Stop the Hate

Here we are again, only weeks from our last remembrance walk/run, watching more hate crimes scroll across our news feed. I’m purposefully not mentioning the victims’ names – not because they don’t matter, but because I want this message to resonate at any time either now or in the future. The names change but the air around us does not. The list of victims alone would make a painfully long novel and I shed tears for them all but I’m definitely not going on another walk for awareness or “understanding.” What I will say is this:

STOP THE HATE. I can type those words over and over, and picture many of you standing up to applaud, yet not noticing the giant shadow of your own hate looming behind you that you’ve made peace with and carry with you every day. It’s okay if it’s aimed at Trump. It’s okay if it’s aimed at Biden. It’s okay if it’s for that guy not wearing a mask. It’s okay if it’s for another nationality, and then finally, it’s okay if it’s for another race or sexuality.

Stephen Covey once said, “We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their behavior,” and I’ve never seen that sentiment on finer display than I do now while scrolling across any headline or social media outlet today. We’re selling hate to the masses and scrambling to find new ways to recruit followers on the quest. You’re simply not a good person or social warrior if you don’t pick up your sword of hate and follow me.

Hate is a comfortable vice. We often wrap ourselves in it and get so comfortable that we mistake it for security. It is not. It carries with it a disease that spreads so rapidly it becomes the standard rather than the exception. We are living in a culture of hate and the only way to stop the spread is to become aware of where it lies within ourselves, hold ourselves accountable, and actively work to adopt better attitudes and behavior towards dissent. Dissent is a naturally occurring event and one that can be quite useful when applied with civility and respect. However, this is where we are failing in droves. Instead of finding constructive ways to deal with dissent so we may become more tolerant, we are simply choosing to become more judgmental and angry. We are unwavering in our hate for opposing views...or people unlike ourselves.

More specifically, my writing is currently spurred by the horrific acts we continue to see against our black community. Having been raised in the south, I’m grotesquely aware of the racism that still exists in society and I cannot fathom or stomach the fear that my black friends and their families live with every day. And I feel hopeless and paralyzed in my ability to help other than to lay down these words and hope they take hold in someone’s heart.

I’ve heard countless rants from the white community that we should move on from past injustices because after all, none of today’s individuals experienced slavery themselves, so what’s the problem? I mean, I didn’t own any slaves so why should I have to pay for this? We should all move on because the field is level now, thanks to the Civil Rights Act, right?

The answer, of course, is a resounding and thunderous NO. It’s no because hate lives on and while I agree everyone and anyone should work past hate and move forward, I can imagine it is very difficult when hate stalks you and your children in the supermarket, in your car, or even walking down your own street. It seeks you no matter if you’re rich or poor, fat or thin, tall or short, smart or dumb, breaking the law…or following the rules. It seeks you anyway. There is no refuge for you.

Until the white community can effectively and passionately police ourselves and our own behaviors and actions, I expect and understand the fear for black lives. I understand that many blacks can only lay down their fear when the white community can demonstrate the willingness and desire to vehemently demand justice for all human beings. This is plainly and repeatedly not happening. We must adamantly demand better from ourselves first so we can raise the bar for our society at large.Do not accept hate from your own lips and stop harboring those that do either through actions or words. 

Perhaps you’ve even shed your own tears about the racial injustices happening around us, but if you detest that kind of hate and spew your own flavor elsewhere – YOU are also part of the problem. The problem of hate isn’t unique to crimes against the black community. It is possibly one of the larger manifestations that most of us can agree is wrong, so we like to linger on that topic and feel better about ourselves for actively mourning each victim through ribbons, walks or other passing fancies. We should definitely and deeply mourn the victims – but we should also mourn what is happening in our own hearts. We are normalizing and justifying hate everywhere.

The same people I see condemning racial hate crimes are also continuing to commit hate crimes of their own via their social media posts and conversations EVERY SINGLE DAY. I see it. I hear it. I can’t Unfollow or Unfriend fast enough and I fear before long my social media feed will only consist of advertisements and cat videos because hate is spreading far faster and killing more souls that COVID can ever hope.

