The part of the addiction cycle I hate the most, as if there is actually a part that I find enjoyable and healthy, is perhaps the part where the addict has fucked up in a huge way and attempts to make amends for once again wreaking havoc in the lives of loved ones. From the viewpoint of a bystander, or an active enabler, this is the point where we are 100% fed up. We have recently given the addict/drunk money for some sort of emergency. Or we have found ourselves down on our knees cleaning up some sort of bodily fluids, anything ranging from vomit to blood or even worse, off of our furniture. Or we have been the recipient of one too many creepy phone calls that either sing our praises or curse our existences. We are pissed off because we have once again allowed ourselves to be caught up in the train wreck that is our loved one. And we are pissed off at ourselves for the very same reason.

I always knew my brother was a bit of bad news. He is four years older than me and was always getting into one scrape or another. By the time I was in middle school he had either been kicked out or asked to leave nearly every high school in our valley. Too bad because he was so damn bright, but he was far more inclined to smoke a bong than write a paper. I knew he was headed for big trouble when on my Christmas break during my freshman year of college I couldn't ever get into the bathroom because he was far too busy free basing coke for most of the 24 hours out of every day. I ratted him out on Christmas Eve day to my parents, after all it was the late 80's and I had bangs to fluff and spray so I needed that bathroom something fierce, he was in rehab by New Year's Eve. It was the first of many sobriety attempts, none stuck more than a few months.

Over the years my brother has tried every mind altering substance there is. He gets away with it because my father always bailed him out, literally, and legal council has been free. My mother has, until fairly recently, been easily led by my brother's lies. My father could never quite fully deal with my brother's addictions. Instead my dad established one of the state's most successful drug courts and helped many other families mend the pain that an addict can bring. I was so proud of my father for his program and it brought him so much joy to be a part of it, but I never quite understood why he couldn't deal with my brother's addictions. I have also played a role in it all: keeping the secrets my brother asked me to, giving him money when I knew he would just go around the corner and spend it badly, cleaning up the messes.

The thing of it is that I am just so damn done with it all. My brother called Loren on his birthday, June 30th, this year and demanded to speak with him. Unfortunately, he was so wasted he couldn't even remember Loren's name, only referring to him as his "god damned, fucking nephew". When I told him he could talk with my son when he was sober, my brother began screaming at me about what a loser I was and how I was raising my kids to be trash. I hung up and turned my phone off. We happened to be in the car at the time and I looked over to find Loren crying and shaking with fury. He didn't understand why my brother always gets wasted on his birthday and calls or corners him. Last year my brother did the same thing, only he happened to be at the Manor at the time. He got wasted and talked the heads off of Loren and his friends. The whole conversation was so inappropriate that Loren was mortified. And there was Loren's 10th birthday when we were at a water park and my brother popped pills and got drunk and nearly drowned Cassidy in the wave pool. I had to pull her from his clutches as the waves washed over head. Of course my brother doesn't understand my, or Loren's, frustration over these incidences. He has no memory of any of them, he blacked them out. And there are so many others like those.

So now I am pissed. And done. I don't want to clean up any more blood or barf or broken glass. I don't want to be cornered while listening to an addict's view point on my sub par parenting abilities. I don't want my kids listening to the toxic spewing of somebody who makes a living by playing the victim, somebody who has burned all their bridges and lives a life of isolation. For so long I felt guilty for having the germ of these thoughts, thinking that I shouldn't feel that way about a family member. But it doesn't phase my brother when he steals and lies. The time he totaled my mother's truck late at night on a curvy mountain road? No guilt. He crowed about how most people would have died in such an accident. That time he house sat my town home and I returned to find shattered glass on nearly every surface and bloody hand prints all over the walls? Not a care in the world. For all the messes, the debts, the lies, the rampages he subjected the children to, for all of those reasons I am done. I am currently on his shit list for standing strong. I am the big bitch right now. The uptight, un-fun one. And for once I simply don't give a damn. It is enough energy to establish the boundaries.

