind.  I have nightmares pretty much every night.  They just aren't connected to the baby.

Which I realize is a very good thing. 

What I can't figure out is where that space is.  Forgive me, I am having a very hard time articulating this, even to myself.  Basically, those hours of labor culminating in the C-section are lost in the Twilight Zone or something.  As soon as it was over, as soon as Gabrielle was okay and then I was okay, the fact that I almost died, almost disappeared from this world, could easily have left my other two daughters motherless ... it is just gone.  Except it's not.

I have these pics of my husband and older daughters with the baby.  We are all very happy.  It's a joyous occasion.  (And I am being 100% serious and non-sarcastic).

 Is it just that I have a better understanding of the fragility of life now?  Am I just struggling to get over an experience that was traumatic and suffering guilt because who wants to say, "The day my daughter was born was one of the scariest days of my life"?  

You see, the bottom line is that I was forced to gain a sudden awareness of how often that "almost" happens.  I think about my oldest daughter driving home from work late at night and just missing a tragic encounter with a drunk driver, my sweet 9-year-old getting into a car with a murderer, my husband getting attacked while walking downtown, and the zillions of other potential disasters the people I love encounter on a daily basis.

It's a scary world we live in, on so very many levels.

But I am so very, very fortunate to have this <3 div="">

Why I Don't Love the Holidays

I used to blog a lot, then I got bogged down with writer's block, life, and foot surgery.  I took a series of "mirror pictures" the other day, and the metaphor of looking at myself in the mirror was not lost on me; it has, if nothing else, made me want to write again, which is a step in the right direction.

So here I am ...

 
And here goes my latest attempt at musings (I should mention that much of why I've been unable to write lately is because I have so much I want to write about--gun control, the asinine faux celebrations by some groups that are downright insulting when you get right down to it, the use of technology in schools, just to name a few).

Holidays are supposed to be a happy time, right?  I always--always--end up miserable, disillusioned, and feeling downright lonely.

I should make very clear that Christmas was wonderful and incredible for my girls, which is of course the most important thing.

In terms of me personally, though, it boils down to two main things that cause me angst around the holidays.

*  My step-father passed away on December 23 several years ago.  He was one of the best, and I miss him terribly.  My mother has it even worse, and my entire family is honestly pretty down in the dumps at Christmastime.

This year I had a new wrinkle added.

I went to the cemetery on the 23rd, put an ornament on the tree planted there along with a letter I'd written to him, and then I cried a lot.

I learned recently that my stepdad loathed Pythagorus (the blog pseudonym I use for my alcoholic, emotionally abusive ex-husband), felt from the moment he met him that he was weak and unstable.  He found Pythagorus to be completely pathetic, predicting long ago that Pythagorus would self-destruct because ... well, that's what mentally ill people unable to face their problems do when life doesn't go their own way.

I realized that I am angry with him for not telling me that his take on Pythagorus was that he was pretty much a sociopath, a person that sees life only in terms of himself (which is not to say that he didn't do good things but rather that he did them so that people would say, "Wow, what a good person he is!").

In other words, my stepdad had Pythagorus pegged perfectly, knew that he would cause me tremendous pain, yet let it happen anyway.

A sense came to me at the cemetery, a feeling that seemed like a message: "You have Belle, and you wouldn't otherwise."

That is true, and my magical Fairy girl is worth every broken glass and scream and lie and cruelty and bruise and humiliation he put me through.

Coming to terms with my stepdad--who was the best judge of character I've ever met--making a conscious choice to let life happen and the knowledge that it was the right thing to do even though it would epitomize the word "bittersweet" was exhausting, and it made me miss him even more this year.

I would have loved to have a conversation with my stepdad.  I kind of did at the cemetery (I always feel like I've spent time with him after going to his grave), but I wanted more, which made me miss him even more, and ... yeah, it snowballed.

*  I love to give.  The concept of doing things for other people--specifically taking the time to find a way to show the people I love that I care about them--is a beautiful thing to me.

I don't want anything in return.  Honestly, I don't.  And people don't understand when I tell them that.

What ends up happening is that people give me things that show that they don't understand me as well as I'd expected or know how to make me happy in a simple way, which is my preference.  With God as my witness, I'd rather get a piece of maple sugar candy than a diamond necklace.

So I get depressed on that level, which of course leads me to the obvious extension ... am I doing the same thing for other people?  Do I think that I am making them happy by spending time with them or having a lively conversation or giving a gift, and it's truly just depressing the hell out of them because it's all just showing how little I know them?

*  Something really amazing was supposed to be happening right around now.  It's not.  I'm sad.  

I'm realizing writing this post how selfish I sound (I am really and truly not selfish), but I guess I'm wondering if anyone else feels worse during the holiday season than any other time of year.

Here's a specific question for anyone reading this ... feel free to respond in the comments.  What are your thoughts on Yankee Swaps?