I will say again, STOP THE HATE. But to stop it, you must be able to recognize it long before it grows so large it overpowers us all. Stop it in your homes, stop it from your friends, stop it in your workplaces, and most importantly, stop it in your heart. See the souls behind the eyes and realize that for every person you ridicule, roast, or condemn, you make the beast that much larger. I know I have my own work to do, so I will begin now. I hope you will too. 

Stop it everywhere. Please.

No, I'm Not Running 2.23 Miles Today

I will not be running 2.23 miles today in honor of Ahmaud Arbery. Not because I don’t abhor the fact these crimes continue to occur, but to me, it feels intensely too small and convenient. If I run my 2.23 miles and make my obligatory social media post, it may help show the world that I care about this tragedy and put me on the bandwagon of outraged citizens, but in reality, it does nothing to help change the climate or make any impact in bringing these issues out of the shadows and into the light. It merely makes us feel better but will likely not stop the next hateful murder from happening. To me, it likens to “thoughts and prayers” after every school shooting that occurs. When will real change happen and how? When the media frenzy dies down and another headline takes over, will we forget the importance of this event and make legitimate efforts to end this cycle of hatred?

The only answer in my mind comes down to daily, individual accountability. It is every single one of us making a conscious effort to police our own thoughts and actions, not shy away from conversations on the topic, and challenging those who espouse hateful beliefs in seemingly innocuous daily conversation. It cannot be through angry attacks or accusations, or through witch hunts for those we believe to be offensive, but rather through intelligent, thought provoking and inquisitive measures to determine where these ideas begin so we can better determine how to head them off. It can only be mitigated through a sincere desire to be better people, and that appears to be a huge ask if we don’t all have the emotional intelligence and introspect to take a deep look at ourselves, our peers, our family members, and friends with real desire for change. You can’t always change people’s opinions, but you can model compassion, curiosity, acceptance, and civil dialogue. I know it sounds great in theory, but harder to enact. Even I will admit I have watched or heard racism in action and choose to take the easier road of avoidance rather than attempt to engage in debate or challenge those with hateful words or actions. In that way, I was part of the problem.

I was raised in the south and have witnessed racism firsthand more times than I can count – even from my own family members. It is real and it runs deep through the veins of the soul. It has no apparent logic, but there is passion and hatred on both sides of the coin – some real, and some manufactured by loose explanations and generations of molded thoughts and feelings. In fact, all of my children were born in the south and before they started school, I decided that I did not want them raised in that kind of toxic environment which would lead them to believe those racist attitudes were appropriate or normal. I chose to avoid it. I never challenged my family or my friends. We moved to Colorado when my oldest child turned five years old and while there are issues of racism everywhere, I am happy that it is not to the extent of what I remember from my own childhood. I am happy that my children don’t understand the illogical hatred of others based on their skin. They know those feelings exist and they dismiss them accordingly when they hear them from others. My daughter is brave enough to challenge hateful words, but my boys are much quieter. However, I am satisfied that all my children recognize compassion and acceptance as desirable traits in themselves and their peers.

I definitely understand the fear black mothers share regarding how their sons will be treated and the exceptional risks they experience every day just for being themselves. That said, there are so many other injustices and fears out there that disturb me as well. I fear for my own daughter’s safety in a world that accepts and embraces sexual predators as long as they clean up nice for society. I fear for my gay friends and whether or not they will also experience violence or mistreatment for being themselves. I am angry about all of this nonsensical hate but if I dwell on that every day, the hate in turn swallows my own soul. The only way I know to fight the injustice that befell Ahmaud Arbery is to fight hate in general through my own daily actions and words. That means EVERY DAY choosing a positive outlet over hate of any kind. It’s hard. It requires work and personal accountability. Every day it requires being a good person, finding it in others, and compassionately challenging anyone who might stray off the path of tolerance and respect. It means honestly policing myself for anger and finding positive ways to channel that energy. Running 2.23 for Ahmaud is a healthy way to channel anger but please don’t convince yourself that it will move the ball forward effectively in ending this kind of treatment toward others.

We must become stronger together by asking more of ourselves and those around us. Be kind, be compassionate, be respectful, and don’t let that goal get lost in the headline of the week. Let anger spark positive action in ways that run much deeper than a daily post or symbol of support. Don’t just be a supporter, be a solution.

The Water Boy's Farewell

Flight School, 1994

Tomorrow is my last day in a military uniform.

