Trailer for my new book.  Pre-Release date Sept 5. Official release date Sept 12!

https://www.facebook.com/MDDauthor/videos/286655848590552/

Scroll down to join my newsletter! 

Book One Sneak Peak!

I'm in the process of publishing my first historical romance novel: To Dance in the Glen - hopefully in the next month! The second in the series is already in the works, and I am also working on a more serious book of contemporary fiction, inspired by actual events.

 As I get all my ducks in a row (quack, quack, waddle, waddle, as I used to tell my kids!), I thought I should start on a few preemptive tasks - namely a snippet from my first novel and a sign-up sheet for my newsletter.  Here is the link to the newsletter sign-up on Google forms: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1ol6BfXkCNMuda5QScDu6419ck-ghHwn0FQ7TNLKLqDw/edit

And here is an except from my upcoming historical romance:  To Dance in the Glen! 

        Grabbing her around her waist, he lifted her onto his horse then swung up behind her, nudging the horse forward. He wrapped one arm around her and held the reins tightly in his other hand. She marveled at how well he handled the beast. Not having been on a horse before, she awed at the height and speed at which she traveled, and shortly they arrived at her family’s small croft.

               The croft was typical of most clansmen and women, with short, squared-off sides and a single open door. The wood and peat roof hung low, helping to keep in the heat during the even the coldest winters. Meggie’s croft, however, was much farther off the main road to the village and up to the Laird’s house. It was the northernmost croft of the clan, surrounded by large tracts of grass and trees, buttressed by rock, which was fortunate for Lachlan, who mainly raised sheep. At the front of the croft sat a trough of water for easy household access and heaps of peat to throw on the fire when necessary. Ewan caught sight of a small garden off to one side, where the family raised some onions and cucumber. Overall, the croft was fairly isolated in this location, so Ewan could understand how a family could feel secure in their surroundings. That left Meggie more open to an attack up on her person. What Ewan could not understand was how such a large family, like Meggie Lachlan’s, could fit in so small a house. Perchance it made them closer as a family?

 Meg began to wiggle in an attempt to slide off the animal, but the laird’s son grasped her more tightly around the waist and held her on the horse. He moved his arm up and grasped her breast as he forced a rough kiss on her unyielding lips. She strained against him, pushing against his chest until he pulled away. He grinned at her with a boyish look on his face, as though he had done nothing wrong. Meg straightened her clothes, then turned more fully in the saddle and slapped Ewan as hard as she could. She finished her slide off the horse, angry as a bee. She glared up at his feigned surprise, then whacked him on the leg for added good measure.

               “What?” he asked innocently.

               “What do ye think ye were doing?”

               His grin widened. “I’m the Laird’s son, soon to be the laird. Most lassies would be honored to be in your position.” He was almost leering at her. She was appalled.

               “An honor, ye say? In the eyes of the Lord God, ‘tis a sin! My mother says that a woman’s body is a privilege, and that privilege is for her husband only! Ye would no’ put your hands on an honorable woman that way!”

               “The position ye were in with the English might indicate ye are something other than honorable,” he insinuated.

               Her eyebrows rose nearly off her face at his statement. “How dare ye? Ye think yourself so great that women should lose their honor ‘acause ye are the Laird’s son? Ye leave your less than honorable hands to yourself.”

 

Since the school year is over and I know homeschool parents and school educators are on the hunt for new resources, I have completed revising my popular homeschool co-op classes into text.  Here are the first three, available at:
 Barnes & Nobles!  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/michelle%20deerwester%20dalrymple

and of course, Amazon: https://smile.amazon.com/Michelle-Deerwester-Dalrymple/e/B07C784SJ6/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Time to get serious. I have several writing curricula, and I'm formalizing them into texts for educators. They are simple and easy to integrate, and available both as Kindle and print texts. Here is the first: 

https://smile.amazon.com/dp/B07C6TD17N/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1523916085&sr=8-1&keywords=rhetoric+a+text+for+middle+and+high+school+students

Commencement

It is a large word, one that we often confuse with "graduation" - that we are completing something, not beginning something.

But that is what it is, a beginning.

This summer was Aden's commencement - the completion of childhood as we know it in America and the beginning of his adulthood. The beginning of his college experience, of living life more on his own terms. Of him making his own decisions that will affect the rest of his life.

It is both a graduation and commencement for me.  It is a graduation in that I am no longer the primary teacher for my son; he is now taking college classes. I, of course, will help him maneuver those classes as necessary, but they will not be my classes.  I will no longer grade his material, set up his syllabus, or tell him when assignments are due. This coming fall, I have a homeschool class load of 2, and it makes me so happy and sad that I cannot believe the depth of both emotions can be felt so at the same time.

It is a commencement for me, though, as well. It is a new dialogue I have with him. I find myself telling him: "here are your options - which do you feel would work best?"  I have told him: "I cannot make that decision for you."  I have told him, "I can help you with the material, but I cannot do the work. You are the adult, and you have to do the work."   Suddenly it is a dialog of choices and plan A and plan B, but it is not I making those decision, it is Aden, and I have to step back and see how his decisions unfold.

And it is so hard. After years of having my hands on that unfolding process, of making the choices and determining what will happen and softening the blow or broadcasting his achievements, I have to step back and give him his future.  His hands are the ones in the unfolding process, and I can only hope that I have provided enough guidance for those hands.