painted by caloden at 1:36 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (1)

Sometimes lately I feel myself gripped with a most unfamiliar feeling. When I first experienced this I almost panicked, thinking that once again I was slipping into anxiety hell and would have to try yet another prescription that would likely wig me out and perhaps force me to gain more weight. But after taking a closer look I realized that I have been feeling contentment. CONTENTMENT! Who the hell would have ever thought. This is not to say that I have been running about skipping and making daisy chains. Nor is it to say that I have stopped picking out my eyelashes, yes, I have a near permanent bald spot on the upper eyelid of my right eye from my near constant habit of poking at my lashes. But something has shifted in my universe in the last couple of months. I don't dread waking up or facing the day. I find myself looking forward to inertia. And sometimes, sometimes I even feel a bit of excitement for getting out of the house and socializing. I suspect that I have finally clawed my way out of a dark, skanky hole where I have been wallowing for quite some time. Who would have thought....

painted by caloden at 7:23 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (1)

While the above compilation might look like a good clean evening of mini golf fun, it was anything but. The outing was a celebration for my friend's non-profit group. She wanted to give back to all the people who help her organization be as successful as it is. I do all her graphic work and am working on her website so she asked the children and me to join her and some other folks for an evening of mini golf. The drama began many miles form the golf park and continued well on to the ninth hole where I decided to cut our losses and call the evening done. Sometimes it is just better to quit while you have a shred of dignity rather than when your children are hurling themselves into the fake waterfalls and screaming for Coke.

In a counterclockwise order: Someday Loren will look back at the over sized shades, the huge shirts and the dayglo hightops and cringe with horror. I feel much the same way about my WHAM! shirts and webbed, neon belts. I won't even go in to the hair sprayed bangs from that era. Devon appears angelic in this shot, he works that look something fierce. Cassidy is sometimes so stunning that she leaves me breathless. That hair, the skin.... There was a woman at the golfing party who simply wouldn't stop talking about Cass, there are moments when I agree. I forced the three of them into this canoe for a shot. I sometimes wonder why I bother.

painted by caloden at 10:12 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (0)

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, floor space at The Manor is at a minimum these days. The renovation is going much more slower than anticipated, mostly due to Cody's new found love for golf and the primo cool weather temperatures in the Rocky Mountains this summer that make tee time so palatable. Currently every room is partly torn up and just today all the appliances for the kitchen arrived and are sitting in their looming boxes, towering over the front entryway. So this past weekend when the kids were with Matt and my mom and I were plotting a way to make sense of it all with our limited means to deal with it, we tackled the bigger, more glaring problems. Things like dressers and beds were allocated to the correct rooms so that Loren would have his own boxers rather than Devon's Lightning McQueen underwear when they returned from their dad's house Sunday night. Once the necessities were done my mother paused, cleared her throat and said, "So, um, there is another item we must address."

I thought for a moment and wondered if perhaps she had some dark secret of mine she had uncovered, "Oh, right. What do you mean?". I asked, not really wanting to know the full answer.

"Well, it's your father." She replied.

Right. Yes, he died. Two years ago and I still really don't want to talk about it lest I burst into tears. And while two years of living with my mom has created some bonding moments, I can't revisit that grief right now. It is just a scab I can't pick at the moment. So I cautiously asked, "What do you mean?"

"His ashes are still up in his loft."

Right. Big Bomb. Ouch. My mother never went back to sleeping in the master bedroom after my father died. She migrated upstairs to his loft/office area and I have spent the last two years in the master bedroom until just a few weeks ago when Cody/Juan removed the bed and I moved to Loren's old loft. Upon his return from Missouri Loren has been sleeping in the my father's old space while my mother has moved into Cassidy's old room since she hates to sleep alone and has been sleeping in Devon's new room in his gigantic car bed. A bad case of musical beds, but it keeps everybody comfortable and in their safe zones. Unless, of course, Loren happened to discover that the books on the shelves were not just old classics but also happened to house both his grandfather's ashes and those of the dog.