Strangely, it all really started with a green hat in 1994. Not the camouflage type I'd worn for most of my childhood and college days, but rather a bold, solid green hat adorned with beautiful, fresh white wings and a shiny gold bar that beamed with excitement and possibility. I was commissioned into the US Army in 1993 and soon sent to flight school at Fort Rucker, Alabama where I would become an aviator and go on to spend a few adventurous years flying the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter. Those days were fun, speckled with angst, yet full of youthful bravery and determination.

Commissioning day at UGA.
August 20, 1993

Those days also almost never happened since I had been a drama major my first year of college and actually had my heart set on becoming an actress. However, as I quickly ran out of the small pot of scholarship money I'd earned, I ended up scrambling for Plan B. You see, my parents couldn't afford for me to stay at the University of Georgia and informed me I'd have to come home to finish school in North Carolina, where my father was currently stationed. Having had a full year's taste of freedom on my own, I was absolutely desperate to avoid this fate. As a result, I fell back on the only thing I'd known my entire life, which was the US Army. I'd grown up an Army brat and for probably the first ten years of my life didn't realize that there actually was any other profession in the world. I applied for and was promptly awarded an Army ROTC scholarship and thus began my 24-year military journey.

Learning to fly on a UH-1 Huey
Fort Rucker, AL

While I started out with vastly different goals for my military career, my life changed dramatically in 2000 when my son was born. I knew then that my focus would never be the same. I struggled daily with the decision to remain on active duty but was further challenged after my daughter was born on September 5, 2001. Six days later, as I was released from the hospital and adjusting to caring for two young children, I watched the twin towers fall. After working through the horrific grief of that day, it became painfully obvious that if I remained on active duty as a helicopter pilot, I would soon be asked to leave my children and go to war. This was not something for which I had planned when I accepted my commission. Back then, I was convinced I would never have children and was prepared to fight whenever or wherever I was needed. But, as life tends to throw you curves, somewhere along the way that plan veered dramatically off course. After giving birth, I no longer felt like the warrior I'd planned to be. I felt far more like a mother and that single responsibility instantly defined me more than any other aspect of my past. I wanted to be with my children above any and all other things.

The choice I made on that day is a pivotal part of my service that continues to define me and sometimes challenges the way in which I see myself to this day. While the nation rightfully admires the hordes of Americans who were running to join the service at that time and fight for our country, I was actually running for the door. Some would say I contradict the nature of selfless service but I've always seen it as a different kind of selflessness -- the kind that chose to care for my children first. I have the utmost respect for women who've painfully served apart from their children, but that choice was not one that I was ever personally able or willing to make. Perhaps that's my own way of defending my cowardice, but if you asked me if I'd make that same choice again, I would tell you that I would. Every. Single. Time.

My true passion -- these three babies

After my daughter was born, I transitioned into the Army National Guard, had my younger son, and spent several subsequent years teaching and commanding at the Georgia and later, Colorado Army National Guard Officer Candidate School. I've continued to change so much from the young college student pinning on second lieutenant bars to the seasoned mother of three occasionally sporting a glistening silver leaf. I've changed homesteads, husbands and even my branch of service along the way. I stopped wearing Army green in 2008 and proudly adopted the Air Force blue when I transitioned again into the Air Force Reserve. Somewhere along the way I jumped out of airplanes, fought fires from the air, jammed satellites and even helped redesign Santa's annual route! I raised my children, climbed mountains, taught soldiers and airmen, honed my strategy and planning skills, all the while watching so many of my friends and family march to war. Some of those brave service members lost their friends, some lost their spouses, and some even lost their own lives. From the sidelines, I watched intently and cried for them all. So you see, when someone thanks me for my service, it always makes me cringe. It feels a bit like congratulating the water boy for the Superbowl victory.

Based on my choices, I've never felt like a true military hero, because quite frankly, I am not. I know what those heroes are like because I've had the honor of standing beside so many over the last 24 years. I am incredibly humbled by their service and thankful to have carried the water while they carried the ball to victory. The credit goes to those warriors who bravely represent our country and taught me about commitment, compassion, determination and leadership. I am proud of my team. My success is possible due to the coattails of so many amazing leaders and role models that I've had along the way. There is a long list of officers and an even longer list of senior NCOs who have shaped my life and made me not only a better officer, but a better person as a whole. They were firm and demanding, yet patient and somehow confident in my abilities on days when I most definitely failed. It is those lessons I will cherish and remember as I continue on my journey, and lessons I wouldn't trade for all the money in the world. I could not be prouder to have been in their midst.