So now I just hope and pray:  that he sees the joys in the smallness of life, not just the big things. That he learns to save money, but also to spend it when necessary on opportunities and experiences. That he is a strong and righteous man who makes good decisions that benefit him and the world around him.

I see him do things like fight for his family, be diplomatic when necessary, be committed to his purpose and goals, be supportive when things seem bleak, and I hope that as a man, he continues in those behaviours, as they will serve him well.  He is on the right road now, but it is an easy road to lose track of, and I desperately hope and pray that he can stay on that road, even at the darkest moments.

Later this week, we head out to the counselor's office so he can see what classes he should take in the fall. He is hoping to pass some placement tests to achieve some additional college credit, and he is hoping to teach himself some new technology in hopes of earning a job in his field of study.  He is setting goals and working to reach them.

That is what I hope for him the most: at the commencement of his adult life, that he continues to set goals and never stops reaching for them.

Don't call it a bucket list.

I took the kids to see "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"; it has been too long since I read the Thurber story so I didn't recall much of it, but the previews to the film spoke of the theme of taking the risk to live a fullness of life.  This, I know, is something I am trying to instill in my children.

That may seem strange - don't most kids have an impulsive nature to take a risk to do what they want?  Well, most of the time, but for much of my kids' lives, they didn't see an adventurous mom or family - they lived in a family that only played video games or went out to eat or shop.  Due to a specific circumstance beyond my control, we were put in a small box and not allowed to roam, except at someone else's discretion.

To understand how horrible that can truly be (more than just being forced to live in that small box), I have to explain that up until I was 22 years old, I traveled. I love traveling - I love seeing new things, meeting new people, and discovering all that this big blue marble has to offer.  By the time I was 17, I had seen petrified skeletons in Pompeii and two works of Michelangelo -- The Sistine Chapel and the statue of David - in Italy. I spent the weekend in a small casita in Rosarita, Mexico, and could see whales and dolphins swimming off the coast from the living room.  I had been to Canada, the beaches of the east coast, to Disneyworld, to Hawaii, to Nashville, up the Colorado Rockies and across the country from California to Chicago several times, one of which included the worst breakfast eating ever at a diner in  New Mexico.   I visited amusement parks, museums, art fairs, and Pow Wows.  I felt invested in life, and when college came, I threw myself into that adventure just as I had the others.

In the last three years, I have been called the "Disneyland" mom behind my back and to my face.  I want to hate that, but I have to recognize that the slur comes from a place of ignorance - of people who don't really know how to live and value life; from people for whom a different bar on a weekday night is a big adventure. I am now 40 years old, and for almost 20 of those years, what I did and how I did it was dictated by someone else, and I was not able to give my kids the fullness of an adventurous life as I wanted. I tried, and by the time my youngest was 5, we moved to California, where an abundance of adventure was only a hour away, any time we liked.  It was not perfect, because it was a bit few and far between, and since it was just me with the kids, I had to really juggle to make it happen ever.  But the kids were good and we took advantage of what we could - it was so limited, but I loved it and I loved engaging in my kids' sense of adventure.

Now that I no longer have a dictator sticking us in a box, we as a family are expanding our wings and doing things, having adventures, and finding a deeper meaning in life.  My oldest often asks, why are we doing this? (especially if its a very strange adventure, like the Dinosaur discovery center today), and I tell him, because we haven't seen it before, and we can.  I don't want my kids to be 40 and regret that they didn't have the fullness of an adventurous life with their family. It is probably my biggest regret.  I didn't stand up for the fullness of life for my kids.

But I am also their mom, and much of what I say goes in one ear and out the other, so I hope the travel, the adventures, the fullness speaks for itself. Yet, they are still children so the message can be lost. This is where films like Walter Mitty come in. On a large screen in full view, they see someone just passing through life, and missing out on it, until he is in his 40s, and then he has not one adventure, but two, and learns that those adventures provide knowledge, confidence, self-empowerment, and a stronger sense of self.  He seems to almost grow younger as movie progresses, and the look of contentment with life never leaves his face at the end of the film.  

I want my children to have that look.

When they decide to go to college, or take on a career, I don't want them to do it because they have to, as drudgery - I want them to see the challenge and adventure contained therein.  I don't want them to be like me, 40, and wondering why I let someone take that contentment away from me, then feeling like we have so much to make up for.  I tell the kids, there is so much life that we can experience just here, in southern California, and we are going to live it.  

So call me a Disneyland mom if you want, but that is your ignorance. It is actually taking the risk to feel the fullness of life, to do what we love, and I won't let my family miss out on it.

Poise and Grace - something more

The past two years have been tumultuous, to say the least; the last year in particular has been especially rough for all of us, but especially for my baby girl Kaya.

Baby girl is definitely a malapropism. This year she turned 13, is now almost 5'7" and is as slender and willowy and ethereal as a fantasy princess.

She is growing so fast - she is a full fledged young lady! But in my heart I see her as she looks above so tiny, imagining herself a fairy full of wonder in a world that is determined to rob us of all the wonder there could be.   I could write a blog about how she is growing, and what that means, and how it affect us both, but I did that a bit two year ago.

