My Sweet Pea, My Precious Precocious Baby Girl, My Offspring That I Spit Out In Her Mother’s Image had her big Senior Project show on Friday. It was a culmination of four years of work. She did tremendous work and most of that evening was spent with me bending over and picking up pieces of my heart that leaked out onto the floor and also holding back some big, juicy tears.

Enough of the sentimentality.

She did everything right. Almost. Her first mistake was inviting her family, The Cuckoos, to her Senior Show. Second, she didn’t feed us and after the hourlong drive to St. Louis to Mallory’s University (doesn’t that sound like a real school? like some prestigous hoity toity Eastern seaboard school?) I told my whole family that we could probably pick something up from the campus cafe. It was supposed to be chips and snacky foods but we happened upon the university President’s Inaugural Ball (or some such event) where we had prime rib, enormous shrimp, and caviar.

There were elegant desserts.

There were desserts made in white chocolate edible cups. Who is the genius who created that?

It was such a coup to be able to get free cuisine and take pictures of it. Ha! Ha! I got F-R-E-E ice cream and you can’t do anything about it but tuition costs hella money and perhaps I could get some free food after four years of that?

There was a bar where my sister asked my son to fetch her a glass of wine.

My elder sister, Erin, told Mason: Put your hands in your pockets, sidle up there, and just say ‘White zin’ and see if they give it to you.

AND THEY DID. I think he’s entirely ready for college now.

(Hi, DCFS! He was joking. He’s 16 and snarky and being silly. No wine touched his lips unless they were from his lush Granny who pinched his cheeks and slopped wet kisses on him.)

Speaking of Granny: she decided that when we told Mallory that we ate glorious food while she waited for us to appear at her show that she’d just go introduce herself to the president of the university and then, of course, take a picture with him. Only my mother. This is a woman who, after the dignified President Party Crashing, could be seen doing shots of Patron with Mallory and her roommates.

Later there was Mallory’s amazing project which was a winery with an art gallery and a beautiful garden and my thought the entire time was HOLY MOLY, MY KID CAN MAKE SOME COOL STUFF.

Naturally, she posed in front of all her design work.

Some of her photography which was placed over the hors d’ oeuvres. Notice, please, that she didn’t develop one picture of her mother. That’s ok. I got free food earlier.

Grandpa is proud of his eldest grandchild. He beams at that kid like little fairies lift her lithe body and carry her from place to place while sparkly dust comes out of her butt.

Me and Daddy. He knows sparkly dust does NOT come out of my butt, but that a breathtaking soulful girlchild came from my loins.

This is a pretty good shot of Mallory ending the night with MERCIFUL HEAVENS. MY FEET. THEY’RE GOING TO CRUMBLE LIKE THE BERLIN WALL. Mostly I like it because it’s in front of the design library where all the textiles are housed and where she spent a great deal of her time.

This shot looks fuzzy and I didn’t realize Mason had stolen my camera from me for a bit. I might have mentioned that there was delightful wine and my camera apparently drank a lot of it because it makes me look all distorted and woolly.

After all that cathartic writing last week I was ready for some serious release. Unfortunately, I’m experiencing sinus problems that have me considering the following:

1) Taking a fistful of benzodiazepines. OR

2) Drilling two holes in the side of my head at the temples OR

3) Entrusting a large, muscular bodybuilder to squeeze my head like a zit.

Luckily, I had a full weekend planned and it will take me three days to even deal with the 42,000 pictures I took.

Hints for each day:

Friday was a culmination of Mallory’s Interior Design artwork with 13 family members/friends and a little bit o’ wine. That one will be written first.

Saturday was a get-together I do with all the women who taught with me during my second year of teaching. We were so youthful then (and most of them were childless or with one kid and I had three so their talking about one kid had me uttering One? Just one kid? Oh, hell. That’s like having a dog. Someone will always babysit for you when you want to go away for the weekend. Try getting a sitter for THREE.) and had much to learn about education, but we had fun making mistakes, learning from them, and realizing we pull the best pranks on each other.

Sunday was another get-together with chocolate, Fluid Pudding, Bossy, and possibly some chocolate-covered Fluid Pudding and chocolate-covered Bossy. Possibly.

Also, I’m currently enthralled with Winnie The Pooh. Obviously, it must be to balance the heavy stuff I’m reading with Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. Pooh quote of today:

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh,” he whispered.

“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw, “I just wanted to be sure of you.””

Even though I thought I’d get a post out about it all, I wanted to leave you with that. Sidle up next to me and caress my hair until I fall asleep and not a moment before. I just want to be sure of you until this severe noodle nuisance goes away.

