...28 (in days gone by)...

  In Days Gone By:
 19.January.2021

While the kitchen tile project was ongoing, I'd the chance to reorganize all the file folder storage that "lives" beneath one of our sideboards and came across paperwork dating back to before I was married. Tax docs, our marriage license and copies of checks to all the wedding vendors, my ex's student loan repayment receipts, multiple certified copies of the restraining order (now expired) against him, etc... Enclosed in one were childhood photos of him that I had carefully placed in an envelope for Johannes at least 15 years ago. So while Henri napped (praise!), Johannes and I briefly sat down and looked through the photos, before he decided to dispose of them.

(As someone who takes a few photos (I kid, I kid) here and there, looking at these was...interesting...)

There's promise~possibility~potential, in those sweet little shots of baby and toddler...in those early teen/peak of athleticism track shots...even in the student and work i.d. cards. But to see them now, it's naught but illusion...a sort-of "alternate reality".

He's been spiraling for years...a vicious cycle of peaks and valleys that damages everyone involved.

From all accounts, he's been off his meds and is back to "self-medicating" with increasingly dangerous substance abuse.
From all accounts, his grasp on reality is in the wind right now.
From all accounts, his health is failing. It's terrible, and it's tragic, and it's...karmic? All that pain he's caused finding it's way back...

Tomorrow, his birthday...yet another year gone and nothing but wreckage to show for it. All the good advice and assistance and flat-out-doing-for-him-what-he-won't-do-for-himself by SO MANY people (myself included) just wasted effort.

And soon enough, a month away, Johannes turns 18. Despite his throwing away those photos and rejecting any "leftovers" (papers, photos, sentimental items), he'll carry this as part of his legacy his whole life. Nothing I have done, can do or want to do has ever erased the damage done by both action and inaction, threatening presence and dismissive absence.

If only it were as easy as tossing photos in the garbage, or shredding old files. If only it were as simple as shutting the door and ending the chapter.

But, you see...one chapter bleeds into the next. One door leads into another space. Everything gets carried on...

...13 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
13.July.2013

...I want you to know that 99.9% of the time I am able to keep my head above water.

But every once in a while when I'm already stressed to the max, something like this will catch me off guard and it's a freefall for a little while.

One of the hardest parts of single parenting is this aspect: Instilling a strong foundation and building his self-esteem from the bottom up.

And I know all too well, as an adoptee, the questions and concerns...

the looking to our parents to see who we are.

I always said I would be honest with my child, and I don't believe I've wavered from that yet.

I don't want him to grow up believing in some distorted fairytale version of who his biological father is. Because, quite frankly, that could prove very dangerous to him later in life. But all of that has to be weighed against the simplicity of his current questions.

It's more a matter of…

Just the facts…

I do believe that part of equipping my child to enter the adult world is providing him with some of the information regarding why we filed for that restraining order and the time for that will come.

Right now, it's more conversation of, yes you have many things in common with your biological father. He shared many of the same talents and you were granted many of the same gifts by God. What matters is what you choose to do with them and how you choose to go about fulfilling your promise and your potential.

For those of you wondering this morning, yes I deleted one of those posts. I'd rather not leave that information lurking about publicly.

My marriage was a scary time.

And during the course of it I was completely incapable of letting anyone know the true extent of what I was going through or asking for help.

I'm not "lucky to be alive" after that, I'm stubborn.

Once I made the decision to save us, there was no turning back.

And we didn't stumble at first…

We fell, and fell hard.

I'm proud of where I've gotten to, but appalled at the notion that...

where I've been, I allowed myself to be.

...with two spoons...

Mondays, of late, feel like 'weekend recovery' days.
It's a strange twist on what once was.
Part 'return to schedule and, therefore, to function' and part ' restore order after the invasion'. 

Henri's Papa has a big presence and a tendency to overwhelm.  He's brash and impetuous and loud.  Weekends spent with him 'present in quantity' can feel disruptive to our system and to our systems.

(I wonder if other parents feel this when their mostly-absent partner is suddenly around for longer stretches of time.)

His presence, and his parenting, knock us off balance.  The schedule collapses...the adherence to guidelines and timelines disappears.

There's a sense of urgency around time with him.
A need to 'fit it all in', whether it's outings or chores or household projects or...

Weekends are rushed and chaotic...unraveled and exhausting...

...and when Monday dawns, it's time to reset.