I could describe how beautiful and thoughtful she is, how brilliant and creative she is, but most people don't even have to meet her and can see that in a heartbeat. And most of us can all write similar accolades of our children as they grow into adulthood. I know I will in the next year as my son completes his senior year of high school. Its like a rite of passage.

But this is more than all that.

In reality, she has done more than just grow in to a wonderful young lady; she has become an model of a force to be reckoned with, a superb and surreal example grace under pressure.

In the past year, she has learned extreme patience:  to wait at the doctor's office; to wait for lab work; to wait for test results; to wait for insulin to take effect; to wait and see what her numbers are; to wait to eat until she can; to wait for a snack that she can't have yet because her numbers are too high.  All that waiting has created in her a poised and  patient soul that does not need to rush through any project, who has time to wait for others, who has time to wait for her siblings and I.

In the past year, she has learned sacrifice:  to bleed for her health; to experience pain on a regular basis for her health; to give up certain foods; to sacrifice working with the sugars she needs for cake decorating and search for replacements; to sacrifice time and pause to eat, to check her glucose levels, to work out, or to administer more insulin. All this sacrifice has created in her a compassionate soul who understands that sometimes we are not as in control as we would like to be, and sometimes we have to opt for plan B, or plan C, or plan D.

In the past year, she has learned what it is to hurt:  to be pricked by needles of different sizes several times a day just to live; to be stabbed by needles that need to take her blood for testing or a glucose monitor needle that rivals a harpoon; to have emotional hurts that are worse than the physical ones; to cry in my arms on my bed when an infusion site goes bad, a glucose monitor needs goes in wrong, or her numbers are too high or too low and she feels so scared; to know what it is to have people stare at her when she has an emergency high or low and try not to feel self conscious about it.  All of this has created in her a caring soul, one that understands that we have hurts and need grace when we are in pain and hurting, and that sometimes the best medicine is a hug from someone who loves you.

She has always seemed this ethereal creature, not quite of this world, but now there is something more.

She is now more than just a wonderful young woman; she is a young woman who understands the world and the needs of herself and others more deeply. She has knowledge that many lack of the importance of her health, family, and friends, and just as we are here to help her everyday, she can be there to help us. She can give us grace as she has experienced it; she can be patient for us as she has learned patience; she sacrifice for us and help us learn to sacrifice as well. She shows us she cares every day, just as she has seen us help care for her no matter the hurt, pain, or toll involved, and then teach us to be more like her.

She is more than just a wonderful young woman, and I am so proud of her for it.

lowest of the low (an exercise in stream of consciousness free verse)

I do not think I can feel much worse - physically, mentally, emotionally. I am so tired all the time. Tired of working three jobs, only to scramble and hope to work more. Tired of middle of the night wake ups and driving everywhere, for everyone, everyday. I am tired of grading, both for my kids and others'. Tired of housework that is never done, schoolwork that is never done, responsibility that is never done.  Tired of lies and hurt and loneliness and being on every moment of every day. Tired of having to be the nice guy, of being mommy and daddy, of stress and worry and exhaustion. Of never having a day off. Of worrying when I just want to go out for a few hours. Of worrying while I'm at work. Tired of sore muscles, stress headaches, of dealing, dealing every day; dealing with failings and untruths and schoolwork and medicines and numbers. Every day more and more numbers: numbers in the bank and on my tax return and on my bills. Numbers on a pump and a meter and on packaging and a chart. Numbers in a gradebook, on a quiz, on an essay, on a paystub. Numbers on the odometer, on the speedometer, on the speed limit sign, on the milage chart.  Next exit two miles, but not my exit. No exit for me. I am riding on this highway, and the miles roll by, and I can't find a gas station and there is no one to relieve me on the drive. It is late; the road is dark; my exit is no where to be seen; and I am so tired of driving.  I go to bed at one am with work still to do, and I wake up at six am with more work more work more work. It never ends. The stress, the worry, the responsibility the loneliness the heartache the fear the counting counting counting never ends.  Every day questions questions questions, how does this sound? Why can' t we go?  Where is my shoe?  What is for dinner? When do we leave? Why do I have to do this?  And why why why me oh GOD and I don't have answers not real answers not the ones that matter I want a break but I dont' want a break. I am always the bad guy but I am never the bad guy. My heart hurts but my heart is dead. All that remains of my heart are the three pieces that live with me, hope with me, rely on me. It is me; I am all that stands between them and the world, this horrible horrible world that only want to crush and hurt and kill. I am tired and bruised and broken. I am barely a shell but I am all they have against the slings and arrows and sticks and stones and horrors and I have to stand tall ready to fight and I have no weapons but my mind, which is tired, and my body, which is tired, and this single lonely  fragile shell is no match for all the world throws and it is not enough to cover and protect those remains of my heart but I stand there anyway, knowing that the next time I may not rise, my body may be to bruised, my muscles give out, but I am ready for the next hit I stand tall for those three because if not me, then who? I am crushed I am broken beyond measure and everyday I rise waiting for the next assault, because I cannot let those slings and arrows and sticks and stones and pains and hurt reach them. So I take them, over and over and just when I think I can't get up again I do but I don't know how, For there is nothing left, but still I rise for those three, I take them pain and hurt for them, I take all the horror of this godforsaken miserable excuse of a life and a turn it to construction paper butterflies and pretty lights in the sky for if not me, who?So I work out, I build, I build up my body, I build up my brain, I build up my bank account but it is ever enough and never enough time for it all time has become this brilliant escape artist who denies me all I want to do. He denies me sleep and leisure, he denies me time with my children and time for work, he denies it all, and I need that time, I need it to build, but I can't.  I will never be smart enough or quick enough or courageous enough or strong enough. Never enough strength why isn't there enough strength? I need sleep but I can't sleep. I can't rest. I am afraid to rest. I feel my own weakness when I rest and that is when the cruelty hits hardest. And when I am on the ground they are exposed so I can't rest, I can't be knocked low I have to stand tall even when every ounce of me screams (oh the screams - the screaming it doesnt stop why doesnt' it stop?) in pain and every part of my soul tells me to just LIE  DOWN ALREADY, I pick my bruised self up and on shaking legs, limp arms, blinded eyes, and a bleeding head and I stand at the fore, again, alone, alone, alone, another day, and another conflict, another pain I must deflect, for these three, because if not me, then who? And the echo in the distance answers: no one. So it must be me.