Here I have to digress and mention that we are not so good about putting the dead to rest in our family. My maternal grandmother passed away in 1984 and her ashes are still in the wall of a Denver hospice. My maternal grandfather died in 1990, his ashes lie inside our old barn within a vintage firetruck just north of The Manor. My paternal grandmother's ashes were actually buried in the family plot close to our home, but although she died in 1994 we have yet to decide on a headstone for her. So the fact that my father's cremains remain just upstairs next to the dog's is not really a shocker. Maybe a hard bit of info for a 15 year old to digest, but none too shocking for the rest of us.

While we were having this exchange my mom sat at an old that desk graced my father's law office for 25 years before he left his practice and became a judge. I noticed the deep drawers and suggested that perhaps that would be as good of a place as any. She seemed comforted by the idea and went up to the loft to retrieve both my father and the dog. I did ask her if perhaps she might have a more permanent resting place for both of them. We tossed it about, even joked about the idea of creating stepping stones from all the various family members and placing them in the garden. We are a bit whacked that way.

For now my father's ashes have a new resting place and Loren won't run across them and have the sort of Teen Meltdown I try so hard to avoid. And while I don't at all equate that box of dust to the man who was my father, I do sort of wonder why my grandmother is in a wall and my grandfather is out in the firetruck. Why can't my family put it all to rest? I suspect that question will take more than two years of living back in the family homestead to answer.

painted by caloden at 9:55 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (0)

I have long said that if any of the children will push me over the edge it will likely be Devon. He looks like an angel and sounds like heaven. But the truth is that he is really quite difficult. I can't even put into words all the things about him that make me nervous, but I do know that I spend a massive amount of my energies trying to make sure all is right in his world. If his world is all good then mine will be less riddled with his tantrums and fits.

This week Devon has consumed nothing more than home made pumpkin bread, granted it was from organic pumpkin I had frozen last fall, and organic yogurt and whole, organic milk. That has been his diet for the last five days, with the occasional ice cream cone thrown in here and there. Yesterday afternoon we ran out of the pumpkin bread so for the last 24 hours or so it has just been the yogurt and milk, except for last night when I took Cass and him to the rodeo and he downed an orange Fanta and a brownie in about 90 seconds flat. Needless to that by today he was awful. In fact, his behavior could easily have been labeled as bitchy. Or just bitch. This afternoon he was so awful that when he demanded a plate of meat at the lunch table I willingly went and filled his order, simply desperate at the the thought that he might actually ingest some protein. But no. When he saw the plate and realized it wasn't his "scratchy meat", meaning taco meat, he dissolved into inconsolable tears and had to be sent away from the table. From there he began to scream and beat his hands and feet on the ground in protest to my cruelty. After a few minutes my mom looked at me ans asked, "You think maybe he's tired?" I shrugged, not really caring just so long as he shut up and took Devon up to bed, gave him a sippy cup of his beloved milk and tucked him in. We were then graced with three hours of peace and quiet.

On a normal day a late afternoon nap that lasted until nearly 6 p.m. would have sent me in to a nervous fit of itching just thinking about how late Devon would stay up. But not tonight. Nope. It's Matt's weekend. He he he. I rented a dumb movie, Fool's Gold, and sat on my ass while Devon and his daddy likely played round after round after round of hide and seek.

painted by caloden at 10:18 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (2)

A few weeks ago one of my yoga teachers was chatting during class with her usual yoga banter, it is sort of a distraction from the 110 degree heat and the effort it takes to hold a 60 second pose in that environment, when she divulged a nugget of wisdom I have held dear since that class. It went something like this: every breakthrough is not necessarily a physical one or a spectacular one. Some breakthroughs are simply an acknowledgment that you can't achieve a certain goal today and the peace you find in such a discovery. Her words had such an impact on me and I find myself mulling them over on a daily basis. Partly because I am a lifelong underachiever but also because I often believe that progress must be magnificent and shiny in order to merit any satisfaction.

