The First Road Trip

Today all three kids embarked on a Road Trip. 

They're going to their great-grandmother's funeral in Arizona. 

It's only 4 hours away.

I'm still crying. They left an hour ago. It's hard being a Mom. Those are all three of my babies in one car, traveling to another state with no adult. Sure, the twins are 17 now and Lane is 15, but I feel so helpless and fraught with "What if's."

All of the firsts came flooding back and they seem like they happened just yesterday. The first time they ran off to nursery; the first time they left for kindergarten. Eager and sure of themselves with no fear.

Me, I'm holding back tears as I wave at them while they drive away. They barely notice me. 

I won't be whole again until they all return.

Less than one year. That's how much time I have left before we're not living under the same roof. Less than 11 months to be exact. I thought the beginning years were hard. Hard is easy when you're with the ones you love the most.

The heart of Christmas is Christ

The heart of Christmas is Christ—that’s the reason we celebrate. I believe children, with their sweetness, innocence, and unbridled joy, keep the spirit of Christ alive. Faith gives us hope, and with faith and hope, love naturally follows.

For years, I was single, and I didn’t have my twins until I was 35. There were times I felt like I was on the outside looking in, watching others experience things I longed for. Over time, I’ve realized that loneliness isn’t always about being physically alone. Many people feel isolated even when surrounded by others. And while the Christmas season has always been special to me, it’s never been as magical as it has been since I’ve had children.

I’ve also learned something about myself: I was so good at hiding my loneliness that no one knew how I felt.

This year, my Christmas prayer is for anyone who feels like they’re on the outside looking in to take a step forward and fully embrace the Christmas moment. And for those who already feel “in,” I hope they take a moment to look around and notice if someone else is hoping to join in too. Reaching out takes courage, but I truly believe that there are good people all around us, and no one has to be left out.

One Christmas that I expected to be my worst turned out to be one of my most memorable. It was the first year my kids wouldn’t be with me, and my heart was breaking. I was alone in a tiny apartment, knew no one in town, and didn’t have the means to travel to see my family.

I remember growing up and working every single holiday. Many Christmas Eves were spent working in Tuba City or Page so that others could enjoy time with their families. I thought back to those times and realized I had a choice: I could let myself sink into sadness, or I could do something about it. My friend Tracy Hugenroth, a constant inspiration in service and kindness, came to mind, and an idea started forming.

I took my sadness, my loneliness, and turned it into action. I made lunches and delivered them randomly to people who were working on Christmas Day. It was a lot of work, but it helped me focus on others—on people who needed a little kindness that day. Looking back, I can’t imagine how much harder that Christmas would have been if I had done nothing.

_____________________________

The above post was from December 25, 2014. Tomorrow, my kids have asked to do deliveries again.

I’m not sharing this to stand on a soapbox or to preach. I just want anyone reading this to know that if your Christmas isn’t turning out the way you dreamed, you’re not alone. There are people who don’t have the friendships, family, or relationships you might have, and many won’t even get Christmas off work. As much as you may feel you need something this season, someone out there needs you even more—whether they’re a stranger or a family member.

If you find yourself not “getting,” try giving. You might be surprised at how much you receive in return.

Go do something for someone less fortunate than you, and you’ll find that loneliness fades. And who knows? You might just change someone’s life—and your own.

Write...Right?

Geez...I haven't written on this blog for so long. Writing has always be so good for me, but I think I quit writing for a hobby when I started writing for money. Seems like that happens a lot. You have something you love to do, but when it become as job you're required to do it becomes uninteresting.

The other thing I've realized is that pain, tragedy, and hardship make for good stories. I had a lot back in the post-divorce struggling days. Life was tough. Nowadays, we are so blessed and we're always short on time, but life is good. My kids are amazing and despite being single I wouldn't trade it. I can always "get back out there" but I can never get my kids' childhood. I just don't have good material anymore!

I regret not writing more because going back and reading some of the things we did and said I realize a person can forget. I showed Brant some of the old pictures when the kids were young and he told me that he was sorry for always getting mad at me for taking pictures. He hated me following him around with a camera, but now he said he was grateful. That meant a lot...and also meant that I was right about a lot of things and it's about time he realized it. I mean...that's how I took it.

My life before kids really didn't have any meaning. I was footloose and fancy free and had a heck of a lot more money, but nothing in the world could be traded for kids. The golden years are not going to be when I'm old and gray, they're now when I'm young-er and tired because I have added three kids to my life. I started this blog a few months before Lane was born and it was as a journal, it just happened to be a journal everyone could read. I suppose I should start there because in ten years I won't remember today. I don't feel like I have anything to write about, but I need to write...right?