When a 5.4 earthquake hits the Midwest, it will freak our shit out. Honestly, I can remember the two earthquakes I’ve felt in my life and no one would believe they were both in Illinois. I have only myself to blame for the second one because I was bad-mouthing Mother Nature yesterday. The first was in 1987 and it was a memorable day for other reasons.

My first thought was that someone was standing next to the bed and hitting it with their knee. Then, I heard my flower pots shaking and saw the lamp hitting the wall. So I jump up and go across the hallway to Mason and ask, “Did you feel that?”

I sit on his bed and wait to feel it. I don’t for just a moment and then I DO AND AM GRATEFUL I’M NOT CRAZY. Not that I have anything against crazy people. I loves me some crazy folk. But I dragged him back to my room and pointed at the shaking flower pots and whispered loudly like I was hissing at him for not believing me, “SEE! THE FLOWERS ARE MOVING.”

“Ok, mom. Are you ok?”

“Well, yes. Because I wanted to double check with someone. So, I’m not crazy?”

“You’re not crazy. You’re just awake and talking at 4:30 in the morning. Go back to bed and you can be crazy at 8.”

Why waste this early morning experience? I’ll serve up some links and pictures of Rare Good Hair.

HannahAndersson is way too expensive but darnit. They have these cute shoes that would make me feel like a sassy ballerina.

This dress? It would look great in an earthquake or not. It’s made by AngelRox and you can buy it here.

Possibly, this tuxedo top would look wonderful in a tornado. Or not.

This just completely irked me that someone would bother to write it. I won’t even bother with a rant. Insert your own.

Finally, a link to a video (thanks, MarilynM!) because I’m going to be late for work if I try to figure out how to embed a video AGAIN and it’s just not worth it. It’s of a young woman who choreographed a dance she made up when she was four. Watch it until there are about 30 seconds left (well, watch the whole thing) and see how her foot catches on her shirt. BRILLIANT.

One more thing: I had a good hair day the other day. That should be captured and done so crookedly and fuzzily, but captured nonetheless.

It’s not yet 8 o’ clock for me, but I think I’ll have The Crazies for breakfast and let the weekend play out with that as a catalyst. It will be fun for sure because Mallory has her senior show (whole family will be in St. Louis, so the Crazy Show Travels. Check your local listings.), seven of my girlfriends will get together for a Spa Weekend, and then Bossy comes to town for an event at Bailey’s Chocolate Bar where I hope to meet her. For the second time. Maybe this time she will remember me. I kid! I kid, Fluid Pudding. Chill. But you should know that it’s normal for me to announce my presence in St. Louis with an earthquake. All the cool kids do it.

Seems reasonable, actually, that this Friday begins with an earthquake then. Happy Weekend, all!

To say I’m apprehensive about publishing this letter is true so I won’t try to justify it. I’ll just do it knowing that it all came from a place of hurt where a wound was left. And I will hope that, like my daughter told me, there is healing in it not just for me, but for anyone else who might need it. But I finished copying and pasting it and then noticed that my sister, oh my God, my wonderful, loving sister wrote things that made me weep and I realize how lucky I am to live in a family of brawny, robust and forceful women. So, here goes.

Christy,

Apparently you are under the impression that I welcomed your advice. Don’t make that mistake again. Let me plainly say that I will not get any more ignorant letters from your or your family. Had you bothered to find out the facts and not rush to judgment, you would see just how foolish your letter was. Even when you state “No one but God knows I am writing you” I realized that you didn’t bother to seek council from any other being because, if they had any sense at all, they would have tried to stop you. You didn’t bother to consult your husband, pastor, or best friend? How sad you don’t trust them to have given you sage advice.

You say that you “feel the Lord” told you to write a letter to me. Well, sometimes God allows people to do stupid things in order to teach them a lesson. For example, Balaam and his donkey were used by God to show foolishness. He thought he was doing the right thing, but it took the donkey to make him stop. Peter was willing to fight with the sword and Jesus rebuked him. He told him that he had his own interests at heart. Hopefully, by now you have seen the error of writing that letter and have learned the lesson God had for you.

You couldn’t be more right when you said it was none of your business. You are, in no stretch of the imagination, an outsider. You have someone else’s well being at stake: your daughter. You are clearly her confidant and want the best for her, but your shortsightedness and ignorance found their way into a barely comprehensible letter.