Kaya's JDRF Walkathon T-Shirt

Here are images of Kaya's T-shirt that she personally designed for her JDRF Walkathon!

The shirts are $15 each, and ALL profits to Kaya's walkathon donations! Please let me know your size when you order.

If your would like to order, please contact me via either Facebook or email: familyd@hotmail.com

I will take your information and send you payment delivery information. Thank you again for your support!

Front

Back

Kaya modeling her shirt! 

Kaya's JDRF walkathon fundraising

Hello Everyone!

This is just a update to let you know what we are doing over the course of the next three months to add to our fundraising efforts. Please feel free to take part in some of all of these fundraisers to help Kaya raise as much as she can (she would like to earn the "Golden Sneaker" and raise $1000!).  Then we are walking on April 27th. Anything you can do to help us reach our goals is AWESOME!


Here are our fundraisers. I will update this blog as more donation locations become available!

Donation locations: 
Directly to Michelle or Kaya
online at: http://www2.jdrf.org/site/TR/Walk-CA/Chapter-SanDiego4053?px=2520096&pg=personal&fr_id=2190


Fundraising activities:

February: Mary Kay party (at my house and online!) - profits go towards Kaya's JDRF walk!
               T Shirt sales - we should have pics and order info online in the next week!
               recycling Drive - if you live close, let me know when you have a few bags of cans or bottle and I    will collect them from you!

March: Thirty -One bags/totes party sales! - profits go towards Kaya's JDRF walk!
               T Shirt sales - we should have pics and order info online in the next week!
               recycling Drive - if you live close, let me know when you have a few bags of cans or bottle and I    will collect them from you!

April: Jewelry sales - Diabetes Awareness and Kaya's Dove design on custom made jewelry --
           - profits go towards Kaya's JDRF walk!
               T Shirt sales - we should have pics and order info online in the next week!
               recycling Drive - if you live close, let me know when you have a few bags of cans or bottle and I    will collect them from you!

Dysgraphia - What is it?

            My son has terrible handwriting. Not just bad printing, but poor cursive, poor numbers, and difficulty with drawing. He is 12, in 7^th grade, left handed, and until just this past year, printed like a 2^nd grader.  While we assumed it was age and left-handedness that resulted in his poor handwriting, he was finally at an age where some improvement should have occurred. Over the past 5 years, we tried every program out there: Handwriting without Tears (we still had tears), Pentime, PACES. Nothing helped.

And while his cursive is at least legible, it is barely legible, and he hates to write in cursive. He says writing a lot (more than one paragraph) hurts his hand and he would rather print. He prefers mechanical pencils and says the wood ones feel funny, grainy, when they write. Getting him to handwrite a paragraph is like pulling teeth; however, put him on the computer and he could write pages, typing like the wind. What he produces when typing is so well thought out that I can’t put together that this same kid can barely put together a sentence when handwriting. He consistently fails to use caps, periods, commas, and even his spacing strange.

It all came to a head for us early this year in 7^th grade. We were doing a science project and he needed to write a title for it at the top of the notebook paper. The title he came up with was: “The Water Project.”  What he wrote on the top of his paper was: “th  ewat   erp  rojec  t.”  I was horrified. It was time for something more. I hit the internet.

One quick search answered nearly all of my questions. I typed into Google, “poor handwriting,” hoping for some ideas that I had not yet tried. The first listing used the phrase “dysgraphia” - what was that?

According to Wikipedia (2009), dysgraphia is “a deficiency in the ability to write, regardless of the ability to read, not due to intellectual impairment. People with dysgraphia usually can write on some level, but often lack co-ordination, and may find other fine motor tasks such as tying shoes difficult” (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dysgraphia). Further research helped me better understand what this was and check to see if my son fit the bill. The Learning Disabilities Association (LDA) (2009) has this list on their website under “Signs and Symptoms”:

• May have illegible printing and cursive writing (despite appropriate time and attention given the task)
• Shows inconsistencies: mixtures of print and cursive, upper and lower case, or irregular sizes, shapes or slant of letters
• Has unfinished words or letters, omitted words
• Inconsistent spacing between words and letters
• Exhibits strange wrist, body or paper position
• Has difficulty pre-visualizing letter formation
• Copying or writing is slow or labored
• Shows poor spatial planning on paper
• Has cramped or unusual grip/may complain of sore hand
• Has great difficulty thinking and writing at the same time (taking notes, creative writing.) (http://www.ldanatl.org/aboutld/parents/ld_basics/dysgraphia.asp).