A Little Life Commentary

For some reason, people gravitate toward me like I’m their personal therapist. I don’t mind, though. I genuinely love people, and maybe they sense that. Last night, someone I hadn’t spoken to in years texted me. We’d met through work a long time ago, and out of the blue, he wanted to go out for dinner. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything worse. Leaving the house for something that feels pointless and like a waste of money? Hard pass. I turned him down but kept the conversation going, asking how he was doing.

His responses made me pause. They were heavy, despondent, full of hopelessness. It was clear he was giving up. He didn’t outright say it, but his words hinted at a kind of finality in life.

I was immediately reminded of a similar moment about four years ago. Another acquaintance reached out, and I ignored him. Less than a week later, he took his own life. I can’t say I was responsible for his decision, but I’ve never stopped wondering if I could have made a difference. That regret lingers.

Last night, I felt too busy again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was important. So, I invited Randy over to hang out with me and the kids. He’s in his sixties, divorced for over a decade, and his job is running him ragged—12- to 18-hour days with no extra pay. Last summer, he was diagnosed with cancer, though it’s now in remission. He’s too old to start over but holding on to his job by sheer willpower. As he told me his story, I looked at him and said, “Your life sucks. So now what?”

He laughed. And we laughed. It wasn’t a dismissal of his pain but an acknowledgment of it—a way to break the tension and make it feel manageable. We talked about how sometimes life just sucks, and that’s okay to admit. You can’t change what you won’t acknowledge, as Dr. Phil would say. I gave him what advice I could and listened. Really listened.

After he left, I kept thinking about what that conversation taught me—or reminded me. Here are three things that stood out:

1. Your station in life can change.

Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. I’m recovering from three of the hardest years of my life, and everything has turned around. We’re blessed beyond measure now. But during those tough years, I had to remind myself daily that life isn’t static. Things will shift, even if it feels impossible in the moment.

2. A positive attitude is everything.

Negativity doesn’t solve anything. It only drags you further down. Even when I was heartbroken for my kids and felt like a failure for the hardships my choices brought into their lives, I knew I had to keep hope alive. I wanted my kids to see that I had a positive attitude, even when life wasn’t fair. Kids see the world through their parents’ eyes. They learn resilience—or defeat—from what we model for them. So, I showed them how to fight through the tough times with faith and determination.

3. We need help—both Heavenly and earthly.

No one gets through life alone. When you’re at the low end of the tide, you have to hope there are people who will carry you through—even if you don’t deserve it. I’ve been there.

In 2013, I lost my job and was broke. My dad had to buy me a shuttle ticket to St. George. Devon gave me $20 for food. Everyone pitched in to help. But there’s one moment that still stands out: Jake gave me $50. Compared to what others gave, it wasn’t much monetarily. But for him and his family, it was everything. It was genuine, compassionate, and from the heart. That $50 meant more to me than he’ll ever know because it was all he had to give.

'Broke and Heart' - November Alive!Utah.com Monthly Column

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Kids Can Solve The World's Problems

Our breakfast conversation was centered around a health care story that was on the Today Show. They (the liberal media--gasp!) were showing a story on how the health care system is riddled with problems and is deteriorating. Porter made a comment that people shouldn't expect anything better than how they voted. He said, "If you vote for a bad president with bad ideas, what do you think is going to happen?" Then he said, "I think politics is really bad."

Later, our conversation transitioned to Miley Cyrus and her recent twerking. The kids expressed their disappointment in her departure from Hannah Montana. They were fans. I said, "Yes, she trying to be overly-sexy." Porter said, "What? Overly-sexy. She's not even sexy." Madison said, "We're not going to her concert and no one should."

The interesting part of this is that I try not to give them my opinions. When they were discussing both topics today I would say, "What do you think about that?" I'm fascinated by their insight and ability to make their own decisions. They did pretty good.

Treading Water

I was able to use my sister-in-laws sewing materials to bring back these personalized blankets for the kids. Actually she made them, but the kids loved them and I had a gift to bring back to them. Lane won't sleep with his, because he's afraid he's going to pee on it.