Back to the planner and the clock.  Back to 3 square meals plus snacks.  Back to nursing windows, and nap-times.  Back to homeschooling and mami-led learning.  Back to the 'work in progress'.

Back we go, like automatons, on Monday mornings.

And back we slide into whatever unmanaged mess we left of things the week prior.

Mondays are weekend recovery days.

My eldest and I, diving into the deep end and trying to wrangle the work and the chores and the toddler and the life...back into something recognizable and manageable.

Mondays are work...hard work and long hours and hopeless prayers for a nap-time respite that never comes because the schedule was too mangled by the weekend...

Mondays feel endless.

And by the time evening rolls around, and Henri's Papa arrives home from his own Monday...we're all running on empty and snarling at one another.

Mondays are the recovery, from which we sometimes need to recover.

So last night, my eldest and I took ourselves out to dinner...alone...

(We've made routine of that...once a month...a dinner for two...the original team...)

Nothing fancy. My strawberry salad altogether unfancy...full of those damnable chunks of iceberg lettuce (the heart?) that I cut out at home, and sporting 4 limp slices of strawberry.

But, much like us...perfectly imperfect and imperfectly perfect.

No toddler with his incessant, oppressive need to be the center.

No interruptions or need to pause the natural flow of conversation, in order to explain some insider joke or the historical reference point in the story of us.

Just us.  The originals.

The single mom and single son.

Just us, and the ease of our bond, and the picking up of conversations we'd left off of...

This time is precious to me.

It's a rarity...an endangered species...

It's at risk of being infringed upon...of being rolled over...of being swallowed up...

We sat in our booth, picking over food and picking at conversation threads.

We...consumed...

We...communed...

We...recovered...

Just enough so that when it came time to pay the bill and head back out into the dark, we'd fed ourselves just enough to 'get back to it'.

I love these dinners.  These brief hours where he and I are the way we were.  These falling-backs and leaping-forwards of conversation with a boy turned young man...dreamer turned developer...

I love our ease with one another.  I worked so hard at making it.

I love our friendship.  I built it on purpose.

We laughed over town politics and toddler tempers...oft indistinguishable from one another!

We dreamt a little about future plans and brainstormed workshop ideas.

We unburdened ourselves of those annoyances and grievances and listened to the clarity of the other's perspective...gaining insight and relief.

And when I thought we were done...plates cleared away and settled into silence...

He ordered dessert.

With two spoons.

And borrowed a few minutes more for us both...

...12 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
14.October.2018

"Mami?", he asked me, in the car on the way home from church.

"Mami, why are you so good at conversing?"

"Am I?", I replied.

"Yes. You know how to keep a conversation going. How to stop the awkward parts."

I thought to myself, silently.

We'd left church as usual, after a quick chat with the minister. She's marvelous, by the way. Marvelous at remembering specifics about every one of her parishioners and making each of us feel special and valued. During our chat, she had thanked him for the online-convo they'd had, with me as stenographer, last week in our church's facebook page for "The Chronicles of Narnia" reading club event. She expressed that she'd really enjoyed all he had to share. He nodded his head, eyes down, standing next to me as rigid as usual. I jumped in, saying for him "He enjoyed it too. Johannes is really quite good at expressing himself via the written word, though sometimes his fingers can't keep up with his thoughts."

Further on in the conversation, our minister had the lightbulb moment...she said "Oh, so auditory processing disorder?" Again, I replied for him (his translator of sorts!) and said yes, and explained his difficulties with communication, both outgoing and receptive, and how finding the right medium (writing and sometimes dictating) has finally allowed him to share his intellect, personality, creativity, etc...

So...fast forward...back to the car...and the question.

I replied as best I could that I had not always been such.

In fact, for much of my life, I had a crippling shyness-a crippling insecurity.

But that had changed with his diagnosis and not only the new role I had to assume as his advocate-his translator, but also as my world closed in on me because his needed to be smaller.

He didn't want the how....the technique, or the outline, or the plan....he didn't want a script to run with. He simply wanted the why.

And I knew, in that moment, that the logic of him...the super-computer of a brain that he has, was looking for a reason to expand past his own limitations.

What he wanted was a measureable, scientific reason to try to push past his disability.

I told him "Conversation, and the connection that comes from words exchanged (even with strangers in passing) is what allows us to live in an expanded world where other people and their experiences and opinions can spark new challenges and ideas in us. It allows our world to be so much bigger than our own individual interest."

And he answered "I guess that's the same reason why you write, huh?"