Most interesting is how you, a person who has met my daughter all of two times, think you know that she feels “she was an accident.” Did you sense that all by yourself? Do you have a degree in child psychology? Somehow, I missed the PhD at the end of your name. Again, you even say in that paragraph that you “don’t know all the details” and that was your clue to stop writing. The kind of letter is one that should be written and then thrown away. If all you wanted to do was praise Mallory, then fine. I would have accepted that. If all you wanted to do was point out to me that my daughter was ungrateful, then shame on you. You don’t even know me. You don’t have any clue about my daughter or how I raised her and you don’t know me. You dropped your shit about your daughter’s hurt and financial well being at MY feet. Since when am I in charge of those things? What business is that to me? I don’t concern myself with the financial situation of others and yet you felt the need to let me in on something your daughter and son-in-law would be appalled to know.

You spend time in your letter telling me that Richard Cranium has felt guilt. Did you think that needed to be told to me? Do you think I care? Who do you think you are? Since when were you appointed the disseminator of information about situations that don’t concern me? A trip out there to visit was offered to my daughter. I did not ask for it. You also say that you appreciate family togetherness. How similar we are! I do, too! After her semester was over I was hoping for some family togetherness and I didn’t get it until she returned from an emotionally exhausting trip to a place where she doesn’t know anyone and in a house that is not her home. She wanted to come home early and that didn’t happen. Do you know why that is? Is it, perhaps, because Richard Cranium didn’t want to spend the extra money to send her home? Is it because he didn’t want to send her back on my time frame? He would have known all this information if he would ask, but since he finds it easier to go through a child and be a coward about it, then there are all kinds of miscommunication and IT’S NOT MY FAULT! So what if I’m “harsh” on the phone? You have my DAUGHTER and there’s nothing more important in the world than my children. And yet Richard Cranium refuses to speak to me because he doesn’t like my tone? Too bad! When you are faking parenting, as he is doing with Mallory, then of course one would screw it up and take the easy way out.

Who in this world doesn’t live “paycheck to paycheck”? Most Americans do and why would you dare point this out to me? How dare you do so in that accusatory tone. If you wonder if Mallory thinks your home is nice and Richard Cranium’s home and his other daughter’s toys are abundant, IT’S BECAUSE THEY ARE! And people who appear to have much, have much. Was it a hologram? Did she imagine it?

How ironic that you would tell me that you expect your daughter to be treated like a queen and be surprised when others want the same. In fact, I don’t want my daughter treated like a queen by him. All she ever wanted and needed was to be treated like a daughter. She needs the space to take and take and expect a lot from him and you don’t want her to because you are concerned about finances. This is obvious because you go to great lengths to explain their finances and how hard things are and yet you say that that was not your intention.

You don’t get to validate my feelings with “I’m sorry you took my letter that way”. You get to take responsibility for opening your mouth and offering unsolicited comments. What a joke when you say that you only live in a large home because of an inheritance. Can’t you sell it? Don’t you want to since you seem intent on bailing your daughter out? Or is it easier to go through my daughter and me and not deal with the real problem…spending money when you don’t have it? Don’t you dare lay their burdens of money on me.

You accuse me of trying to punish Richard Cranium. How would that occur? What are you talking about? What does that even mean? You say that you want me to get over the jealousy Mallory feels toward Richard Cranium’s other daughter? Please, let me know how that is done!!! Write a big book about it and let the whole world know. How selfish of you to keep that precious information to yourself. My, the crises that could be avoided with your infinite knowledge of how to raise children. Unfortunately, you forgot to equip your daughter with a backbone. How can you be surprised at her marriage when you saw what you wanted to see? You accuse me of not having the right answers to handle situations concerning Mallory? I don’t have the answers and I certainly don’t need to hear that from a stranger. Is this how you raised your children by getting ignorant letters in the mail from people you didn’t know and then applying that to their upbringing?

News Flash: he DOES owe her. And no amount of money in the world that he could conjure up would be enough. You suggest that “forgiveness can be shown when [I] and [my] husband and your daughter and Richard Cranium can trust each other and communicate with each other with no jealousy”. This is ludicrous in light of the fact that Richard Cranium isn’t even honest with his own wife. You expect ME to come in and fix that? Something wrong in THEIR marriage? That is laughable and so ridiculous I can’t even begin to respond to it.

Finally, you say that you “want the best for her.” What if the best for her hurts your daughter? What if the best for her means that Richard Cranium has to make some huge sacrifices and grow up? Are you going to accept that? Are you going to be responsible for that, because, frankly, I don’t have time or energy to raise your daughter and her husband, too. I’ve been busy.

