1. You’re a dog.
2. You’re not a tourist.
3. You rarely spend time in the sun.
4. Also, you rarely spend time in the rain. You HATE the rain and would rather pee on the carpet. By the way I’m so over that, but now I realize you may be getting back at me and I kind of understand.
5. Because, obviously, I need to hear it again: YOU ARE A DOG. (Not to be confused with DAWG, which you are so not.)

Again, I’m sorry and I promise never to dress you in human clothing again. (I now realize human clothing is kind of redundant because HUMANS SHOULD BE THE ONLY ANIMAL TO WEAR CLOTHING.) Also? It only just occurred to me why you might be peeing on the carpet. If I promise never to have such a serious lapse in judgment again, will you please stop? Please? Remember: I can always take you to the shelter! (I kid. Only slightly. Maybe.)

This past year you’ve gone from a sweet bundle of lump, very easy to entertain and care for, to a mobile, walking, talking (it’s mostly gibberish BUT STILL) baby with opinions! And lots of personality. I’ve been composing this post in my head for weeks, as I’ve watched you grow and change, but I can’t seem to come up with something perfect enough for you. I would love to capture a piece of your almost gone babyness and bottle it up on this web page forever, but despite all of our modern technological advancements, I can’t quite perform that miracle yet. I just can’t believe you’ve been in our lives for a year. It seems as though you’ve been here forever and life didn’t really begin until you arrived. So when words fail me, I’ll just say thank you. Thank you for choosing us, Baby Boy. You’re perfect.

We took lots of pictures, which wasn’t any fun at all because “Wait! Stop! I know you’re having fun, but don’t move so I can take a picture!” is surely annoying. All that stopping and focusing and setting up a shot resulted in a lot of these types of pictures:

There was still much fun to be had! Lots of swinging!

Much sand was dug!

The sand was a whole new experience for the baby. He didn’t eat any of it luckily.

There was lots of sliding down slides and jumping from high places!

There was also some relaxing, which was nice.

There was lots of moving from one place to another.

We had a pretty good time. Didn’t we, Baby One?

I think he agrees.

But now he’s home and he’s a different person altogether. He has kept his word. He has attended a meeting of recovery every day since his arrival. He hasn’t drifted off while telling me something. He hasn’t denied my reality– No, baby, what you’re seeing isn’t real. It’s not there. It’s like this. . . The reality has been no less than fantastic. He hasn’t let me down. I’m impressed, but I’ve always known he’s had it in him. The man I met and fell in love with was this man, not the high, dead one. He works hard. He keeps promises. He is consistent. He is the father to his children.

However, I’m not inside his head. I can’t read his thoughts. Sometimes the internal change we feel takes much longer to see on the outside. And while there is many new and wonderful things to see and feel, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It will fall, it has to. Is that its shadow I see, falling across the lawn? I’ve realized, over the course of the last few days, that what “they” say is true: the addict’s family gets sick right along with him. Damn those experts for knowing their shit. I guess I need to practice some of that compassionate detachment that “they” are always saying such good things about. Whenever I get a whiff of a behavior that might be something he would have done a few months ago, I feel a rage so overpowering that I need a tranq dart in my neck. Being in this position is just so strange to me. I’ve been on the flip side of this very same coin many a time, but I’ve never been so close to another who has fallen and gotten back up again. I guess I now know how my family has felt for all these years.

I look forward to what may come with my eyes and heart open. The future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.

All too soon you will grow up and come to realize that your letters are much fewer and further between than I ever intended them to be. What you may one day come to find out, should you have more than one child of your own, is that you will be far busier than you ever expected to be. At the end of the night, you may wish to do nothing more than curl up with your significant other and relax because you’ve just played 50 rounds of Cops and Robbers with your older son and fed, bathed, and pajama’d the baby. Oh wait! Maybe that’s just your mother. Or perhaps you will have a partner that might share the load of this work and you won’t feel quite as dog tired as I do now. Either way, you’ll come to find out that you don’t have as much time to record all the wonderful things your children do as you once thought you would. At least, I hope that for you. I hope you will be able to experience the heart-breaking beauty of your child’s eyes. The soul-tickling joy of your baby’s laughter. One day may you be in the presence of a parent-child love and you will finally understand. You will understand that writing these letters is only a glimpse into just how much I love you- that I could never fully transcribe the kind of feeling this is. But, again, I’ll always try. . .

