Happy Birthdays

Today my son turns thirteen.

Nine and a half years ago I brought this tiny preschooler home. He came from an emergency foster care situation, so he pretty much had the clothes on his back. Our foster care system is extremely overburdened, but I don't think most people realize that when you take on a child from the system, you receive nothing but the clothes on the child's back. He had no bed, no carseat, nothing. We had, in a frenzy, collected as much as we could to prepare for him. Garage sales were our best friend.

I couldn't imagine then what he would be like now. That this little child would grow into a handsome, funny young man. That he would have amazing talents in art and sports. That he would be so attached to me. I also never imagined that whatever was going on with him, was more than I could love him out of. I was incredibly naive but wanted more than anything to be a good parent. Foster, kinship, or otherwise. I wanted to do right by him.

Looking at him today, I think I have done my very best. His life will always be challenging. He faces challenges most of us can't imagine, but he hasn't given up. He's courageous, this boy, and I admire him for that.

I don't really have a lot to say about who he is that won't sound contrived and passionately "motherly". What I can say is that I love him more than I could have imagined ten years ago. And thirteen is a wonderful number.

Happy birthday, sweetie. Mom loves you. Always.

Rock stars and therapy

As I was looking at this blog today, I realized my last post was the one I posted at the end of my beloved Criminal Intent. Goren and Eames had ridden off into the sunset, somewhere in Mahattan. I hope in that alternative universe they both got good positions and could keep their pensions.

I'm writing this post as an ode to my therapist Scott. I'm home sick today instead of processing my crazy life with him. I'm sure he misses me. I'm also pretty sure he thinks I'm dicking around on him and not really sick. Trust me, Scott. I'm sick this time. You really will rest easier without me around today.

Scott is the rock star of therapists. Trust me, I should know. My mom is a licensed clinical social worker. I went to school for a master's in social work for two years. I've had tons of therapists and tend to be from the school of thought that everyone can get something from therapy if they're teamed with the right person. And I've been teamed with some good ones before. But this guy? Every time I leave he's given me something new to think about. And I'm a pretty analytical person, so it's hard to give me something different to chew on.

But he does it. And he's incredibly respectful of me as well. When we began discussing a topic I really didn't care to discuss, I said so and we backed up and changed direction. Altered the dance steps. Like I told him, it's not as though i don't have a bajillion things we could talk about--take your pick.

At any rate, most of my life I've worked with female therapists. Personal issues from childhood made me more comfortable disclosing my feelings to women. When I was a young teen, I had a male psychologist for awhile and he was terrible. He stared at me for what seemed like forever, every session, and then would say, "Penny for your thoughts." Dude, if you were really giving me all those pennies then my parents would have been bankrolled on your business.

What changed my mind about trying a male therapist again actually had very little to do with me and more to do with my son. During some of his struggles, my son has seen several different therapists. Three of the four were excellent. And two of them were men.

When I started therapy this time, my goals for myself were to get clearer about who I was and what I wanted in my life. I also wanted support from someone who could understand what it was like to live with an attachment-disordered child. I decided that if a man could do those things, I would give it a try.

Enter Scott. Honestly, we're still getting to know each other. Our first meeting would have been awkward if I hadn't been a time bomb about to blow. I think I cried the entire session. I remember him saying one thing to me that stuck, and made me commit to come back. He told me, "I've worked with children who are severely mentally ill. I believe everything you've said to me. "

So I came back. Every time I go I cry, but now I cry for a few minutes instead of forty-five. In a matter of weeks, Scott has helped me to view some of my perceived weaknesses as strengths, helped me give myself permission to be a human being, helped me figure out how to be a better mother. I've never had a therapist that gave me so much good food for thought. This guy is good. This guy is a rock star.

I quit my own program toward a degree in social work because I knew I couldn't do what Scott does. I don't have the skill to delicately pull truths out of people and weave together a healing portrait. In fact, it's been my experience that most people don't have that skill--even therapists. That skill is rare. But when it's done, it's gently and nuanced and feels more like an art--like rearranging delicate pieces of a mosaic to make a new picture. Like an artist. Or arranging chords and keys to make a masterpiece of music.

You know. Like a rock star.