I was fascinated. My son hit all but one of these signs – even tying shoes! My husband was intrigued; he asked if it could be hereditary, as he hits all of those markers as well. And I will admit my handwriting has always been sub par. Wikipedia does indicate that might be the case, but there are too few studies on dysgraphia to really draw a solid conclusion.

Dysgraphia is often a neurological problem (the brain can’t talk to the fingers) and is sometimes compared to dyslexia. The National Center for Learning Disabilities (2009) calls it a “processing disorder,” so the difficulties may change as one ages (http://www.ncld.org).   Typically, students with dysgraphia are bright, speak well, and are excellent readers and good communicators. The fact that they cannot replicate that in the written sense is almost what makes this problem that much more puzzling. My son can critically analyze a text or poem aloud, but ask him to do it on paper and it is a mess. How can a student who obviously thinks so well not be able to write it down?

I am not one to leap at a label; in fact, we have gone out of our way not to use this label with our son. But an answer? Possible ideas on how to help? It was all right there. I felt as if a huge boulder was lifted from my shoulder. Now we had some tools to help him.

Then came the big question – what is the next step to help his writing? The LDA website also provided some strategies to help the writer:

• Suggest use of word processor
• Avoid chastising student for sloppy, careless work
• Use oral exams
• Allow use of tape recorder for lectures
• Allow the use of a note taker
• Provide notes or outlines to reduce the amount of writing required
• Reduce copying aspects of work (pre-printed math problems)
• Allow use of wide rule paper and graph paper
• Suggest use of pencil grips and /or specially designed writing aids
• Provide alternatives to written assignments (video-taped reports, audio-taped reports) (http://www.ldanatl.org/aboutld/parents/ld_basics/dysgraphia.asp)

There are some good reasons for these recommendations. For example, the use of the word processor allows the student to complete work at his/her level. We can easily complete a three page book report using Microsoft Word that would never happen (or only happen painfully) if it had to be hand written. Also, the reduction on the reliance of written work results in a reduction in stress overall, especially when it is time to write. 

We still require him to use a penmanship workbook, but we only do it 2 days a week. The other days we use a product called Create-a-Sketch by Insight Technical Education. It is a simplified drafting workbook which allows our son to practice his writing skills, but not with writing. He uses it to practice control, and he much prefers it to his handwriting text.  Again, this helps lessen the stresses he has when approaching handwriting projects.

We have used graph paper for a while with math – this is the first year without it. We buy specific mechanical pencils for his written work. Earlier this year he needed to do a report on “Around the World in 80 Days,” and he used Microsoft PowerPoint to do it. I told him it had to include text, but he could play with the graphics element. We showed it to our Education Specialist, and she was so impressed, she showed it to her literature class.

This is not to say we use “dysgraphia” as an excuse or a label – we used the recommendations to help us solve a problem for my son. He still needs to write paragraphs for his schoolwork – not all of his writing is on the computer; just more of it is. For essays, he must handwrite outlines and one paragraph, but the rest he can compose onto the computer. He still has his handwriting workbook. We’ve told him that while his typing is great, he still needs to know how to handwrite, and as he ages, he is starting to see the truth in that.

So have these recommendations worked? Has handwriting less improved his handwriting more?  Yes, and I am as surprised as everyone else. I think the reason for the improvement is that when he has to do handwriting, he can absolutely focus on it – not on what the sentences have to say or if his paragraph makes sense. He copies the text and all his energy is focused on that alone. Then, when he needs to write an essay or answer history questions, typing allows him to focus on that; cognitively, it allows for a better flow of ideas.

Somehow, separating the two processes allows him to integrate them in his mind on his own schedule, and the result is better handwriting, and better writing with that handwriting. Just today, he wrote half a page on Augustus Caesar, which contains varied sentences, specific detail, and has good sequencing. His letters are no longer oddly spaced, the letters are legible, and he doesn’t complain that his hand hurts. That, I think, rates as a success in my book. 

*Originally published in Secular homeschooling, Sept 2010.

reaching out

This past year, as is pretty well known, has sucked. And it was not a transition that was painful just to me, but to my whole family as well.  That is probably the worst part of everything - seeing my kids hurting, too.  

Part of this time included the emotional roller coaster of my 15 year old son.  Putting aside the fact that he's a teenager, and that comes with a wealth of emotional highs and lows, this year scarred him for life.  For the past year, he has tried to pull away, to hide, to lose himself in video games and tae kwon do. 

And it would have been so easy for me to let him do that - to let him have his space and figure out his new normal in his own way. But I have never been a stand back parent, and more than anything, I missed being able to hug my son.  For the past few years, I had been getting a one-armed side hug at most; over this past year, he would physically jerk away from any touch I tried to give him. 

I'm a touchy person, a hugger.  At the end of the day, I could not let my son turn from me; moreover, I could not let him think that anything he did made me turn from him.  I heard a saying on the radio that if your child pulls away, that is when you need to step in and pull them closer - that is when they need the affection the most.