January 20th, 2009 was the day that you finally crawled. After weeks of thinking about it and days of attempting to, but falling on your tummy, you actually made it across your bedroom floor. You were determined to reach my glasses, if only to put them in your mouth. You hollered the whole way, wanting me to pick you up, but I could see the immense satisfaction you held when you made it to the other side. I realized, as I watched you locomote across the floor, that this is what love is: Watching you do something difficult, something I could easily help you get or gain, but knowing how proud of yourself you would be should you do it yourself. I don’t think I’ll ever claim to know or understand exactly what love is, but I know this must be some small part of it.

These last few months have been about watching you discover. Your influence over objects, your power in the world, your feet, your brother. You have begun to notice it all and now, it seems, you want to be a part of it. There is a butterfly that hangs above your changing table. Every day you pull on its wings. Never fails to amuse you. During dinner time, you have found that with enough oomph you can make your sippy cup fly through the air. This cracks you up. Call my name, “Mama,” and you know that you are instantly picked up. Watch your brother and you are sure that you will be laughing in short order. It has been a great pleasure to watch you become an active member of your family.

You were the cutest damn dinosaur Halloween has ever seen this past Candy-Hoarding Season. We went for a huge hay ride all throughout the horsey part of town, stopping at almost every house for candy. There was a lot of people and even more kids, but you stayed quiet and nursed contentedly in the back of the trailer for most of the ride. Towards the end, you had decided that you had enough and we packed up your sugar-shocked brother and headed home to count all of his loot.

The rest of the Holidays passed in a most relaxing manor, so rare for holidays with our family. You weren’t quite yet up to the task of opening presents, but you were most definitely dazzled by the lights and noise of several of the toys you had gotten. Like your brother, your grandparents definitely over-indulged you in masses of toys. A ball-tivity center, several music-playing, crib toys, small race cars in fun, bright colors, and lots of stuffed animals were just parts of your stash. For the last few weeks, it has been easy to distract you with one of your favorite toys: a baby basketball net. It cheers you on when you make a basket and you are particularly enchanted with the figure of a little baby on the backboard. I think you like him the best.

You may or may not be interested to know that you’ve outgrown your entire stash of cloth diapers! So many nights I worried my nails to nubs, concerned that you weren’t getting enough milk. Because of a breast reduction when I was 19, we had a rocky start to our nursing relationship. We have visited many lactation consultants and many doctors, but we’ve finally found the right combination of Domperidone and solid foods to make it work. And it really does work because it’s the only thing that’s guaranteed to calm a crying spell or put you to sleep. In fact, it’s the only thing that puts you to sleep and it’s what you do all. night. long. It’s a good thing I’m a pretty heavy sleeper. It brings me immense amounts of joy and relief to be able to bite your chunky thighs and breathe in the baby scent trapped in your neck rolls.

This is the new face you like to make. Along with it, you say, “Ohhh.” Just like you know exactly what I’m talking about. Even if you don’t, and I suspect you do not. But! It’s really cute and it makes me feel like you are paying attention to everything I say.

Yesterday, as my mom leaned in to give your a kiss hello, you made a smacking sound with you lips. “Mmmwah!” It sounded just like you were giving her a kiss back and until someone proves otherwise, I will believe that is exactly what you are doing. You were quite proud of the new noise you could make and all of the excitement that followed when you did it, and you spent much of last night Mmmwahing. I truly believe that you can feel all the love and good feelings that your family has when we’re around you. I also believe that you are giving it back to us because you know how good it feels. Here’s a secret: Your grandfather, Cookie, turns into a total mush-head around you.

Your father has been in the hospital for the month of January to help himself become a better father. This means that your grandparents (Cookie and Granny) have been coming over in the evenings to help out with dinner and bath time. The bath has just become an extension of the play room. The entire family piles in the bathroom to watch you and your brother play in the tub. Between fits of giggles, I manage to clean your near-bald head and scrub your delicious neck rolls. The Bug’s bath toys are a joyful diversion while I manage to clean up your brother. It’s a special time and I can see how much love you have for each other. So consumed, you brother is, with making you laugh.