...7 (in days gone by)...

In Days Gone By:
19.October.2018

 You might think, it being Friday and the whole glorious weekend spreading out like a blank slate before us, I'd have grand plans to share.

You might think, it being Friday and the end of another schoolweek, I'd be basking in the break in homework fever.

You might even think, it being Friday, that I've unpacked his things-reviewed grades-prepped a healthy snack....

And you'd be wrong.

He's curled up in his corner tapping away at a game (likely one he knows I don't want him playing but allow the 'disobedience' anyway because...well...choices), whilst I sit at the kitchen table with melting ice-cream and piping hot espresso and the crunchy remains of a well-intentioned but by no means well-thought-out popcorn battle under my feet.

Yes.

Popcorn. Battle.

Because I'm that mom.

But a handful of minutes ago I was on my phone instead...he was still on his computer...and no more than 5 feet away. And we were chatting. About school. About the weekend. About popcorn and ice cream and espresso. Via Google Hangouts.

Listen.

Words were exchanged. Plans were made. Conversation flowed.

It just did so...silently.

And I, on the sofa staring at the little handheld screen, had a moment of complete joy that my 15 (15!!! Yes, fully teenage!!!) son was so open and free with his thoughts and feelings with...of all people...his mom!

I got the day play-by-play. The hallway gossip. The jokes that boys will tell, and the rolled-eyes (via emoji) that teachers provoke.

He snickered-in his corner-all curled up in his chair. And I giggled, softly, from the sofa.

The parent experts tell you to mark out the line firmly.

I-Parent. You-Child.

Never the twain shall meet.

They tell you to be the guide-the leader-the example-the authoritarian.

Not. The. Friend.

I won't tell you otherwise. I wouldn't presume to tell you what will work for you and your child(ren). But I'll tell you that we're friends, he and I. Of the real, genuine sort. Both invested and interested in one another's trials and tribulations. Both supportive of the struggles and successes. I ask him specific questions about his schoolday when he gets home. He asks me pointed questions about my work. I pay attention when he talks about his interests, concerns and brainstorms. He pays attention to my caffeine level-reminding me to 'top up' whenever I start to slump. We challenge one another...support one another...tease one another mercilessly. And always...always...always...are one another's 'soft place to land'.

Several weekends ago now, we picked up one of his friends for the day and did our usual spur-of-the-moment, play-it-by-ear adventuring. It was a blast! We tramped through historic sites, ate our way through indulgence, and talked our way through the travails of teenage-hood. All three. He, and I, and friend. And when we dropped friend off again, and friend's mother said "oh, next time I'll do it", and friend said (brashly and, admittedly, rudely) "No way! It's only fun with her. She's cool!", I felt a warm glow. Might have been the rush of embarrassment as I tried to cover for his gaffe.

(I literally gasped, then recovered and said "Oh. C'mon now. That's not fair. I'm just obnoxious about my coolness. I throw it in your face. See, look, jazz hands! You can't help but notice it. But your mom? Super cool. And way classier. She's subtle about it. Her coolness has layers. Has depth. You have to let her show you in her own time.")

***Good save, no?***

Anyhow, that warm glow? Bubbled up inside me right there on the doorstep. That *knowing* that the effort I put in to listening and understanding and respecting my son, and his friends, paid off.

That same friend of his told me that same day, in the car, that he likes my blog. ?!?!?! Um...err...well then...

I was actually, remarkably, stunned into silence there. My blog? I mean...wha...how..whe…

Oh, right...my son linked to it on his own site because....we're friends. Because he likes it, too. He thinks I'm "a great writer".

Listen, we can't all be right, all the time. Not even him.

But the thing to pay attention to there, is not whether I'm any good at writing, but that he wants to read what I write. And so does his friend.

Remarkable, no? A real head-scratcher.

Friend went on to share that he likes that my writing "sounded like me" and "made emotional sense". I, likewise, told him he was a genius. No lie! He told me that the way I wrote about my son and his autism and our life was such that it felt familiar and warm and real. He told me that it made him think.

(Meanwhile, I listened and thought....about all the posts I needed to delete before any other teenage boy stumbled across them!)

Here's the thing. I'm full of mistakes. My past is littered with them. My present is bursting at the seams. My future? Well, let's just say that's a mistake waiting to happen.

(Err...that might have been too tangential.)

The point is, there's so many things I do wrong and get wrong. And yes, I've a life chock full of people ready-willing-able to point them out, worry not!