He may want to pull away from me, but I have long legs with which to step in.  And it was so hard - the hardness, the being pulled from, the feeling like I'm being rejected by my own son.  But that is not what was going on. Pouting and angry and sad, he was pulling away because he felt hurt and rejected, and that is when he needs someone to hug him the most. 

So that is what I did.  And when he tried to pull away, I hugged tighter.  If he flinched his head away when I tried to touch his hair, I grabbed his head and kissed the top of it.  If he tried to roll away when I went to wake him in the morning, I leaned over and hugged him in bed. A good morning hug every morning after he was out of bed. A good night hug every night, no matter how bad or low the day was, and an "I love you" on top. Sometimes I would even yell at him: "Hey, I love you and want to hug you, so come here."  When I started to get the one armed hug back, I was grateful, but did not rest on my laurels. If something really good happened, I said: "Ok, this deserves a two arm hug. And a big squeeze!"  

It has been just over a year since this whole fiasco began.   And it was hit or miss, but at the end of the day, every day, I pulled him closer because I was not about to lose my son to hurt and anger over something that was not his fault. I pulled him closer because even if he didn't think he needed a hug, I needed one. It is not something that happened overnight, and it was painful at times, and I can't give up now that we are getting into our new normal. 

We still have really bad days, but  now there are fewer tears and more smiles. There are more easy touches. He doesn't jerk his head or body away when I reach out to touch him. He makes jokes about giving mom a hug. And he may be 15, but he now knows that he can always give mom a hug; he can always reach out to me about anything, and no matter what, I am there. And he knows that even though he is 15, and at a public place like the Airsoft field with his friend and several other young men, his mom will still want a hug before she leaves, and she gets it.  

Having to hold on like I did reminds me of the Gaelic story of Tam Lin: http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/AMisc/TamLin.html

Silver linings

I was at the mall today with my girls. Aden has spent much of this summer working for his TKD studio, so while I so wished he were there too, mall shopping is an entirely different experience when it is all girls,  especially when those girls are my daughters  ("Oh mommy, that looks beautiful!  You should get it!").

Our trip to the mall was so enjoyable; we bought some fun stuff, spent more than we should, and came home all smiles. In fact, my daughter Sophie told me earlier that today is her favorite day. Why? "Because I got my drum set and we are going to the mall to get my clip on earrings and a new pillow, and then we get to have Soup Plantation for lunch!  It's my favorite day!"

The happiness of the day echoed as we came home, organized our new shoes and put our new pillows in pillowcases.   And it occurred to me why I was so happy -- I didn't have to explain, justify, or go over every expenditure we just made. AND I don't have to worry about someone's idea of "spending fairness" which would mean having  to spend the same amount  in return (and life sure as hell isn't fair, is it? I never understood that one).

And I don't have to worry about something as stupid as explaining why I bought the one on sale. I like buying things on sale. Saving money is a good thing, so I like how I can come home and share with my kids how I got it ON SALE, and everyone in the house is as excited as I am.

I like how there is never any extra money missing from the bank. I always know the exact balance and there are no surprises.

I like how if I get the in the car and its on empty, it's because I made it that way.

I like how there are never any clothes on the floor of my bedroom. All the dirty clothes magically make their way to the laundry hamper. And I like having to do less laundry as a result.

I like how much cleaner the bathroom remains.

I like that I can move any stack of paper, any item in my house, and not catch hell over "touching my stuff" (my kids know that it does not fly in my house, so they don't say it).

I like that we can eat a Soup Plantation anytime we want. And use a coupon to do it, so the whole family can pig out for less than $30.

I like how I don't have someone else's mother telling me that I am doing something wrong, or there is a better way to do it, or why don't I do it this way?

I like how I don't have to use any "Rule of Three" for housewares selections anymore - If I like it, I get it.

I like how I don't have to hear about what a bad cook I am, or what a bad cook my mother is. (REALLY?!)

I like that I can leave the kitchen a mess if I want to.

I like how I feel better about myself, that I don't feel fat or ugly anymore.

And sometimes, when the girls aren't sleeping with me, I like how I can sprawl across the whole bed and not worry about someone hogging the blankets on a cold night.

There is a lot, A LOT A LOT A LOT A LOT of bad that comes with divorce.  More bad than good every day.  So sometimes, in quiet moments, I catch a good thing about it, and amid all the tumult and torment, a small smile crosses my face.

Tonight we're going to party like . . .

Tonight I am having a party.  Not a birthday party or a graduation party, but the type of party that wields the double edged sword of happiness and sadness.  This party has been in the works since the end of November, and while initially I said I would not have it, when the time came, I decided I needed something to mark this moment with a party, just as we mark most milestones in our lives.

In fact, one of the first things a close friend said to me was "When's the party?" The party. Right now I am decorating and it is the first time in 20 years I have prepped for a party on my own.  And as I put up decorations in 100 degree heat, I am reminded of where I was just over 17 years ago, in a similar heat, putting up decorations before I put on a pretty dress. I'll be wearing a pretty dress tonight, but it certainly is not nearly as pricey, nor is it white. The decorations are not hearts and bells, but fiesta-esq decor.

However, this time I do have REAL champagne.  Not sparkling wine. Not California "champagne" (which is just sparkling wine), REAL champagne from France. Expensive as hell and something I most certainly did not have at that party 17 years ago.  So perhaps that is a good start. Perhaps all real life changes need REAL champagne to mark their significance.