If there was one person who might possibly be more proud of your accomplishments than I am, it would be your brother. He positively rejoices when you achieve anything new. Crawling? He was your cheerleader every step of the way. He’s currently showing you how standing up and walking is done so that you’ll be shortly ready to enter a marathon. You should be aware that I am not ready for you to walk just yet. I’ve only just barely gotten over the fact that my! baby! is! crawling!

See? He completely adores you. As does your mama.
I love you, sweet boy.
Mama
xx

I must be careful with the way I respond to him. I don’t want to set off the kind of hysteria that will surely end with a needle in his vein, but I am scared. Besides methadone, there is only one thing that will keep this kind of sickness at bay. And that was when God decided to answer the first of several times that day. I looked down at my feet, trying to regain some sense of right, and that was when I saw the spike. It was half filled with the amber liquid of destruction, more specifically, my destruction. This was not something I was expecting to see on the floor of my bedroom while holding my tiny son in my arms. This is not the family I have. I live in a nice house, we drive nice cars, my child goes to a good school. This is not the way things are supposed to be anymore.

And I was filled with a blind kind of rage that I have never before had when seeing a needle filled with my death of choice. Whenever I have made the decision to pick up again, I am usually filled with some kind of relief that subtly overpowers the fear I have of what a crushing disappointment I am. Seeing the needle that will inevitably bring this relief always fills me the a warm, dreamy, euphoric recall of the Good Times. (What little there were of those.) Not this time. I am angry beyond words. How could you do this to me? To him? To us? We have become respectable. We are believable, good people. That will destroy everything.

I am holding the needle behind my back. As if to create some wall between it and my son. He will not be this. He will not see this. He will not be a child of this. I breathe and become right again. I begin to understand, to remember, the kind of monstrous sickness that eradicates any ability to differentiate between right and wrong. The kind of sickness that will justify bringing that in the house to help him feel better. I am no longer speaking to him. I am speaking to the beast that has woken up after months of hibernation and he’s starving. Whatever it is I decide to do now had better include feeding the beast or at least finding something to pacify him.

And it comes to me! There is always treatment! And he needs it! Taking methadone is like throwing a rawhide to the beast: it may not be a raw and bloody steak, but it’s good enough. I’m tired of good enough. It’s not really living. It’s like walking through life with a blanket wrapped around one’s brain- it dulls the sharp edges and nothing really gets through. It’s like sex with a condom. He tentatively agrees to go, but not for five more days. Five more days which feel like an eternity. And all we have to do is make it until Tuesday, which seems like forever. And what does he do until then? How is he going to make it?

The answer: He does whatever he has to do. He quiets the beast and then bitch slaps him back into his cave. He smothers that fanged creature with pillows of poison and clubs him for good measure. I would love to say that I’m not really sure how I made it through, but I know. The cherubic faces of my children, their eyes wide with innocence, were my foundation. Brick by brick I lay it down using the desire to keep life as normal as possible for them as cement. I will fight to the death of me, clawing my way with fingers broken and bloody, in an attempt to keep myself sane. That needle doesn’t sing the same siren’s song that used to lull me into stupidity. At least for the next twenty-four hours. Until I reload my gun, aiming directly for the beast’s head and blowing it to smithereens.

For a while, I left. I went to my parent’s house. The safe cocoon feels like my mother’s womb. That, or a plug where I can recharge. I also build my wall with my family’s love. God knows they may be crazy, but they only want the best for me and my children. I won’t be another victim of this disease. I won’t allow my children to become victims of this disease. We are more fighters in a war against it. We won’t stop until this disease lay bleeding at our feet. Now we have one more joining our army. Proud would be the wrong word. It’s more like inspired by his bravery, honored by his fight, and appreciative of his self-respect. It will be a difficult few weeks, but the results will be fantastic. I can’t wait to see what unfolds. Two more days.