Grand Marshall of the 2017 Veteran's Day Parade

My retirement will be quiet and uneventful, much like the years I spent in both green and blue. It will be spent surrounded with family and friends and less of a celebration about anything that I've accomplished rather than a chance to express my tremendous gratitude for those who've been there along the way, touched my life for the better, and taught me lessons for which I'll never be able to repay. I will not wear the uniform again, but I take with me everything that it poured into my soul. Thanks to all of you and may we all find that purpose and meaning in our lives that propels us forward and leads us on the path to fulfillment.

Open Letter from a Step-mother

I get that you hate me. I understand that I represent a solid end to your relationship with my husband and a happy new marriage is probably light years away from the ass-kicking dose of karma you still dream he will receive. However, you should know that I wasn’t a part of your relationship or its subsequent failure and therefore I am not an appropriate target for your hate.

I get that you hate me raising your child. Having children of my own, I fully understand the way it might turn your stomach to see pictures of our new family smiling and enjoying outings of which you are no longer a part. I, too, understand the unimaginable pain of watching your child leave your home for many days or weeks at a time to visit the other parent. I am keenly aware of the tremendous hole it leaves and the way your heart aches when just want to hear your child’s voice and wrap your arms around them, but cannot. You probably resent that I have that option at times when you do not, but remember that that was not my choice. We all walk paths based on the choices we have made. While I have accepted mine and the pain it sometimes brings, you will also need to accept yours. You may not have chosen to end your marriage, but a failed marriage is generally the result of a long series of choices on both sides. Yours most definitely got you where you are today, as did mine. Trust me when I say that the hate and vengeance you harbor from this experience will never bring you peace and will never allow you to heal. 

On a hike with my stepson

Rather than perpetuate another adversary in your life, you should know that if you only chose to respect my role and the positive contributions I make, things could greatly improve for everyone, and most importantly, for your child. When you deliberately insult or ignore my role, you turn your child against me and subsequently deepen the animosity my husband feels for you. You may feel a fleeting victory in your rudeness to me, but remember that my husband loves me and all you really succeed in doing is ensuring that he continues the vicious cycle of responding to you in the same rude and unproductive manner. This will never work in your favor and will never cultivate the co-parenting relationship you need to have with my husband in order to raise a healthy, well-adjusted child.

When you force your child to pick maternal loyalty, it places your child in the middle and even though your child will always choose you, it most certainly does not make you a winner in that sick game of tug-of-war. In fact, no one wins that game and only the child becomes the perpetual loser because you don’t give them permission to connect or bother to learn what I have to offer. Your child suffers because you don’t allow your child to learn resilience, compassion or empathy. You turn your child’s life into your own parental popularity contest with nothing to gain but a giant crown of hate to burden the unfortunate winner. By teaching and grooming your child to be a hateful pawn, you deny your child a valuable mentorship that could actually enhance their life far more than it could detract from yours.

By marginalizing or disrespecting my role, you also take away any reason for me to advocate on your behalf. Remember that I have my husband’s respect, his love and most importantly, his ear. There is no one better qualified or able to help your cause than me. Getting you an extra hour, day or even a week with your child is well within my persuasive ability. I can greatly influence his response to issues regarding child support, parenting time as well as any school or holiday events. I can choose to be your greatest ally or most formidable foe based on how you choose to treat me.

My hope is that one day you will see that our new family provides much of the stability and consistency for your child that your disintegrating marriage could never produce. I wish you could see that our marital happiness is not your cross to bear but rather a gift to your child because after all, this has never been about you.  Your child has much to learn by living in a loving, caring environment where partners respect each other and work together to achieve their goals. I wish you could see that without all three of us working together, your child is unlikely to heal or thrive. Your child will continue to walk the hateful and defiant path you cultivate and in the end, they will be the biggest loser of all.