Done.

So it's over.

Yes, all my friends who hate Criminal Intent, you can rest easy now...I will no longer be able to regale you with stories of the insanely clever Bobby Goren or the loyal, intelligent Alex Eames. With a firing, a hug, a kiss, and a resignation, there they go. Out the door.

I found myself wondering today, after the airing of last night's final episode, what it would feel like to be the actors. Knowing that it's finally over. Whether the end came about as a need to move on and engage in other creative ventures (kind of D'Onofrio's claim) or the well-known fact that USA network planned to cut the actors' salaries in half if they stayed, how did it feel to wake up today and know that it was done? Weird, I bet. I just watch, and I feel weird.

Our economy sucks and most people wouldn't be thrilled at the idea of staying in a position where their salary was literally cut in half while their work expectation remained the same. Some people have the ability to walk away from that situation, as in our two actor friends, who are already dipping their creative geniuses into other projects. Not so much for us people in reality. When your household income is less than a third of what it costs to buy a house in your area, you're not likely to be walking away from your job anytime soon.

Regardless of the myriad of opinions to follow the last two episodes, mine is simply this: I'm grateful for what I got. Two episodes of semi-closure for two characters that I enjoyed watching tremendously. How many shows just disappear into TV wasteland without even that? And while part of me curses the writers for leaving the future of both Goren and Eames so open, I'm partly glad. I can forever imagine that somehow Goren finally finds his happy place (yes, OUTSIDE of an asylum) and that Eames does too.

Even cops should be able to find some happiness. Even testy, middle-aged, lonely cops.

LO:CI--So long to Bobby and Alex

I never post two posts in one day. Bad karma or something, I think. But today requires a special second post. So without further ado, here it is:

Dear Bobby and Alex,

Well, tonight's the night. The night we begin to say goodbye. The night you'll blow our minds with some sort of massive way out of a show your characters have created and maintained for eight seasons. Eight seasons that I've watched you, laughed with you, cried with you, gasped with you, and felt every emotion that goes along with seeing some of the worst that people can do to one another,and sometimes the best. Remember the doctor who poisoned his poor lovers with zoonotic drugs after making them sleep with his vet friend? That was pretty disgusting. And in "Jones", when Eames got her man just by taking her jacket off. Griffin Dunne's character was more than willing to jump through any hoop laid in front of him. Size 13 shoes, eh, Bobby? What writer came up with that one? Classic.

The desperation of Neil Patrick Harris' character in "Want" is one that has stuck with me for years. What happens when people lose all control over the social norms that make us human? How do we live with the guilt of wanting, more than anything, to avoid loneliness and be loved? Or when Eames was kidnapped by Jo Gage and got out of her own accord, her own wits, despite Goren's desperation to find the one solid cornerstone in his life. Gage's need to be loved, to be needed by her own father, overran all logic. Bobby understood that. He lived it himself. And Eames always returned, no matter what that goofball did. God, Bobby, you may be a genius but you have the common sense of an idiot. Loyalty is something that both of you guys have loads of...more than most people will ever know.

Watching Bobby's self-imposed exile in seasons six and seven was as painful as it was intriguing. Why? When you have people who can and could and will and would love you, why do you keep them away? Questions that we all can relate to. And Eames, facing the death of her husband once again, together but alone. It never goes away. How do you compartmentalize, keep going, despite the pain that haunts every bit of your existence? A loss that has always been there but never known about?

Of course, all fans will remember the episode Frame as it seemed to culminate seven years' worth of storyline. The death of Nicole Wallace, the one woman Bobby probably, as sad as it is, felt worthy to love; the death of his brother; the one person he felt responsible for loving; and the ending of Gage, his mentor, the one he had seen disintegrating before his very eyes...the one he used to love and trust, like a parent. Pain from all sides. How does one recover from that?

My favorite scenes--more snark than I can mention. Alex is the queen of snark. I love it. I would live my life that way if I could. And Bobby, willing to play the wild card to the hilt, living in his brain ninety percent of the time yet unleashing an absolute montage of hilarity just when completely unexpected. What would you have done with a partner who had a bigger ego? One who wasn't willing to let you go through trash cans without bomb squads, who wouldn't let you poke dead bodies and sniff wounds and explore seminal fluids on kitchen floors?