Meet Sonny and Crockett:

My mom dropped off the Older One, the fish, and a small, plastic, filter-less bowl with the specific instructions to acclimate the fish in their bags to the water in their bowl before ceremoniously dumping them into their new home. I spent 20 damn minutes making sure the water was the right temperature and I wouldn’t shock them before moving them. I took such care organizing the blue marbles and colorful shells the Older One had picked for their tank. What I didn’t realize, however, was that they would most definitely, without a doubt need a filter. I figured that out the next day when the water took on a murky, greenish hue and it was hard to see the fish.

I took my lazy ass on over to the local pet store to find a relatively cheap, nice looking tank with a filter with which to relocate these beasts. I’m really not crazy about fish. All night whenever I glanced in their direction, my stomach felt queasy and my spine tingled and hee-bed-a-jee-bed-a-yuck-yuck-yuck. I don’t know why I just imagine them making some grand escape and sailing through the air to land right in the garbage disposal, while at the same time my hand will involuntarily hit the On switch. EW. I’m grossing myself out just thinking about it.

I bought stones. Wait. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? I actually paid money for something I could find out in my driveway or back yard. Anyway, I BOUGHT STONES, two bags worth actually. I picked out several different kinds of plant life and also a pretty pink flower because I am the only girl in this house and sometimes I JUST NEED PINK and also a BREAK FROM ALL THE POOP JOKES (although ha ha ha). I grabbed a treasure chest with a diver and a net and the fish food. I also thought we should definitely get a ph and nitrate tester for good measure. I think the grand total was around $75. Which is a whole lot when the fish are probably only 99 cents. For the both of them. But when it comes to my child’s happiness, NO EXPENSE IS SPARED. I spent all day setting up this blessed tank and testing the water and just generally making sure these little farkers would live.

By 4 PM, the water in their old tank was really nasty and I was pretty sure that their new tank was a whole lot more healthy of an environment, so I moved them. I didn’t get the chance to get them used to their new water because I did not have BAGS, but it felt like the right temperature. Plus, they looked like they were totally going to die if I left them in their old tank. The Older One had a tennis lesson, so we packed up and left the Him to keep an eye on the fish.

Fifteen minutes later, after I was installed courtside, watching the Older One smack yellow balls INTO the net, my phone rang. Surely, he can’t be calling to tell me the fish died. Right? I laughed to myself as I hit the answer button. “The fish died. I put them in the garbage disposal,” the Him said. Okay. I made that last part up, but they died! They kicked the can not ten minutes after they moved to their new digs and I spent $75 for absolutely nothing. I’m awesome.

Thus ensued a lengthy discussion with the Older One about death and the great, big fishbowl in the sky. He didn’t cry all that much, but he definitely wanted to know when we would be replacing Sonny and Crockett. Me? I’m over the fish and that whole little experiment. Does anyone need a snazzy, new, barely used fish bowl or should we just get him two more fish for Christmas?

Sadly, I was unable to take him the hour and a half trip up north to the surgi-center where the operation is being performed. My mom took him instead. Which, I realize in hindsight, is probably the most awful thing. To have one’s mother-in-law take one to meet the scalpel. Again, whoops. The Him certainly acted like a brave little soldier heading off to fight the good fight. And, of course, the moment he stepped out the front door, I started to feel a little weepy. I wish that I could be there to hold his hand and to give him a kiss and to tell him everything will be alright. Because even if it is a simple thing, it’s still scary.

I headed out the door to do the school run with the Bug and the Baby Moo and realized that there was no way I would every be able to do all of this without him. It’s safe to say I would not make a good single parent. Although I like to consider myself a strong, independent woman, I still need the Him. And I realized that I definitely don’t tell him that I love him enough. He is the significant cog who makes the whole family machine run smoothly. A wonderful, attentive, present father who leads by a great example for his children. And a supportive, caring, loving husband who always takes responsibility.

I’ve been hot glued to the phone, devouring any tidbit of an update my mom throws at me. I’ve gathered drinks and soups and ice cream and pudding for him to eat, so he is comfortable once he gets home. I’m so excited for when he’ll walk through the front door because it truly is a brand, new start for him. A wholly, second chance to start all over. And I know, underneath all that fear over the actual surgery, he is just as excited as I am. Here’s to his speedy healing and quick recovery.

And now I hear my phone ringing.

* I can’t find the episode in question, but here. That explains it.