But this?

This parent as friend thing?

This one I'm giving myself.

This one I've done right.

...5 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
17.August.2018

In the light of morning, and the comfort that the fresh start of a new day promises, I choose this:

“Brokenness is just like beauty; it's something we wear and carry, and if we let it define us, it will. But we are not our beauty or our brokenness, because souls are not made of beauty or brokenness. Souls are made of something permanent. Souls are made of truth.”

Your choices broke me...the fractures and missing pieces so visible when I look at the landscape of my life. You stole choice from me, violently and purposefully and sadistically, leaving me to navigate life as a series of reactions instead of decisions. I lost myself in the definition of your actions...in the endless stream of could have-would have-should have...

And it was nothing to you....not even a ripple. No memory keeping you awake in fear...no echo of words when you looked in the mirror.

Those hurts...those fears...those anguishes that you inflicted, I bore alone.

And that's fine...they purified me...they polished all my sharp edges and made me into someone who could roll with every punch.

But today, I choose something else. Your words last night cleared the pathway for me...all that rubble you left in your wake is suddenly nothing but dust. My self-worth was never tied up in you after all...your inability to see it didn't actually negate it.

And, ps- his success has NOTHING to do with you!

...4 (in days gone by)...

In Days Gone By:
12. September.2021

Some among you here reading know the story, in bits and pieces.

Some of you have walked through chapters of it with us.

Others of you know only the result of the early years of our family...know only the team of two that rebuilt atop the ashes of a violent, crushing past.

But all of you today, reading this, can celebrate in your own way as today we step into our freedom...finally!

Today everything new begins.

Yesterday, everything old finally ended. Ended...

was obliterated...

was erased...

was disowned...

was disavowed.

Yesterday, the young man I am so proud to call my son was able to confront the man who came so close to destroying us both and not only put voice to the long-silent emotions of what he endured, but also firmly say "No more!".

Yesterday, Johannes...18 and every inch the young man who has risen so far beyond every challenge he's been presented with, made the decision for us both and for his loved ones...his grandmother and his half-siblings...and, having finally "had his say", permanently excised the excruciating weight that has been his 'deadbeat dad' from our life. Having the opportunity to finally say whatever he wanted, he proved himself the far better man, exercising restraint. Instead of lashing out, he was clear and precise. A declaration of strength...an acknowledgement of the hurt and shame he had felt...a strongly worded demand that he never be contacted again...and that Christian stop using him and his siblings to drum up pity and charity.

(As I have said before, there are some words that exist only for those moments of intense emotion...and, in my opinion, while inappropriate in regular conversation, are the only way to fully communicate absolute rage and disgust.)

His words were forceful...his language carefully chosen to exact the result he wanted. And in the end, after demanding his due, Johannes had the final word.

Some 16+ years after first filing for a restraining order, we are both finally able to walk away cleanly...never again having to acknowledge this wretched creature, or feel dragged down by the burden of his chaos and sickness and threats.

As I typed so joyfully but a few years ago, "they are all safe"...and now it is even more true.

My stepchildren are flourishing in a stable, safe and secure home...surrounded by a family that has chosen to come together to raise them up in love and support. We have built solid bridges to one another. Johannes has safely reached the age of majority...the threat of custody or visitation no longer keeps me from exhaling.

The threat has dissolved into yesterday.

Last night I sat with my eldest son and we breathed in the relief denied to us these many years. We felt our shoulders relax and our senses mute a bit from what had become an all too familiar alert to impending doom. We spoke freely...the words and emotions pouring out...and then let them melt away, with no need to take it all back up again.

I told him, laughingly but earnestly, "You are my hero.", and how I admired his ability to strongly and eloquently say the things that needed to be said. I told him that what I had wanted for him all those years ago, was finally his. Freedom. The ability to walk away. The time to be done carrying the shame of having had Christian for a father (a word Johannes never allowed, but the biological relationship nonetheless) and disavow any tie. Here...now...it was his. It was mine.

Johannes answered back, "I am my mother's son."

And so he is.

But he is so much more. He is who he has chosen to be...he is the product of his own choices: to rise above, to be empathetic, to love. He is the product of bearing witness to what Christian has done and choosing to do the opposite every time. He is my hero.

Yesterday, we cleaned house. We settled our accounts in a way.

Particularly me.

Typing into my final text that I didn't even mind the wasted time~money~energy~etc...because it served as proof to me of my having done all that I could.