That's why for forever, in my mind, Bobby and Alex go together, like every other famous couple. Yin and Yang, Cheech and Chong, Bonnie and Clyde. You guys made each OTHER work. I know D'Onofrio's a brilliant actor and Erbe has a solid record as well. But the magic you brought together to make this show memorable won't vanish after April 6th.

It doesn't matter if you sleep together or you don't; if you end up going separate ways or not; if someone quits the NYPD and someone is promoted (personally, I would've quit the NYPD a long time ago, but that's just me!). You guys made for fascinating television. Good watching, good thinking. Things I could relate to. You brought ideas to the screen and made a memorable coupling. I will miss you. Armani suits and low rise jeans and tank tops and fancy ties and all. I'd like to say it will be great to see Vince and Kate move on and do other things, but since this is a letter to two fictional characters, that statement is moot.

I hope beyond hope the writers see you out with a fond farewell. Regardless, the fondness I feel when I watch your interactions on screen is deep.

Much love-

A real life fan

Half empty to half full

I have a perpetually half-empty glass.

I can tell you forty five different things going wrong in my life at any given time. Real things, mind you, not imaginary. Not exaggerated. And boy, do I feel it. Number 32 sits on my left hip. Number 12 is on my right shoulder. Number 45 perches right on my head, probably looking at you. I am the master of all glasses half empty.

I have this friend, Christy. I've written about her before. Now, Christy is hilarious. Probably more than anyone else, she can make me laugh because she calls you on BS as soon as you breathe it. You don't even have to SAY it, just breathe it into existence. And she'll tell you, in Christy language, how it's all BS. She doesn't SAY BS. No, that would be too easy. Instead, she asks you probing questions that get you to realize you're full of BS. And that you insist on seeing your glass half empty.

I've known Christy for seventeen years. In all that time, I can only think of one time she hurt my feelings. I won't get into the hows and whys, but she knows and I know and when she was able, she apologized for it. I'd like to say I was gracious and forgave her right away, but I didn't. I held onto it for awhile. It fit--glass half-empty type. You know, poor me. How could my soul sister hurt me? How terrible she would be human, like me.

Time goes by, and I let go of it. Ironically, I don't remember Christy ever holding on to any of the hurts I've given her. Things that would probably have bothered me. Things I feel guilty about. But she's not that kind of person. Her glass is half full. Anything else is just, well, icing on the cake? Maybe extra ice in the glass?

Today I had a ridiculously bad day. And I fell into my glass half empty pattern that I am working so hard to fight against right now. It was almost too easy. Yesterday sucked too, and I was more than willing to let the stress on my body take its toll and feel sorry for myself. Who's been sucking out of my glass, people??? Funk mood. And I stayed in it all day. At work, and even at home. I talked with my dad and continued with my funk. Sipping the water lower in the glass. See how empty my glass is??? See how much it sucks???

I don't know what suddenly happened for me. Reading my email, petting my dog, watching my daughter...but suddenly I realized that the glass really is half full. I have this beautiful child who actually WANTS to spend time with me. Another child who puts forth effort in situations that are so easy for the rest of us but hard for him. My tiny little Gabi who thinks I hung the moon, especially if a treat is involved. A husband who is willing to run errands on days I feel like today. A mind that works and the ability to write, write, write.

My friend Christy is the bravest person I know. Although my son struggles with diagnoses that are frustrating at best and frightening at worst, her daughter is facing the possibility of loss of life in a few years at such a young age. And yet when I talk to Christy, her focus is on making her glass half full as much as possible. Laughing with her family, bussing her two teenagers to every event they have planned, playing with her toddler whenever she has the chance. And it occurs to me that maybe a glass half full is equivalent to a glass full of life and love. Glasses half empty are filled with fear and suffering.

When I first started therapy, my goal was to gain clarity. Now I find it changing. I want my glass to be half full. Despite the struggles I face, I want to be able to look at them with the mentality of blessedness, love, and gratitude. Little steps will get me there. Little steps and tiny sips from a glass half-full.

Big little sacrifices

In a week, I will go to working part time.