I say these things not because I take pleasure in your flaws or your pain, and certainly not to beg for your cooperation. Your choices are always yours to make and your child will also have to learn to survive with your choices. However, I continually look back at the damage and wreckage in your wake perhaps for no other reason than to remember that if my own children should ever be lucky enough to have a step-mother, I will read this blog and smile. I know that she will be my friend because my kids don’t deserve that kind of conflict and most importantly, because I want them to grow up learning to choose love before hate.

Damn Skippy We Won...Now Get Your Turd Out of my Punch Bowl!

After 23 years of lacing up my shoes, I can finally admit that I really do love running. I love what it does for my body and mind, but most importantly, I love the running community. It is comprised of people from all walks of life, all shapes and sizes and all levels of ability. They all come together in the form of training or races to laugh, joke and encourage - sharing both misery and success along the way.

I’ve never taken myself very seriously on my runs, even when I was able to pull off sub-8 minute miles. I’ve stopped for beers, a sandwich and even a couple of yard sales during my races. I’ve worn costumes, wigs, umbrella hats and trucker apparel at various events over the years. I always have fun and I know that if I show up happy and ready to run, at least some of that enthusiasm is going to brush off on someone else and the more happy people on the course, the better the world becomes. I suppose I believe that through running, I am spreading the gospel of happiness and giving back to the world – and that, in turn, makes ME happy.

Yesterday, my team won the local Fall Series for the second year in a row. For those who don’t know, there is no limit to the number of team members, but only the top three scores count for each race. As such, I am particularly proud of this series since my time actually counted for three of the four races – keeping in mind that I was wearing a keg costume for one of those races.

Mind you, I am NOT a fast runner and my time only counted because we had a teammate absent for three of the races.  Still, I kept on smiling and running, continuing to fight for a mid-pack finish each time. I feel like I put in my miles and some good effort and am rightly proud of my accomplishment. I had loads of fun as the stack of running, smiling photos can attest.

However, while still trying to catch my breath at the finish, I was immediately confronted by a member of the second place team who notified me that my team won (I had no idea as I was still trying to breathe and really wanted some water) and stated that our team win is “unfair” because she believes at least one of my teammates is “elite.” I’d heard this accusation from her before and tried to ignore the ugliness and spite, but no one likes a turd in their punch bowl.  This time, I was angry, offended and sad for her at the same time.

(The truth is that the results of the Series were so close that had the second place team simply run on average six seconds faster per mile, they could have won themselves.  Sounds like good competition to me and far from an “elite” team that ran away with the Series.)

Sadly, it was disappointing to see that someone truly missed all the best parts about running that I’ve come to love. I have a ridiculous collection of ribbons, trophies and finishers medals stacking up in my house. Some mean more than others not because of where I finished but simply because I did. They are happy reminders of my training, my travels and the friendships I made along the way. I’m reminded of the incredible volunteers and race directors that spent their time allowing me to show up and enjoy a good run. The cheering, the cow bells and the wonderful water stops along the way where there’s always a kind word for you, no matter where you are in the pack. I’m reminded of all the uplifting words that keep you going on the days when you really want to puke, give up or both.  Those medals mean nothing to me without the camaraderie and solidarity I experience when I run. 

My Fall Series teammates truly are the best and it has nothing to do with their finish times. They are good people who inspire and accept others no matter what your pace may be. I love my team not because we won, but because they make me a better, healthier person and they challenge me in ways I would never challenge myself. They inspired me to run my very first ultra race this fall, where I learned how much my body and mind are truly capable of delivering. I’ve shared happiness, frustration, sadness, elation, fears and beers with them all. When I’ve had a rough week, I still can’t help but smile when I see them at the start line. It means everything to me because when you run with your friends, you understand that simply making it to the race at all is sometimes a momentous feat, given all that life throws your way.

I know that they all have busy lives and spent the earlier part of the week juggling families, work, relationships and personal demons, just like everyone else. But on race day – the world stops for a brief moment and we make time for each and take joy in each other’s company. What draws us together is the shared journey and support we give each other along the way. We come together on race day and show support not only on the running trail, but for life itself. We are stronger together because we encourage, reassure, cheer and affirm each other’s success. We share hobbies, pet peeves, and a deep love for animals and good beer. We are friends before runners.