And friends. While more people came to that party 17 years ago, there will be several friends here, some newer friends, some long term friends. We will have music, and food, and drinks, and some fun games, and a pinata filled with grown-up style goodies. We won't have cake, but I will have a chocolate fountain this time, and since I like chocolate more than cake, I think that is more than a fair trade.

This is not the party I wanted to have.  In my dreams, my party would have had a number and the word "anniversary" after it, but we cannot control the actions of others; we can't control fate or the hand that God deals us. All we can do is pick ourselves up afterwards, nurse our wounds, then work on moving forward on our new path. And every crossroads in life needs recognition. This party tonight is my recognition of the crossroads where I find myself, and like the aftermath of most parties, I hope it only gets better from here.

On Getting My Daughter Back

Kaya has always been my odd duck. At age 12, she does her own thing her own way and is happy in her own world.  Sometimes this means she is distracted, or it may seem like she is not paying attention.

We attributed her frequent urination to an incontinence problems she's has since potty training. Since we live in the desert, it is not unusual to be thirsty a lot and drink several bottles of water a day.  With her recent growth spurt, and the accompanying weight loss, most people didn't think much of how skinny she became, especially since she still ate quite a bit. And if she was distracted or off in her own world all the time? Well, that was just Kaya.

But for the past few weeks, the weight loss started to frighten me - she looked like a survivor of Auschwitz. Her sunken eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and we could see every bone and tendon. Then she had no energy, started sleeping more, and the peeing was bordering on ridiculous.  I was worried, so I took her to the doctor, the most awesome of all doctors, Dr. Nguyen of Ivy Springs Medical Care.  We focused on her bladder issues as that seemed to be the worst problem.  He guessed it was an incontinence problem that could be fixed with meds, but wanted to rule out any biological issues first. We were off to the lab on Thursday, June 14th, around 9 am.  She spent Thursday afternoon, drinking 3 bottles of water, searching for bathroom, and getting in trouble for not working hard enough in her Tae Kwon Do class.

Friday morning at 8 am I received a phone call from the doctor. Could we come in right now? No, not this afternoon, but right this moment? And then the panic set in. Only bad news has the doctor calling first thing in the morning saying get in here NOW.  So off we went. I am trying not to cry and my Kaya bunny has no idea what is going on.  It was not until we were sitting in the room and I watched the nurse to a finger prick on Kaya that everything fell into place - like a crazy puzzle in my brain:   The frequent peeing, the  unending thirst, the unbelievable weight loss (she had lost another 1.5 lbs in the week between her first visit and this one, down to 97 lbs for a girl who is 5'5"), the lethargy and sleepiness, the fuzzy and distracted mind.  Kaya has Type 1 Diabetes.

My maternal uncle and grandfather both had it - I had watched them take insulin shots and watch their diets most of my young life, but so see my baby girl, so realize OH MY GOD SHE WAS DYING and no one saw it is a horrifying moment in a mom's life. Then to think of everything it means from this point forward, the shots, the glucose tests, the diet and exercise, just the schedule and focus it would entail was daunting beyond measure.

Kaya, fortunately, had a great attitude about it - she had read about a girl with diabetes in an American Girl magazine and was, if nothing else, relieved to know that it wasn't just her not being a good kid or a focused kid -she couldn't control her bladder or stay awake or focused because she was sick.

How sick?  Well, after trying to sort through all the information from the doctor and pharmacist, and reading as much as I could on the internet, I sat down to look at Kaya's lab work.  The Doctor got a phone call at 2 am from the lab after they ran her glucose serum test; they wanted to know if she was in a diabetic coma. The normal range for this test as indicated on her paperwork ranged from 60-99. Typically diabetes or the like is indicated at a range of 120-140 or above. Kaya's number?  623.   You read that right - I didn't miss type or forget a decimal. 623.  623. 623.  That number is etched in my brain.  There was human writing all over the paper work - FOLLOW UP NOW!  GET HER TO HOSPITAL. CALL THE MOTHER IMMEDIATELY.  The stuff of nightmares.

She is a healthier eater to begin with, so I think that saved us a bit.  She had a salad and some cheese for lunch, and low fat, low sugar yogurt for a snack in the afternoon.  After we picked up $200 in meds and hardware, we went home, researched sugar free foods that she could eat, picked up a few things at the grocery store, and then took her blood sugar level before dinner as required.  345.  I had to call the doctors, as he required that for any reading over 300, he told us how much short acting insulin to give her, and for the first time I injected my daughter with insulin. She was a trooper.

  After two hours, her sugar levels were at 245. Still not got, but better than 345, and a helluva lot better than 623.  Then we gave her the long lasting insulin, which was a bit more painful of a shot as it required more units of insulin, and she went to bed. We took a blood sugar reading at 12:30 that night (I had to make sure she didn't get low blood sugar now that she had insulin in her - a whole OTHER problem that could mean a trip to the ER). Her blood sugar was at 181.  Under 200 for the first time. Still high, but oh so much better.  Then I woke her at 7 for another reading, another shot and breakfast of low fat whole grain English muffin with sugar free peanut butter and Jelly.