I haven't worked part time since I was in, what? college, maybe? The reasons behind my decision are many, but basically boil down to feeling like my life has taken control of me, instead of the other way around. My son needs more care and patience than I can give him at the end of an eight or ten hour workday. My mother needs care and attention. My daughter needs support in adjusting to her brother being home and all of the inevitable issues that arise. My husband is still struggling with his foot. And I-- *I* need some time to figure some things out.

So this is my last week, this semester, to work full time. FMLA allows up to twelve weeks unpaid leave for family situations such as mine. My son requires intensive care and therapy interventions, and thank God for FMLA in this economy. I'm only taking six of the twelve weeks, and only going part time at that, instead of taking the full amount off. I do think that some work is grounding for me. Plus I hate to leave my students--whether they are adults or children.

I am comfortable in my decision and know it is the best one for my family. I am hopeful that my son will flourish with the extra adult attention and extra therapeutic time this break will allow. I'm hoping that I will learn some better strategies in dealing with his disorders, as well as discovering some meaningful things about myself. I'm hoping my mother will continue to improve, and feel comforted knowing that I can go to see her more easily now if needed.

The most heartbreaking part of this process for me is leaving one of my preschool classes. You see, at my school, some of the children attend my class for up to three years. I have several right now who have been with me for three years, others for two, and of course there are some that this is their first year with me. Community is very important to me. I want my children to feel a part of the classroom--to love school, to love the curiosity of learning and the learning process, to feel confident to share their thoughts with the group. We are nutty bunch together--our days filled with lots of learning and fun and explorations and adventures. We laugh together every day. We learn new things about the world. We are friends.

Leaving your friends is never easy. The idea of leaving these children for the last six weeks is heartbreaking. Tomorrow, I will begin talking with them about how they will be getting a new teacher. And we will begin to count down the days until I leave.

I don't know a way to make life easier for them, other than a positive attitude and a great new teacher. They will have both. They'll have a fun week of learning with me before I hand them over to a hand-picked long term substitute. Knowing that I'm doing what is best for my family, and that I have to put my family first, is of little comfort when thinking of these nineteen children I have come to know as my own little teachers, learners, adventurers. My buddies. I will miss them.

I am fortunate that FMLA will protect my job so that I can return, hopefully full time, in the fall and resume teaching that same class. Some of my buddies will still be there. And I am thankful for that. They are too young to know how difficult this is, how I agonized over this decision because of them. I know they will be okay in the end, and so will I, but saying goodbye sucks. And in this instance, it sucks royally. Like raw egg-sucking sucks.

Love and purpose are guiding factors for me. I find both in my work, especially with this group of children. But what I recognize, which has been most difficult, is the need to find and hone in on these two factors in my personal life. Love and purpose have to cross over for me, into the arena of my personal world, more clearly. And hopefully the next six weeks will do that.

In Thankfulness

Beautiful child sleeping

The neverending struggle

That finally takes its reprieve.

Girly giggles and corny jokes

That replay in my head for weeks, months,

Years after you said them.

The love of a family-mine.

Fire in my gut to guide me

Where has it been?

Passion in my heart, reignited

Hope for all things to come.

I felt you again. I thought you had gone

But you returned, just when I expected emptiness.

The lapping waves at my feet

The endlessness of the ocean

Smell of salty air surrounding me,

Sand in my toes.

Peace in my soul. Familiarity.

The feeling of being called home.

Laughter of my community

The one I built with my heart,

My hands, my education...

The one I nurture day after day

week after week year after year.

Brilliance. I see you

Around every corner, in every set of eyes

You burn into me.

The littlest one, furry and funny and

oh so precious to my heart.

Little licks and snuggles and pants

Little cries in another language of

I Love You, I Love You, I Love You.

I Love You too.

And you who brought me here

Loved me, taught me, believed in me

More now than ever before.

Gifts from those so gifted.

How lucky, how fortunate. How loved.

I breathe You in. And out. And separate from me,

But not separated.

Our separate-ness caused by me

But I try. I try. I try to let You in.

I try to trust and believe Your words.

And when You feather Your wings around me,

I trust in You again. And breathe you in,

In Thankfulness.