Success comes in various forms and I’d have to say that our biggest success this year is not the Fall Series but rather the friendships we have formed. I couldn’t care less about a medal or trophy at the end of the season. In fact, if anyone else wants them, I will gladly give them up because when I was told at the finish line that we won, my true response should have been – “In more ways than you will ever know.”

The Evil Stepmother: I Don't Deserve to Be a Mother

“You don’t deserve to be a mother!”

Those words burned through the text I once received from my stepson’s mother. This is the same woman who lost all custody of her son over three years ago due to homelessness and drug use and now only visits with him for a few hours every other Saturday. My stepson suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD) due to the many early years of neglect she supplied and now he battles this mental illness everyday as he tries to awkwardly adjust and become a functioning member of society. He also suffers from a rare birth defect likely caused by his mother’s drug use that will haunt him for the rest of his life. His developmental needs and the road it has put me on is extremely difficult and has taxed my every nerve on a recurring basis and still I hear the words in my head – You don’t deserve to be a mother.

We all know that stepmothers are evil.  We were taught that in fairy tales from a very early age. They are jealous, manipulative and vain. They do everything they can to undermine and berate their stepchildren until they either leave home or are banished to a tall tower, all alone for the rest of their life. This is naturally me, because after all – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

I readily admit that I struggle with being Tyler’s stepmother. Due to his mental condition, he is extremely dishonest, manipulative and distant. He cares about nothing and no one except himself. He has no real hobbies or passion and if given a choice, remains disengaged from humanity as a whole. He refuses to manage the medical condition imposed by his birth defect and as result, regularly risks his long and short-term health. I spent the first few years trying to work with him, employing various disciplinary techniques that worked well enough in the past for my own three children, but fell flat on a child with his history and developmental struggles. I painfully labored alongside his father to help him catch up to the reading level of his peers, taught him to swim, ice skate, ski and zipline. I cleaned and treated wounds, drove him to sports, doctors, dentists and school. However, nothing seemed to help develop any real relationship with him. So, as you can see – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

I researched counseling options for him, selected one who specializes in RAD and made sure his dad got him to every appointment on time. These sessions were covered under my own health care program, which I paid with my own earnings. When I refused to allow my health care to cover private sessions with his mother, the counselor told me I was selfish and refused to see us anymore. I asked for his mother to cover the sessions under her own healthcare, but at two years after her divorce, she still made excuses about finding a job and therefore couldn’t cover the cost herself. So, Tyler stopped going to the counseling that he needed because as we all know – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

Having been through my own divorce almost six years ago, I now split parenting time for my own three kids. Their father and I live relatively nearby, remain cordial and work together to effectively raise our two sons and one daughter. My children are doing well and appear to be as happy and realistically adjusted as any kids of divorce can be expected. They are good kids that bring me more joy than I can ever express. They are my life. However, even six years later, on the three evenings each week they are gone, the wound in my heart rips open anew every single time. Leaving their father was my choice, but I still struggle like many other women with intense sadness, guilt and often feel like my soul gets ripped open so often I’m not sure it ever really repairs. I mourn every day they are gone and am often so depressed that I am simply unable to interact with Tyler, who remains in our house every night because his mother remains unable to care for him still. When I feel myself drawing away in those evenings and hiding in my bedroom , or out on the running trail, I hear those words repeated to me again – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

As three years of spousal maintenance payments come to an end for Tyler’s mother, my husband finds himself back in court to adjust her child support and discuss possible options I have suggested to him regarding more parenting time for Tyler’s mother. I am exhausted from trying to raise a son that I am repeatedly told is not mine and reaffirmed by a court that adamantly opposes my involvement in any proceedings.  If a child only has one mother, as many in society like to say, then I desperately demand that his birth mother be the one. I sincerely do not want to replace her and would love nothing more than to unload his laundry list of disciplinary issues, school work, haircuts, doctor appointments and activities to the one who haughtily proclaims herself as his mother. Alas, she laments that while she can spend a couple afternoons a month doing fun activities with him, she can’t possibly accept all those other dirty responsibilities and continues to discuss with her friends how, of course – I don’t deserve to be a mother.