Knowing my words wouldn't cut through the haze of drugs and lies and ego, and knowing also that it no longer mattered to me whether or not they did.

I have done all I could.

I have sacrificed all I am willing to.

I am settled.

I am at peace.

Yesterday, we washed our hands. We stopped the infection that is his disgusting life, from spreading any further into ours. We dreamt up the 'what ifs and whens' of moving forward. We marveled at the fact that sweet Henri will never have to know our pain and stress over that man. We cleansed ourselves of all the insidious thoughts and feelings that inviting his damage in had created.

Yesterday, we cut off the rot.

Today, we celebrate.

Today, we are our own.

Today, I am mother to two remarkable boys I've given birth to and step-mother to two equally remarkable children who have grown in my heart.

I am not the ex-wife...

the estranged spouse..

the maligned...

the abused...

the terrified...

the victim.

I am not broken.

I am not even the survivor.

Today I am what I chose all those years ago when I finally got up the courage to save us.

I am one who overcame.

And today? Today Johannes is MY son...100%. Belonging to no one but himself. Worthy and loved and wholly his own man. He is who he chooses to be. He never needs to feel the burden of Christian again. He is safe.

Today, we celebrate. We eat cake...literally...because if ever there was a moment to savor and laugh through and feast over, it is this. We'll sit around the table, our cobbled together family of four, and revel in the lightheartedness. We'll make plans, and tell stories, and crack jokes. We'll make a mess and clean it up.

And in the months to come, I'll set aside the money to hire the lawyer and the process server and pay the fees. I'll come to terms with my own irritation at, having already carried the financial burden all these years, I've to do it one final time. I'll justify it, in time, as the greatest gift I've ever given myself.

We are finally able to turn our backs completely on the monster.

Free.

12. September. 2021

...3 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
18.December.2020

TL;DR

Trigger warning...mental health, spousal abuse, suicidal ideation, child neglect

.

.

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Emergency services are currently dispatched on another welfare check to my ex-husband. We expect a phone call confirming that he's being taken in for observation. If you are a prayer... go one further and pray he's determined unfit to be let back out. Pray that he be held. Pray that he be treated...long-term, in-patient.

He...spirals... quickly and dangerously and frequently. Earlier this month, he was communicative and self-aware...

read also:in the upward tick of manic mode.

During that time, he moved into another county, leaving behind the services others had worked so hard to set up for him, in a burst of 'outrunning his problems' energy.

Ill-advised doesn't even begin to cover it. Outraged that his previous landlord was asking for help with basic household chores (in return for exceptionally discounted room and board), he burned that situation to the ground and moved his dilapidated rv onto the property of a former friend he'd reconnected with. As of last week, the household was Covid positive. By all accounts, he's been holed up in the RV ever since. He's off his meds, has missed every appointment for care management, and is effectively reliant on his alcoholic friend for everything: food, transportation, electricity, water, advice, etc...

This is a man who, by want of both his ego and his illness, has damaged everything and everyone he touches. A man who both actively and passively abuses every person in his life, whether through violence or neglect. A man who buries his guilt underneath personal attacks on those who try to help him get help. Who knows he's done horrific things but believes his 'superior intellect' releases him from any responsibility for those actions.

And who, every time without fail, scorches the earth as he comes out of his manic phase... which makes it nigh on impossible to get him into care. Lashes out every time and then threatens suicide as the depression takes hold.

Fast forward: between last night and this morning he sent out his 'customary' novella of text messages full of vitriol, baseless accusations, and finally, farewells.

I'm...tired. This roller-coaster is exhausting. My eldest son and step-children deserve so much more... so much better. I hate this for them. I hate this for me. This man was my monster in the dark for years... and his brokenness does not erase the terror or the damage.

Words fail.

Untreated mental illness contaminates everyone in the circle...causes immeasurable stress and distress to every caregiver, no matter the distance. And burns out the very sympathy and empathy so needed by the one who is ill.

I fear for the day when he sinks a hook into my eldest.

I fear for the day that he goes beyond threatening.

...2 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
25.October.2018

The house is quiet.

Warm, and quiet.

Quiet enough that the infernal hum of the refrigerator sounds like a drill inside my skull.

He's home today, downed by a fever and head-cold symptoms. We slept in, miraculously, and I feel wholly refreshed. Sitting across from me here at the table, he has the dark circles and flushed cheeks of his fever and the furrowed brow of his concentration as he works on his engineering homework.