 At this point I am only guessing and using what I remember my uncle eating as a reference - today is research and book buying day.  But Kaya took it all  in stride, and we working on yet ANOTHER type of new normal for our family.  And Kaya is so happy right now - not to have diabetes of course, but to finally have an answer, and she is excited to tackle this and get on living her beautiful life.

I am so proud of you, Kaya bunny.

On Finding a Home

I have lived in several places, and I have owned a total of three homes. One we sold to move to Michigan, one we still own and rent out in Michigan, and then this one. The one with the misnomer of Dream House.

I had so many fanciful hopes and dreams tied to this house. We had been living in a dumpy apartment in the ghetto of Escondido, so this house, with all its space, on a cul de sac in the small town of Menifee seemed ideal. However, houses are only extensions of the families that live in them. And if the family is broken, whether all the members know it or not, the house is not truly a home. I wish I had known that 4 years ago.

Over the past 4 years, I though I had a dream home. We had holidays and birthdays. We had friends over, family dinners, and played games together. 4 years ago, I imagined this house is where we would retire. Where my children would come home from college to visit, where the grandkids would come for holiday dinners. I dreamed we would upgrade the kitchen and bathroom, design a beautiful backyard so we could barbecue together, and sit together in the evenings and enjoy out time together.

I now refer to my dream house as the place where dreams come to die. I didn't realize that my dream, my children's dream, was not the dream of everyone in the family, that our dreams of a family home was actually a nightmare for someone else. This house was never a home. I didn't know at the time that my dream house was nothing more than fog and ashes.

Houses aren't inherently evil, no matter what the Amityville movies show. However, they reflect the family within, and when the family is torn apart and destroyed, it cannot help but be reflected withing the house. This house, I realize, was never our home; it was a way-station until our family could be redefined, and now we are moving onto a new house.

My new house is not as big. It is not in the nice neighborhood tucked in a cul de sac. It will contain a smaller family, a broken family. But it will contain my family. My family now has a new set of hopes and dreams, and this new house will reflect our small family that will move within this Sunday. This house will be our home.

Blessings

For the past 9 months, it would be very easy for me to say I really have to search to find any blessings in my life. When the core foundation of one's life is violently torn away, and left behind is only a broken, empty shell, seeing hope in God or counting anything as a blessing in life seems very, very far away.

However, when asked how I am doing, since December my response has remained constant: "God knew I would be traversing Hell, and he made sure I was well prepared and protected while I walked that path." The truth in this is majestic, in that I didn't roll over and want to disappear - I did enough of that in the fall. Instead, I picked up my broken, empty shell, dusted myself off, and with God's help, started putting that shell back together.

I was asked again, just a few weeks ago, how I was doing. I told my friend what my old response was, the one listed above, but then I told him, "I used to say that, but I can't say that anymore." He initially freaked a bit, thinking I had lost my faith in God. "No," I told him. "God is still there - He makes it plain to me every day. No, I can't say I'm in that bad place anymore."

Every day since things crashed down, I have seen God working in my life, making this transition as smooth as it could possibly be, and now that I am walking taller and stronger than ever before, I can see it even more, and it amazes me just as much now as it did when I was still the crumpled heap. I have a friend who just lost her mother, another who received a frightening medical diagnosis, and a third who is in sincere financial straits, and in this past week I have cried for them more than I have cried for myself.

That prompted me to sit down and list just some of these blessing that God shows me daily, to help me remember that we all are on a rough road, and God gives us faith, family, and friends to help us along the way. I think of these blessings every morning, then get out of bed, and take on the day.

My Blessings:
1. My Children - they are first because they are mine and a daily visual reminder of everything in this world that is good. I wake every day wondering what I can do to ensure they are happy, healthy, and can achieve all they want in life. They are my heart, and they deserve so much more than what they've had so far, and I want to help them reach for the stars. If everything else was taken away and all I had were my children, my blessings would still be immeasurable.

2. My God - He knows I am a visual learner, and He makes sure that, every day, I see more and more of his workings in my life. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. He is the blessing of all blessings.

3. My mom - she has walked a similar road and has always been my biggest supporter and cheerleader. I have just learned a friend of mine lost her mother to cancer, so today, this moment, I feel especially blessed to have my mother still in my life.

4. My sisters - they have been my backbone when I didn't have one, gave off anger when I couldn't, gave me guidance when I needed it,and make me smile when I think I can't. They never stop giving, giving, giving. If you don't have sisters, you don't know the power of sisterly love, and that is a blessing that never ends.

5. My friends - they have let me cry on their shoulders, text and email me every day for support, encouragement, or ranting moments, and they don't care if I call or text at midnight or 5 am. They came to me instantly, the moment everything fell apart, and I am blessed to have friends that I don't even need to talk to, but will be there the minute I need them. I am blessed to never feel alone because God made sure I had a friend at every turn.

6. My job(s) - I work contract. I have zero job security, and I had "quit" two of my jobs in anticipation of a different move. When I needed those jobs back, I got them - I was told they never took me off the roster. When I needed to max out classes at one of my schools, they did it that day. I am blessed to both be able to work, and to have work to do.

Those are just my top 6 - they are blessings that God gives me every day, every moment, so at no point in my life can I forget and think how bad things are. Because they are not bad, different, but not bad. Looking at that list of blessings, how could anyone say it's anything less than wonderful?