My kids and I became even closer when I divorced as my energy was no longer split between parenting and trying to hold together a failing marriage. We spent extra time together and travelled from coast to coast on exciting vacations, read books together and enjoyed playtime in our new apartment and later, a five acre home. We laughed, lived and loved and I still treasure every moment and memory I have of those days. Since I have remarried, I’ve experienced the difficulty once again of splitting time between my children and my relationship. Although my children are easily the most important thing in my life and I try to tell them that often, I realize that no matter what I say or do, they will always hold some resentment for the intense love and affection I can’t hide for my new husband. Now add a new stepson to that equation as well - one that remains with me every single day and night, unlike my own kids. This creates a huge conflict for me and I feel like my loyalty is questioned at every turn. How can I convince my kids that they remain the most important thing in my world when I spend so much time with this other kid? How can I avoid Tyler when they are gone and not be an absent and evil stepmother? I have been a huge failure at this balancing act and no matter what I do, someone is slighted and resentful. Not surprising, since after all, I still don’t deserve to be a mother.

I certainly don’t seek any sympathy because I believe we all make choices for which we have to answer. I don’t know anyone that deserves to be a parent. In fact, I truly believe that no matter how great you think you may be, you are likely doing it wrong. We are all flawed and can only do the best we can under the circumstances. I, for one, am horribly flawed. I am often moody, emotionless and hold grudges far longer than I should. I can be selfish, insensitive, lazy and downright mean. But I am also very determined, loyal and focused. I work to direct my emotions into more positive actions like running and writing. I thrive on helping others see their strengths and know success. I vent my thoughts through my writing and hope that someone out there sees my struggle and recognizes it as their own.  I don’t pretend my problems are unique. Many of you struggle with similar issues every day.  Tyler’s mother was right. I don’t deserve to be a mother. But I do the best I can. And that’s okay with me.

 

Crying Babies

Many months ago, my 12-year-old daughter begged relentlessly for tickets to see her favorite singer, Austin Mahone, in Denver.  Her father and I agreed to buy her tickets as an advanced birthday gift, but bypassed the VIP option due to her less-than-stellar grade in Algebra.

When the concert recently came to town, I grumbled a bit at having to attend a teenybopper concert, but eventually decided that in order for her to have fun, I needed to play along and embrace the experience as new, unchartered territory. I texted Ali on the way home from work to let her know that I was on the way, gave her our departure time and asked what in the world we were going to wear. She informed me that jeans and t-shirt were acceptable, although she scoffed at my wedge sandals, which I needed to compensate for the fact that my pants are always too long for my midget legs.

Dressed up and ready to go, we headed to Denver and found Teenybopper Central. The line for the concert wrapped around the building and I begged her to let me stop in a nearby brewery so I could prepare for the event and let the line die down a bit. No luck.

We had to get in line NOW. I watched a parade of little girls go by in various concert attire, some very scantily clad, others with t-shirts bearing uncomfortably large face shots of some boys that I had never seen in my life, but ones to which these little girls lives revolved. Ali, having a moment of sensibility, remarked that it probably creeped out celebrities to see people wearing their face and she vowed to never own such a shirt of anyone, including Austin Mahone. She then informs me that since we bought these tickets so long ago, Austin Mahone is no longer her favorite because he was spotted with Justin Bieber. Luckily, her new favorite is Shawn Mendes, who is also in the performing line up for the evening. Whew.  She then begins to scowl at other girls wearing not only Shawn Mendes shirts, but brandishing Shawn Mendes VIP passes for after the show. I reminded her that she might have had a VIP pass as well, had she only fared better in Algebra. I received a scowl in return, but I think she realized the slight on this occasion was entirely of her own doing. Better luck next semester.

Once inside, I realize we had seats on the main floor, which made it easier to get to the restrooms, concessions and concert sales booth. Yay for restrooms and beer. Boo for easy access to $30 concert t-shirts.

We settle into the seats and Ali starts to make fun of all the "crazy" girls meandering around, twittering to themselves with excitement of seeing their crush onstage. I am almost proud of how sensible my baby seems to be taking things until....the large curtain with SHAWN MENDES written on it drops from the stage. Ali immediately begins to cry. I'm still trying to figure out what the hell just happened to her when a young man walks out from behind the curtain, holding a guitar and a stool. He sits down and plays. This kid is GOOD. Ali is still crying. In the interest of fun and trying to make Ali laugh, whenever the crowd of teenybopper starts screaming, I too, do my best paralyzed-with-excitement scream, although I have absolutely NO idea who the heck I'm screaming about. All in good fun. Ali manages to laugh a little through her happy tears. My job is already done and we've only seen the first of four acts.