Me, I think they're fine for work parties and large social gatherings, but not for family.  The idea of taking the time, energy, and thought out of picking out a gift for someone (which could include a homemade coupon for a backrub or an afternoon of sledding, for example, or something like what Addie did for her grandmother, taking her to see Les Miserables the afternoon of Christmas day) in lieu of spending a little bit of money on something generic that involves absolutely no thought is just distasteful to me.  I realize that this is not a popular view; I almost caused a scene at Thanksgiving when I said I would refuse to participate in a family Yankee Swap (I did try to make clear that if everyone else was good with that, it was fine with me, but I just did not want to participate for reasons that I believe you understand if you're still reading this).

Anyway, I'm rambling ... but at least I'm writing :-)

The next post will be tighter, better organized, and hopefully more thought-provoking instead of me wondering if I'm the only one to wallow in self-pity at Christmastime.     

The Bittersweet Tale of the Jelly Bean Puzzle

If you are my Facebook friend, you have no doubt heard much about the jelly bean puzzle.  It has sort of consumed my life in a way, and it's brought up a lot of emotions that are ... well, quite frankly, difficult.

A couple of weeks ago, Belle started going through this puzzle phase.  Basically, she did every single puzzle we had in the house (virtually all of them fairly simple ... they're all Disney Princess and Fancy Nancy children's puzzles).

It struck a chord with me, to say the least.  See, I used to love doing puzzles.  It was one of my absolute favorite activities.

The problem is, it was an activity that I shared with my stepfather.  I would start doing a puzzle on the dining room table, and he would grouse at me about it, then the next thing I knew, he would be helping me with it.  We would have epic puzzle events, and on more than one occasion we would glue and frame the end result (we took on some tough ones).

Sometimes it would take us days to get through puzzles.  A lot of the time, we worked on the current puzzle together.  Sometimes, he'd get home from work and I'd have made a ton of progress.  Often, I'd get home from school and find that he'd gotten huge sections done.  If we were stymied, we'd work together.

I haven't done a puzzle since my stepdad's death in 2004.

While I love both my mother and my father very much, there were complexities that did not exactly allow us to have the best of relationships.

My mother suffers from hypothyroidism, and before she was diagnosed and began medication ... well, walking on eggshells is the best way I can think of to describe it.  You never knew what would set her off, and she caused deeper scars with words than I can express.  I also tended to get the brunt of it, for reasons that are skeletons in my family closet.

The same can be said of why my (and my siblings') relationship with my father is so complicated.  It is not my intent to air dirty laundry, particularly laundry that dates back to when I was a sixth grader.  Life goes on.

And I am the first to admit that I was not an easy child, an easy teen, or, for a long time, an easy adult.

Which is why my stepdad was so important to me.  He accepted me the way I was, held me accountable for my actions without being cruel and abusive, and did not allow me to take myself too seriously.  He also buffered my often-acrimonious relationship with my mother and allowed us to appreciate and even come to like each other (you can love without liking, and I think my mother and I had that dynamic for quite a long time).

When he passed, I descended into a depression so deep that I wasn't even aware of it.  I had never been able to depend on anyone or anything until my stepdad came into the picture, and losing him left me so lost and adrift that I couldn't even verbalize it.  Trying to support my mom without letting her know how lost I was also presented a challenge.

My mother and stepfather were truly, madly, and deeply in love, and I cannot imagine the pain she suffered, then and now.  My own loss, deep as it was, pales next to what my mother has gone through since the lung cancer death sentence came down.    

Ironically, it was Pythagorus' fall into mental illness and alcoholism that snapped me out of my own multi-year zombie state of loss and pain.  Someone had to be strong for the kids ... after all, hadn't that been what my stepdad had done for me?  He would have been disgusted, utterly appalled, by Pythagorus' actions, would have felt unspeakable disdain for the man who had shaken to the core the lives of his beloved granddaughters, and I didn't want to be in the category of people who would disappoint my stepdad in any way.  

As I pulled myself out of the mess my life had someone become, it was my stepdad's face that I kept in front of me.  It was his strength that got me through, and I came to terms with his death in the process, strange as that sounds.

I've come quite far away from the who puzzle thing ...

When Belle got on her puzzle kick, I decided that I would get a more challenging puzzle that she and I could do together, that it would be a way for us to bond the way that my stepdad and I had.

However, I clearly got a little overzealous with my choice of puzzle--a 1,000 piece monster made entirely of various colors of jelly beans.

Suffice it to say, I'm out of practice vis a vis the wild world of jigsaw puzzles, and Belle quickly found that this was a different kind of thing altogether and lost interest.

Progress has definitely been made ...

There is lots of work left to do, however, and it is a bittersweet experience for me.

Part of me keeps hoping that my stepdad will show up, because this was our absolutely favorite kind of puzzle--quite a challenge, and one that can be worked on a little bit at a time.