April is letter writing month for NaBloPoMo and even though I’m not participating in the event I am taking the time to write some letters. It is such a cathartic practice and a lost art. When I was a little girl I had such a great letter-writing practice with my grandmother. She has curly pretty writing and would put stickers on the letter and enclose newspaper clippings she thought I’d be interested in and enclosed them lovingly in an envelope she would address to me. My mind never paused to consider that when she licked the envelope she did so with lips that would kiss me were she living closer, but then we might not have had the many exchanged letters.

Last night week I wrote a letter to Mallory and sent it via email to ask her permission to share a different kind of letter here in my April writing exercise.

Let me back up a bit to tell a story. It’s not a warm and fuzzy one, either. Rather, it is a painful time in my life as a parent and it brought to mind the several years I was a single parent to my daughter.

When Mallory contacted her father and arranged to begin a relationship with him I wasn’t at all pleased, but tried to be brave and understanding of it. It’s natural, I thought. This wanting to find out where you come from and what your other parent is like. But I didn’t like it at all. After phone calls and a visit from her sperm donor to us, she got to the point where she wanted to fly to Arizona to his home and spend some time prior to Christmas with him and his wife and their young toddler-age daughter.

This was a strained time for all of our family and there were awkward, tense conversations with Richard Cranium that usually ended in me berating him for not sticking to the plan or doing some monumentally asinine act AND DOING SO WITH MY KID IN HIS PHYSICAL POSSESSION. Obviously, sharing any parenting duty with him was foreign and I have never been accused of sharing toys during playtime. Not in pre-school. Not ever.

So I put my teenage daughter on an airplane and waited in agony until she got home that about a week later to celebrate Christmas and immediately upon her return I received a letter from Sperm Donor’s mother-in-law. A woman I’ve never met who typed me three pages, single-spaced and let me know that my child hadn’t ever said “thank you” for anything and seemed ungrateful during her visit and a lot of other unbelievably ridiculous things. Somehow, while I was scanning the letter, my senses came to me and I called my best friend over to stop me from committing an unspeakable act that would have surely resulted in hopping on a plane myself to crease someone’s skull with a blunt object. Meanwhile, my eldest son called his father at work and suggested that he come home as he described me as a “lion in a cage, pacing back and forth and growling“.

This woman, this NOBODY to me, this STRANGER wrote me a letter and assumed all kinds of things about me. She suggested that God approved of her sending the diatribe and even invited me to call her because, as she wrote: “I do well on the phone.”

To list the numerous mistakes in her wondering if I could call her on the phone and “talk” about these things would take an entire other posting, but I’m certain that my personality shines through enough of my writing to intimate that THAT WAS A HUGE MISCALCULATION ON HER PART.

Bring it on was my first and only thought at that moment. I picked up the phone to call her and my BFF offered some advice that I’ve lived and lived by ever since that moment: “Don’t forget that women, especially, have a terrible problem that prevents them from ever getting anywhere, Kelly. They are always running around trying to get other women to behave. She wants you to BEHAVE and keep your daughter out of her daughter’s life. Her daughter is married to this man and she doesn’t want the distraction. If you try to go line by line of her letter and answer everything and even try to set her straight, she will be winning because she will be making you behave. You don’t have to do this.”

It was too late. Lion in the cage had begun the act of readying herself to protect her cubs and the claws were out. While I didn’t go “line by line” in explanation, I did call and leave a message. When she called back she said, “Hi. This is Christy.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Christy. You know. I’m so-and-so’s mom.”

“Who are you?” I asked again.

“I’m the mother-in-law of Richard Cranium.”

“No. I heard you the first time. I want to know WHO THE HELL ARE YOU to write that letter? Who the hell are you to send such drivel to someone you don’t even know. WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO ME?”

As expected, she tried to defend her actions and didn’t really understand where I was coming from, but my intention wasn’t to get her to change her mind about me. The most worthwhile part of the conversation was when I told her how much she offended me by criticizing my parenting.

“You don’t get it, do you? Mallory is my Magnum Opus and you’re nothing but an art critic who can’t even finger paint. You don’t GET to critique me. That’s not your job.”

It didn’t get much better from there, but it was a moment that I’ll never forget because I learned that I am stronger than I originally thought. I learned that when it’s important, I can make the hard choice to confront those who require it. I learned that I am not a pushover or the person who is willing to lie down and become the doormat for life for either the people who’ve wronged me or the people who support them.

When I asked Mallory if I could write about it as a cathartic exercise and wondered what her feelings were she admitted that she read it years ago and said that if it helped anyone else to read that I should do it. Tomorrow, I will publish the letter I wrote back and never sent.