Once Shawn is finished, I am in awe that my child is covered in happy tears, so while I head out to find myself a $9 craft beer, I decide to buy her a t-shirt of Shawn Mendes, along with a shirt of the next group -- Fifth Harmony. I'd heard one of their songs on the Disney channel through satellite radio on the way to the concert, so it seemed like a safe enough bet. Ali is thrilled, immediately puts on the Shawn Mendes shirt and proclaims that she might not take it off for at least the next month.

Fifth Harmony is already on stage at this time -- a group of five girls singing your typical teenybopper songs. I wasn't overly impressed with their talent, but I did appreciate that they appeared like real girls -- not the emaciated frames that consistently convince my daughter that she is somehow overweight or undervalued. I'm fairly certain those girls eat a normal teenage diet of pizza and ice cream, although I wish their "normal" frames had a bit more clothing covering their parts. I had a brief discussion with Ali where I pointed out that these girls seemed to be getting by on premature sex appeal rather than simple talent. She agreed, but asked me nicely to please shut up so she could just enjoy the show. Fair enough. I went back to sipping my beer.

Next up was a band called The Vamps -- which I had also only recently heard on the Disney station. A British band consisting of four young boys ranging from 18-20 years old, these kids hit the stage like little balls of fire. The lead singer, whom I had dubbed Nigel due to his strong British accent (I think his real name is Brad?), was about the cutest thing you've ever seen and I told Ali a million times like a grandma that I just wanted to pinch his little cheeks so bad. (Yes, the ones on his face -- not elsewhere.) I really enjoyed their set and spent some time boucing around as much as my wedge sandals would allow and screamed along with the rest of the tweenagers in the crowd. My favorite part was when Nigel decided he was going to teach the crowd a "new" song. He says he's going to give us the lyrics and we can try to follow along.

He begins, "Ceceeeeeeee-lia, you're breaking my heart...you're shakin' my confidence daaaaaaily...." OMG. He's trying to teach me Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel?? I thought, "You cute little man - I was singing that song before you were ever a thought in your mother's mind!" No matter - he did a great job and I enjoyed the brief throw back to my own youth. This called for another trip to the concert stand and purchase of a Vamps t-shirt for Ali and then, in an attempt to be proactive, I went ahead and bought an Austin Mahone shirt just for good measure. The only one WITHOUT his face though, as directed earlier.

Austin Mahone hit the stage a short while later and proved to be the singing and dancing phenom I was promised. An incredibly cute kid, I thought he did a great job of engaging the crowd and I got in a bit more screming with the girls until I felt my voice begin to strain. I was telling Ali that although I like Austin Mahone, I really preferred the Shawn Mendes performance because I have more respect for simple, pure talent -- rather than a flurry of backup dancers, light shows and gimmicks. Almost on cue, the Austin Mahone set died down, he sent away the dancers and reappeared on stage with a stool and guitar -- only accompanied by an adorable older man on a piano named Abe. Ali got very excited and said this is why she, too, liked Austin Mahone - for his simple YouTube performances and not the wild stage show. She was correct. He was very good with just his guitar and won me over by remarking that he was orginally from Texas, loved country music and wanted to sing us one of his favorites. That favorite turned out to be "Check Yes or No" by George Strait and it was then that I might have been one of the few patrons still screaming in her seat. The teenyboppers didn't recognize the song (except for Ali who has been subject to much of my George Strait obsession over the years). I happily sang along, dancing around my chair, having an incredible end to a very sweet, happy evening with my baby girl.

We were exhausted on the way home and didn't get back to the house until after midnight. I still had to get to work early the next day, so I washed up and went straight to bed -- as did Ali. She reaffirmed her desire to wear her concert shirt for as long as I will allow -- possibly through the first school semester -- and I went to bed with the sweet, incredible picture of my child burned into my mind -- those tears of joy that she shared when the first performer hit the stage. These are the memories I will keep forever.