I saw this amazing idea for a stuffed toy the other day on the FAO Shwartz website. Basically they send you the tool with which to create your very own softie. You draw it, pick out fabrics, colors, textures, trim, etc. Then you send your creation back to them and they make it to your exact specifications. How incredibly cool, no? Because I am cheap careful with our money in this crappy economy and Christmas is only right around the corner, I improvised with some construction paper and various colors of cotton velour. The Child created a masterpiece and I shall cut it out and sew it up into the exact doll, wonky ears and all.

I so excited to see how it will turn out. I’m such a dork like that. I thought it would also be a good idea for him to draw one for his brother and he can give it to the baby for Christmas. It’s that damn Handmade Pledge I took.

What I didn’t tell you is that my Perfectionism crept up and bit me in the ass Big Time. While the Child was drawing his doll and selecting the colors, I kept saying things like, “Don’t draw too much hair!” “Make sure the other arm is even!” “Don’t you want both ears green?” So before you start thinking I’m some kind of mother made from awesomeness, you can clearly see how much I suck. Because being yelled at while your drawing sucks. But I’m still partly awesome. There’s just a very nice balance.

The chances of my children being addicts are, oh let’s see, reallyreallyreally great. I wouldn’t wish this disease on my worst enemy, but I don’t want to be caught being a Patsy. Realistically speaking, the percentages aren’t in their favor. I think the only thing that will protect them from actively using is talking about addiction in real, age appropriate terms. Surely telling my son that to use is to die, is not going to work. One, he isn’t even quite sure what death is (and neither am I) and, two, death never really deterred me. Neither is it okay to say, “Don’t shoot dope,” nor “You can get AIDS or Hepatitis C from using needles, young man. So don’t use drugs!” Somehow, I think, he won’t really understand and that’s a good thing. But certainly there is a way to open a dialogue about this tricky subject with kids of all ages. Me included.

As we sat down to dinner last night, I started asking Bugs what his bracelet meant. Silence. “You mean they didn’t talk about it or tell you why you were wearing it?” More silence. This seriously grabs my gonads and twists in a way that is both irksome and painful. Grrr. So let’s just have this whole week devoted to saying No to Drugs and wearing Wacky Socks, but God forbid we actually talk about it. I mean, that would just be crazy.

More than that, however, the Just Say No campaign really chaps my hide. In part, addiction is the inability to say no despite negative consequences. If I could have said no, I would have. The fact the I, essentially, can’t say no really batters my self-confidence. It has taken me years to grasp the fact that addiction is an allergy. The body’s abnormal reaction to an ingested substance. When I introduce drugs or alcohol into my system, my body responds with a physical, mental, and spiritual answer. Usually something along the lines of, “More. Now. At whatever cost.”

I find it irresponsible of the school to bring up a subject so relevant to today’s society, but to say nothing about it. Not only do I wish that they would invite openly talking about it (or raising awareness of it), as we have done with out son, but I wish they would educate and inform. I realize that it is indeed inappropriate to talk about some of the consequences of drugs. In polite audiences, most people would cringe at the mention of death, they might roll their eyes or sigh at the hint of homelessness, and they may feel that none of it really applies to them. However, to talk about the fact that drugs take you away from your family, they separate you from your spiritual side, they destroy your creativity, and they dismantle your relationships is all very civilized. It was easy for my son to understand the allergy concept. He’s allergic to peanuts, to eat them would certainly require a trip to the hospital. He doesn’t even know what they taste like. Because, in all seriousness, he is very likely an addict and I would like to avoid his slipping into active using, we have spoken about his allergy to alcohol. Basically, we told him, it’s like peanut butter: don’t even try it.

Who knows, maybe our whole approach won’t even work. I pray that this isn’t the case, but I’m trying to keep my eyes open about the whole thing. We started the conversation, which is more than I can say his school has done. They’re certainly willing to bring the subject up, but they’re not willing to talk about anything. I know it can be a loaded subject, with people both for and against educating our children; however, they brought it up and by not explaining the topic it somehow makes it feel taboo. And, I believe, that’s the worst thing. I need to make sure my children always know that they won’t get in trouble for talking about things with me. After all, the More You Know, right? Ha! I kid! Sort of, anyway.