Today my teacher's words again surfaced in my mind when I found myself battling Loren. I was on perhaps my third argument with him about chores, time management and why I couldn't/wouldn't hop in the car and drive 90 miles to pick up an iPhone for him. I kept wondering why his debating was chewing on my soul in such a fierce manner when it hit me: it wasn't just that argument, it was the ever present resistance I feel when dealing with the children. Loren is focused on himself 100% in the way that only a teenager or an infant can be. Cassidy must win all situations at just about any cost to the players involved. Devon simply wears at my existence like a steady water drip in a Chinese punishment camp. Okay, maybe that is a bit drastic, but seriously, I often feel that no matter where I turn I hit a wall. Not a comforting padded wall but the sort of wall that prevents me from sitting or relaxing or breathing. And there doesn't seem to be a damn thing I can do about it. I made these kids. I parented them to this stage, shaped them and this is what I have created. Fuck. Not so comforting at times. I only have a few years left with Loren and this is who he is. Why wasn't I more strict with them? Perhaps I should have implemented more chores and basic living skills into their daily agendas.

After about an hour of self-flogging and a mandatory time out from Loren, he sat across from me in the car and said, "Maybe I really should go to law school someday. It would definitely suck to go to school for so long, but maybe it would be a good way to spend some of my energy." I wanted to hug him and tell him that yes, using his natural God given powers for good and not for torturing his mother was a good goal indeed, but I knew he was only buttering me up so that I would stop being cold and distant to him. Instead I thought about the resistance, realized it wasn't going away and took a deep breath in before I let it out. On the next breath the resistance was still there in the car beside me but it wasn't as weighty as earlier in the day. It looked like my son and I loved him all the more for it. Surely that is some sort of progress? Or maybe resistance really is futile.

painted by caloden at 10:53 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (0)

A few days ago I got hit on by my friend's ex-husband. Most of the time I wouldn't have the foggiest idea that a man was interested in me, in fact I go through life assuming that they aren't. But this attempt, or series of attempts, was/were so over the top in silliness that there could be no mistaking his intentions. I happened to be helping out my friend on her job because she is terminally ill and needs as much help as she can get these days. Unfortunately for everybody she and her ex have the same job and so any time she calls me in for assistance I know we will be working in the same vicinity as Mr. Creeper. Ick. The first day began with him valiantly trying to engage me in conversation whenever possible, to the point where at the end of the day I was literally backing up out of the office and in to the car with him following me with his gabbing, I finally ended up shutting the door in his face while watching his mouth continue to pump open and shut. The next day he cornered me in a chair, sat on the edge while he sort of wrapped himself around my back and then proceeded to make a phone call. I was so grossed out I had to leave the room over his protests that I should stay put. Shortly there after I encountered him in a hall where he placed his grubby paw on my shoulder and tenderly asked how I was doing. Ew and double ew.

Yesterday I confided to my friend that I was more than a little wigged out by his sudden interest when she started cackling her congested laugh, she is attached to an oxygen tank at all times now, "He likes you! He liiiiiiikes you! Isn't he just the grossest?" She told me that he wanted me to understand that he is really the wronged one in the divorce and that by wooing me I will see his golden side. My firm opinion is that this man belongs in jail or something worse, I will never be able to think of him in any positive light. Ever. My friend asked me if I was flattered and I told her that no, I was grossed out and felt as if I was covered in some sort stink slime. She patted my back and said I was all the better off for rejecting him. Then she cackled some more.

But here's the thing, why is it that the only man to look my way in over two years is slimier than a used car salesman and old enough to be my dad? What kind of she stink must I be putting out? Not a good thing there.