(Yup...That Mom, too. Home sick? Homework. Unless you're comatose!)

We took the morning "off"...sleeping in led to the laziest of breakfasts, still in pjs. Copious amounts of coffee and tea extended our table-sit while we chatted our way round how he was feeling, what was going on in school, etc...

I sat there, engaging in the conversation with most of my brain, while a small portion of it pecked away at the dissonance of what continues to unfold re:my stepchildren.

It's hard. Difficult. Impossible even, to wrap my head around the reality of their experience with their father...and remember how very close we came to being permanently scarred in those same ways.

He is light. Seated across from me. Looking up every few moments to reassure himself of my presence...of my attention. He is light and carefree in the stability-the solidity-the expected. But his half-siblings know nothing of those feelings.

In my head, I liken them to feral cats. All the potential, but none of the rearing...the raising. Acting solely on self-serving instinct, consequences be damned. It is, to me, horrifying to hear each piece, each drip drop drip of information that seeps out of the crumbling walls their father tried to erect around them. It is, to me, horrifying that this man is the primary caregiver-so ill-equipped for the job. So ill-equipped for his own life.

I always say how lucky I am that he is mine. That this glorious, brilliant, challenging young man is mine to raise and be raised up by. Mine to be the plus-one for. Mine to observe and record and be amazed by. But in that part of my brain that's worrying on that dissonance, I know it's not luck at all. He's become what he was meant to be because I did what was needed, no matter the cost...no matter the struggle...no matter the naysayers.

I wonder, often, if it's already too late for those two. If the path has already been set in concrete for them. Or if, perhaps, all the moves we players on the periphery are making....all the barriers and walls we are erecting and pushing in all around them will be enough to spin them off that axis and give them their best chance as well.

He's had the best chance or, at the very least, the best chance I could provide. And he's done wonders with it. Creating from these small pieces a world in which he creates...dominates...advocates...leads...inspires change. I am never not awestruck at where this life has taken us.

But I wonder, day in and day out, if it's too little-too late for those two. And I wonder what that will mean for him. Will he be dragged down by their dysfunction when they are all older? Will he inherit my 'need to rescue-need to help-need to fix' and find himself breaking himself into pieces trying to fill the holes in them?

Will he, as he's doing now, try to line up all the angles and make the picture symmetrical? Will he pour himself out into them?

Oh, I worry.

I worry about him. Of course I do. I worry for him...for who he will have to be when I am gone. For how he will move on from being part of a team of two to being just one.

I worry for them, these children I have chosen to love from afar. I worry for their chances and their outcomes and their day right now.

I worry for their father and his instability...worry that his emotional dysfunction will win out and he will lose himself, his life.

The house is quiet as we both sit here, he at his homework and I at this emptying out of the words in my head. It is quiet and calm and warm and peaceful and I am torn between the tranquility of our life and the chaos of theirs.

...1 (in days gone by)...

 Every once in a while, 'memories' pop up on one social media platform or another and I think to myself, I ought to copy that over to here.  I think it...and make a mental note...and then promptly forget again.

 Such was the case, once again, yesterday...when I first logged onto Facebook in the early hours and took a little detour from prep work , to traipse down memory lane.

So, this one's for me: a (hopefully fully manifested) series of 'past posts', come home to roost.

In Days Gone By:
18.June.2019

I slept through the alarm this morning.

Okay...not really.

More like...I dozed off after waking up just long enough to turn it off.

"Came to" some ten minutes later, with the heart-racing adrenaline rush when your brain knows you have s*** to do but your body is trying to pretend it's still nighttime.

The achy breaky stumble through morning routine commenced. Coffee? Check. Breakfast? Check. Clothes laid out? Check. Check. Check.

He hopped into the shower. I slumped over the kitchen table in between "2 minute warnings"...the coffee mug just out of reach.

Gurgle in the pipes as the shower stopped. Reminder to hurry again... Then...out...in a flurry of towel and drippy hair and shower thoughts about Transformers. (Of course!) He's off to get dressed. I'm off to make the beds-wash the breakfast dishes-download my workload-stumble over the cat once-twice-three times the charm!

It's Finals Week. Everything is off kilter.