I'm just feeling like I'm not up to the task all by myself, and like I said, Belle bailed.

I'm going to keep on trucking, though.  Even if it takes me a month, I am going to get this stupid puzzle finished.  And then I am going to glue it and frame it and keep it for always, because even though it didn't necessarily allow Belle and I to bond in the way I'd hoped, it's given me back a little bit more of my stepdad ... in a healthy and not-depressed way, if that makes sense.

I am deeply happy working on this puzzle even while I'm incredibly sad.  Does that make any sense?

So anyway, that's the story of why the jelly bean puzzle that I've been bemoaning on Facebook is more than just a puzzle ...

Catharsis.

Note: School starts for me on Friday (I know, I can't believe it, either), which is also the day that Addie leaves for college.  I am going to be pretty busy (and strung out) the next week or so, but I have some great guest posts lined up--one from my favorite student of all time, one from my good buddy Martin over at From Sand to Glass, and one from a friend of Henry's who's become my good friend too over Facebook (don't you love technology?).  I hope you'll enjoy all of them (I think they're pretty amazing :-)), and if you're interested in writing a guest post, drop me an e-mail.

A Fish Tale and Contemplating Extrinsic Rewards From Out-of-Home Sources

There was a carnival at Belle's camp today.  We're talking bouncy house, dunking booth, tickets for prizes, the whole nine yards.

My daughter won a fish.

Yes, she did.

And I mean, really, who could say no to this kid?

But seriously (sorry, this picture kills me, and I couldn't find a better context with which to put it :-)), when I arrived at camp, this smiling little girl bouncing with excitement enthuses, "Mommy, Mommy, guess what?  I won a fish!"

I'm not usually a sucker for this sort of thing, but Belle's been having a lot of sadness with her father lately, and seeing her so exuberantly happy about something made it very hard to put the kibosh on it.

So the counselor scooped this poor little minnow into a plastic baggie, tied it up, and we were headed for home.

I think my Facebook page best explains what happened next.

So BELLE won a fish at camp today...she named it Elizabeth and is thrilled beyond words. Anyone know the life span of a minnow?

5 hours ago via Facebook Mobile · Privacy: ·  · 

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  Random Friend 1 and Random Friend 2 like this.
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    Somewhere between 20 minutes and 5 years! Do you have an aquarium tank?
    

    5 hours ago ·  ·  2 people
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    Katie May Loud Damn! I'm off to get a tank/food right now :-)
    

    5 hours ago · 
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     It all depends on if it gets fed or not. :)
    

    5 hours ago · 
  • Have fun!
    

    5 hours ago · 
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    The practice of rewarding young children with fish should be banned.
    

    4 hours ago ·  ·  2 people
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    They don't tend to look very unique--figure out the closest pet store that carries them and keep in mind that she probably won't notice if you replace a floater... Also, totally agree with ABOVE RANDOM FRIEND, pets should never be prizes or presents without pre-discussion with parental units.
    

    4 hours ago ·  ·  2 people
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    Imagine if people gave other forms of responsibly as prizes? "Congratulations, you've won the office draw and are now PREGNANT!!!". I would never play any sort of game AGAIN.
    

    4 hours ago ·  ·  3 people
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    Haha! Lol! Sorry! :) I kno we r suckers 4 our kiddos!! Lol!! Oops... Did I say that?!

    
    

This conversation spread transpired before I'd gotten home with the requisite bowl, water conditioner, and fish food (and I should probably note that I had no idea it was that easy to copy and paste Facebook stuff here ... obviously I removed names and such), and it got me thinking a lot.

The thing is, was I planning on buying Belle a fish?  Uh ... no.  Two big, friendly (and much loved) dogs more than fulfill the pet thing.

Was it a serious financial/lifestyle hardship for me to go buy fish miscellany for a creature that's probably only going to live a matter of days?  No.

But my very wise Facebook friends got me thinking about the concept of giving out fish as external rewards to kids, and I realized that it's really kind of a crappy idea.

For one, imagine that a kid was thrilled to win a fish only to be devastated when his or her parents say no.  Although a freaking minnow is about as low-maintenance a pet as probably exists, I'm sure that it would be an inconvenience to some people.

Also, think about the poor fish.  Now, I ran straight to the pet store as fast as I could, but the little minnow was chillaxing in a plastic bag for at least forty minutes.  And, not to sound cynical, but what if a little kid less mesmerized with love than my Belle decided it would be fun to torture a fish or something.

Cans of worms, I'm telling you ...

And, perhaps most importantly, the death talk is inevitable when you're dealing with a minnow.  I actually had an abbreviated version of said talk with Belle on the playground of her camp, reminding her that the fish might well not even live a day.

Her response, which totally melted my heart?

"Well, we'd better make sure it's the best day of her life, then, right, Mommy?"

So here is the newest member of our family, Elizabeth the fish.

What are your thoughts on this?