The nice thing about summer and having friends with different schedules is that my older kids sometimes get trapped together. I love this, having them all together. It makes the mama hen in me want to stand up cackle in victory. The other day they entertained each other in the pool while I watched from the sidelines. Loren isn't a huge water person but he put on his game face until I let him go play XBox. Cass and Devon played in the water, well Cass was in the water while Devon directed her from the side, for hours. Although Devon doesn't wear the fins and snorkel everyday, this is sort of how I see him when I picture him in my head.

painted by caloden at 11:00 AM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (3)

Over the winter I had a bit of a snit about my camera and decided that I hated it; it wasn't good enough with its delayed shutter and lack of interchangeable lenses. A few days ago while looking through my photo files I decided to get over myself and start taking pictures again. I realized I sounded just like Loren and Cass when they are being spoiled and entitled. I would love to have the sorts of cameras my mother uses but for the meantime I will model acceptance to the children and get over being such a brat.

These were all from this afternoon. This is the view I see of Loren the most right now. I bought the kids a trampoline for their return from Missouri, I haven't yet figured out how to get the safety walls up and so spend most the days in a panic over their spines. Cassidy has taken to wearing this pirate face about the house, I don't know why. If the girl feels the need to cross dress then so be it. I have taken up gardening this summer and obsessively check the flowers everyday. At least five times throughout the days. Clearly I need a life. This week marked the debut of the summer hammock. I had forgotten just how much Devon loves the hammock and mostly forbids the rest of us to set foot near it....

painted by caloden at 10:14 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (2)

Yesterday Cass, Loren and I headed to the library so that Cassidy could check out some of the books on her required summer reading list. She is one third of the way through the summer and the fact that she hasn't conquered the entire list is starting to eat at her which, of course, means that she is starting to eat on me about it. I am always a bit hesitant to set foot in the library because I am sure that I top their list of the 10 Most Irresponsible Library Patrons. Sure enough, I checked my library card online before we went and I had a fine for $78. But Cass was insistent and I didn't feel like battling her, so in we went. Cassidy had also lost her library card, another problem in our house, so when we arrived we had to wait in line to get a new one. While waiting there I smiled at a friend of mine who works there and I was aware of some sort of exchange between her and one of the other librarians. It took me a moment to realize the exchange was about me until I heard one of them say, "She's here!" I got a sinking feeling in my gut as I thought, "Oh, God. They know. They are looking at their computer screens and seeing that I have had a copy of the Cars video since October. They are going to announce to the entire place that I have set a new record for library irresponsibility."

I tried to make some small talk to discern just what they knew when one of them said, "We read your blog." Another sinking feeling, only this one was ringed with panic. I was hoping against hope they meant the DIY life blog, except I have only just recently again started writing for them. But somehow I knew from their smiles that DIY Life couldn't bring that much glee. Sure, it has some cool posts but nothing so juicy as to inspire this level of Cheshire Cat toothiness. So I took a deep breath and asked as quietly as I could, "Um, do you mean Caloden?" They bobbed their heads up and down and proceeded to fill me in on how they had come across it a few weeks ago on a slow Saturday at work. While I felt the walls closing in on me I cursed those rotten children who should have been filling the library on that day instead of spending a sunny afternoon at the pool. How could these two have possible found Caloden? A question I posed to them and they replied, "Well, it is the internet. Nothing is private." Oh right, damn on that. And it isn't as though I expect it to be private. But really, this little corner of the cyber world where Caloden is parked? Not much happening over here. I know there are a couple of Jen's who read me, my statcounter lets me know the details. But I guess I always thought that if somebody were to encounter my blog it wold be because they happen to live in some other part of the world. Not my part. The ladies and I spent some time discussing my foray in to airing my oh-so-private life details on the internet and how some parts of it really struck a chord. It was actually a really great conversation, though I couldn't quite shed the feeling that not only was I missing all my clothing from my waist down, I had failed to shave my legs for months and my cellulite was hanging out for all the world to see. My friend asked me the name of the soccer mom I had skewered a couple of months back and while I didn't heave it up I did mention how many children she had and few other details. She thought for a moment and mouthed a name back at me. I nodded my head, thinking that at least I hadn't shouted it out at the top of my lungs, I have tact that way. She then asked if the kids read it. I said that yes, they do from time to time. They do, sometimes they laugh and other times they ask me what the hell I am thinking. My friend also said that it was nice to hear another mom voice those things that really aren't all that maternal, the sorts of things you can't readily mention at play groups.