No lunch prep needed. But snack and drink, and tea for the bus stop-wait. Check the bookbag. The rescue remedy refill reminder clearly didn't work-empty pill fob. Run through my checklist as I count out 9 pastilles-cram and twist to close. Chromebook? Check. Sharpened pencils? Check. With erasers? Err....crap...nope....where's the damn box? Check. Drawing pad? Check. Earbuds? Check. Glasses? Check. Check. Check.

Hazard a quick glance at the clock...woah, running late! My yell to "hurry up" answered by his "I can't" whimper as out he finally comes...shirt-tails flapping, hair still dripping.

"Mami? I wanted to wear this one, but..."

He's replaced the shirt I laid out with yet another blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down. Yes...full title needed. Under no circumstances can we simply say shirt or blue shirt or even blue plaid shirt. Full. Title. Needed. "Precision of Language!"

So here he stands, in the middle of the kitchen, blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down half on, offering up to me The Problem. "I wanted to wear this one, but look...." The buttonhole is torn. No doubt from his new(ish) stim of tugging on his hems...shirts, shorts, even socks...everything gets tugged.

"How about..." I start to say, but cut the half-formed thought off. Yeah, no. There's no how or why or rhyme or reason. It's Finals Week and everything needs to be just-so...calm, cool and collected, so that brain of his can churn away and spit back all the facts it's been crammed full of all year. There's no room for distraction or discomfort. No room for entertaining alternates. There is just this shirt-the first and only choice-and two minutes before our bus alarm goes off.

"Okay, I've got this" I say, as I wrestle him out of it...his arms, still damp, sticking to the sleeves. Off he goes to grab his robe...he does NOT do shirtless. Off I go to retrieve my sewing box. Precious time wasted as I try once-twice-seventeen million times, to thread the needle. Finally my brain processes the thread width vs. the needle eye size. New needle? Oh, yes, in the tin. The tin that WON'T OPEN! Argh! Yank, twist...sweating now. Glance at that clock again...Double Argh!

There goes the alarm.

POP! Well, the tin's open. And sewing needles are all over the sofa...and...

Yup. Ouch...that one's point down in my thigh. Waaaaah!

Let's fast forward...no real damage done.

New needle. All good. Thread zipping in and out. Tie it off. Snip!

Robe off. Shirt on. Good as new.

Grab the bag. Grab the tea. Grab the boy.

Off into the rain.

The rain?

The RAIN!

Welp! Back in, grab the umbrella.

Say cheese! Click...photo? Check.

Off into the downpour.

A noticeable groan from the boy who now, clutching his abdomen, says "I hate rain".

Yup. There's that. Weather-induced headaches and gastric issues.

It's Finals Week. And it's raining. And he's off his game.

Awesome. (Yeah, no.)

Down we trudge. Bus arrives. He winces, as ever, at the squeal of the brakes.

I stand, waving my arms about like the 'Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy' at the disappearing tail lights...

"I love you! Come home safe to me." Blow a kiss. My ritual.

Back up and in. Umbrella propped across the sofa to dry. (Small space living, m'i'right?) Tea kettle on. Laptop unplugged. Shoulder-mounted kitty.

Chime!

My phone screen lights up and I smile. Google Hangouts-from the bus.

"Thanks, Mami. Ps-why is everyone on the bus SO LOUD?!?!

Ps again-you look tired."

"Earbuds are in the left front pocket, kiddo. Put them in! I'm suuuuuuper tired...and old, and fading...but thanks for the reminder to shellac my face!

Good luck today...and DON'T TUG ON YOUR SHIRT, please?!?"

Chime!

"Okay. Ps-the button on my shorts is loose now, too."

...in one door and out the other...

 Holidays are rich with tradition.

Beyond the true blessing of the Nativity, some might say that those traditions make the holidays. We look forward, not to the changing of the calendar page, but to the promise of time spent with loved ones and time-honored customs.  We invest our energy and our emotion in preparing... for baking and decorating cookies or stringing lights or caroling or...

We create and continue our family history, by stitching moments in the here and now to memories of years past.  The holidays, by way of tradition, are a gateway to travel through time.

In the early years with my eldest, when I was a single-parent, I prioritized the creation of traditions with him.  Our little family of two needed that solid ground.  He, autistic, needed routine and familiarity.  I, lonely and alone, needed to believe that I could be enough for him.

I poured my creative energy into making special memories and repeating them, year after year.
And while I found satisfaction in the delight that sparkled in his eyes when he'd come downstairs in the morning to discover that day's surprise, he grew to eagerly anticipate each season's traditions.

And so, our imperfect little team of two was a family, perfect and whole and anchored in tradition.