Overall, it wasn't the library experience I had pictured. As we left with a pile of books for Cassidy I still felt mostly panicked. While exiting the doors Cass patted my hand and said, "Mom, do you think they know you have such a huge library fine?" I laughed and replied, "Honey, if they can find my blog they likely know all about my naughty library habits."

PS: Library Ladies, I am truly touched you have found Caloden. It might not be a place of tranquility or contain the sort of reads you would share with civilized company. But it is mine and so much of the past three years of my life is here, in a much more honest tone that I would be able to admit any other place. Thanks for reading and thanks for letting me know, much better than to run into you some time while I am with that other soccer mom and ask me just who's child it was that got persecuted for crapping their pants!

painted by caloden at 11:33 AM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (8)

For the past couple of months there has been quite a bit of construction here at the Manor. The Miatch is adding space, which requires me to rearrange other spaces and pack anything remaining into clear, plastic tubs. There is simply not a surface, nook or cranny in the house that is not stacked with boxes. Or a room that doesn't contain stacked piles of furniture or cushions. It has gotten so bad that even the dogs are beginning to get bitchy about all the mayhem.

Part of the problem is that our construction crew consists mainly of a two fellows, Cody and Juan, who have a main job Monday through Thursday and then come to the Manor every Friday and Saturday. They are a mostly dedicated pair who willingly put up with the Miatch's indecisiveness but who are also feeling the tug of the golf course as the summer wears on. The past couple of weeks they have only been able to put in a total of five hours due to their tee times. One of the bright parts of all this is that Cody and Juan only do general stuff and then hire other fellows to do specific things like tile work and plumbing. Our tile fellow has been coming everyday for the past 10 days or so to patch up some Cody/Juan blunders and begin on the master bath. His name is Oscar and he is just lovely as can be to the children. Devon especially enjoys going in and peering over Oscar's shoulders as he lovingly lines up the tiles and covers them in goo. Oscar's concentration deserves some sort of award because if I had Devon chattering in my ear while I was trying to do exacting work I would banish him. Oh wait, I do that on a daily basis, even if I am not concentrating.

For the most part the whole Oscar thing has worked out nicely. He arrives every morning and greets Devon, goes in the house where my shit head dog, Mouse, usually bites him on the ankle, good thing he wears sturdy work boots, and then heads up to the bathroom. The renovation has meant that my mom, the kids and I have all moved in to the other full bathroom, but we still leave things in the master bath and tote things to and fro. Yesterday afternoon I had to grab something from the master bath and so headed in. The outer door had blown shut from the wind and so I thought nothing much when I encountered the closed bathroom door. I knocked gently to let Oscar know I was on my way in and then opened the door. The mirror is to the right and as I was walking in I looked in the mirror to get a peek at the tile progress only to find that Oscar was not stooped over the shower basin but standing upright and appearing quite busy with his hands. I paused for a moment and squinted as I tried to figure out what he was doing. Then his eyes met mine in the mirror and a look of pure horror swept over his features as he zipped up his pants and reached to flush the toilet. I was so shocked that I stood frozen before I managed a, "Oh no! I am so sorry. I didn't know!" I started to explain that I was just getting some lotion until I realized it was better left unsaid. I then ran from the bathroom while I heard Loren giggling and went to hide in the other bathroom. Fortunately I had to take Cass off to soccer practice and so did not have to see Oscar for the rest of the day.

This morning when Oscar arrived I was on my way to take Devon to preschool. I smiled, waved and then felt creepy and naked all over again. The thing is is that over the time he has been here I have gone out of my way to talk with Oscar, sometimes in my bad Spanish, sometimes in his not so good English. I so hope he doesn't think I am stalking him.

painted by caloden at 12:37 PM Leave a Comment in a popup, or the archives. (2)