One of those traditions, and likely one you'll recognize and have some version of yourself is the:

 Advent Calendar

Our version has changed, drastically, over the years, but began humbly enough with the store-bought (German sourced, of course! Ha!) chocolate treat.  24 sweets to count the days through Christmas Eve, hidden behind the paper doors of a holiday scene. One per day was awfully hard for my little one.
(One year, in a failed efffort to keep the temptation out of reach, I put it on the windowsill...right above one of the baseboards...and woke up to a chocolate river pouring down the wall!)
And just like that, my new tradition of buying two (just in case but more often than not, one for morning-one for night) was born. 

Gradually over the years, I tried my hand at other variations. Always buying one chocolate calendar for morning excitement, and then trying to create the perfect evening treat as well.

24 candy canes hanging on the staircase wasn't quite exciting enough, so the next year, I made 24 felt cones and hung them off garland on the staircase, filling each with a handful of special chocolates.  While absolutely adorable, that option proved far too tempting to a certain midnight snacker, and the following year the cones hung from the top of our big front window instead.

And then we moved.

And, in moving, said 'farewell' to everything we could unload at a garage sale for extra cash...those felt cones included.  Mind you, they were adorable!

Relocating, and drastically downsizing meant I had to really get creative.  As did my mom-guilt, at an all-time high by now, having ripped my boy away from everything familiar.

So that year, I went with the "spoil him daily" option...little knowing I was creating high expectations for the next few years!

With no interior stair railings to hang treats off of, I went with the next best option...24 little gifts, wrapped in paper from years gone by, for him to pick and choose from every day.

An easy win, that stood the test of time right through the end of middle school.

As time went on, I got out ahead of the rush, and bought "a few of his favorite things" well in advance.

Treats over the years ranged from tiny Transformers to his favorite snacks, and even new books from favorite authors.  And always, always craft supplies and tools to support his then-burgeoning interest in what would become his first business: custom designed 3d printed Transformers!

Then one day, I saw it.

The perfect Advent Calendar!

A darling wooden house, complete with winter woods and village, and 24 tiny little drawers.

Reminiscent of so many beautiful vintage German Christmas decorations I had grown up with.

The perfect holiday inspiration!

I knew exactly what I wanted to do, to create a lasting holiday tradition full of fun! I set to work right away, once again with scrap wrapping paper leftover from other years, and the sweetest candy-cane striped twine.  Teeny tiny scrolls...elfkin clues for a festive treasure hunt!

And he loved it!

As did I!

We had such fun that first year...making a big production of dimming the lights and turning on the Advent House, unrolling the tiny little clue and searching for where the treat had been hidden.

This was it...the one to keep!

With Henri's first Christmas season on the horizon, I searched for another Advent House and lucked out, finding one that fit the bill at T.J. Maxx.  (Since then, I've noticed they carry more and more of them each year!) 

Johannes', of course, remains the tall one as befitting his stature, and Henri has the shorter.

The "resident elf" works twice as hard now, on 1/2 the coffee! (Still nursing.)

And as with everything else when raising two boys 17 years apart, she's tasked with creating two very different advent-ures...one more challenging and abstract, the other far simpler and accessible.

And Henri follows his big brother's lead: choosing to believe in the tiny little elf who leaves tiny little clues, to sweets and treats hidden about our home.

Johannes, for his part, indulges in the fun of it...both for the inevitable treat, and for the magic we're creating for his little brother.

Year 1

Year 2

This year, I decorated early (I know, I know...I never decorate early.  But this year we needed Christmas so much more!) and Henri spent the next several days eagerly and none-too-patiently anticipating the start.  Every day, several times, he'd drag one or the other of us by hand to the houses, chortling and signing his demands to start now!

Magic...he remembered.

Tradition...ours.

***

As you may know, I've also two beloved but long-distance stepchildren.  We continue to make every effort to include them in our traditions, which can be challenging from 8 hours away.  Last year, I was delighted to find a few of these wooden forest advent calendar sets. On the first day, you open the tree...and then each day's door contains a woodland animal to either put in the tree or around it. The final day, of course, contained the tree-topping star.  We sent one to my stepchildren, and kept one each for the boys, so that every day at "generally" the same time, we could all open them together.

This year, I've used the pieces from the set in our holiday decorating, and every time I look up and see them, I think fondly of my stepchildren...just another layer of warm and cozy moments made memory...made history...made tradition.