What a week. Spent most of it up in Pleasant Grove working for my brother to earn a little extra cash. I was paid much more than I was worth, but at this point I will accept it. Fortunately, so many people have been helping me out and I'm making it one day at a time. I have been given money, food, gifts, and even a car that I can buy cheap. I got back to Vegas late Friday night, but at least it was with a vehicle. I think I'll have to ride the bus once in a while just to keep up on my "Bus Stops" series as it has been such an enlightening experience.

I always feel optimistic about the future and things getting financially better. I think it's important to remember that finances are not always the most important thing to "get better". I was so excited to pick up the kids on Saturday morning after not seeing them for a whole week. It is truly amazing what a happy spot they can be in life and how motivating they can be. They are so sweet and happy and grateful. I always tell them I want to remember the times we struggled together so that we can be grateful for the successes. I am impressed by how easily children adapt.

Even in a studio apartment these boys find so many imaginative things to do. The pantry used to be filled with an overstock of food. Now they use it to build forts and bedrooms on the shelves. They dig out our costume bucket and play superheros. They've found a "fort" in the bushes outside and spend hours in there. They like to collect potato bugs, ants, and worms. Rocks are even fun. I put all of their "fighting" toys in a bucket and they'll take those outside and chase each other. The pool, the library, baking bread and cookies, and Burger King a stones throw away, make for cheap entertainment and time together.

Madison is still emotional and struggles. She lashes out by being too rough with the boys. They think she is mean. She has gotten better, but really puts up a wall to keep everyone. I had a good talk with her today, but it breaks my heart how sad she is. She broke down crying and repeated again her wish for her family to be together. She doesn't feel like anyone loves her and I think that's because of her pain. I tried every which way I could to help her understand how much her Dad, her Mom, and her Grandmother, and all of her relatives love her. She doesn't believe it. I worry about her self-esteem and self-worth. She eats too much and it's obviously a coping mechanism for her. She asked to be put in the school counseling program again, so I'll get her signed up for that. Porter said he wants to do it too this year. I'm glad they have it. I know for Madison, it helps her to be able to talk to someone. It really helped her last year.

I know that every child always says they only want their parents, but as a parent it's heart wrenching not to be able to give them what they want. I don't mind that we can't have "everything", but I do hate that I have 5 and 7 year olds asking, "Can we afford this"? I try not to take them food shopping with me because I hate to have to tell them we can't have something--even if it's not much. Porter burnt his toast and felt so bad because I have been harping on them not to waste food. He told me he was going to eat it anyway because he knows I can't afford much food. That makes me want to cry that my children are worried about wasting a piece of toast. I laughed and told him I could show him a trick my Dad used. I've told them how poverty stricken  my Dad's childhood was. He showed us how to scrape off the burnt part of the toast. He was rather excited about that.

I'm also amazed at how much I can do without. I haven't bought sandwich bags or specialized cleaning supplies. Instead of 409 I use Windex. Oh the tragedies. LOL. And, you can wash a load of dishes in just hot water. Laundry doesn't need as much soap and many times, not every outfit needs to be washed. I have been able to temporarily do without a phone and even power. We drink water out of the sink instead of bottled. The humorous part of all of this is that these are First World problems. Many people throughout the world would love to have my "problems".

I remind myself of all of the things I do have. My kids are healthy. My brother lost his three year old daughter to cancer, and I truly believe he would have spent the rest of this life in my situation if he could have kept her here. I have so much help from family they give me enough to keep me from drowning without robbing me of these rich experiences to grow. I have friends all over who offer encouraging words, love, and support. The best thing to consider is that this may well be one of the most challenging experiences of my life, yet if it is the worst I ever face I will have lived a very blessed life.

The Bus Stops Here: You Only Die Once

A tall, heavyset man stood alone, watching his son climb a brick wall to chase after my son, Lane, who had already been walking up and down the three-foot retaining wall, pretending to balance like he was on a tightrope high in the air.

Lane and I had just trekked the last mile to school after a 25-minute bus ride from our house. The man and I were the only parents waiting outside the gate. I wasn’t feeling especially talkative—social anxiety, the usual—but I felt like I should say something. It was the start of a new school year, and I regretted not getting to know more parents when the twins were in kindergarten. It had gotten harder over time. The other parents grew more familiar with each other, and I felt more like an outsider.

I hesitated, weighing whether to start a conversation. His hair was slicked to his head with sweat beneath a worn baseball cap, and he looked like he could really use a haircut. At least 6'3", he wore a shirt that had to be a triple XL, stretched over a round belly. He was a big man, but evenly built.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“Ethan,” he said quietly. He was polite, answering softly. We chatted as we watched the boys play, and after a few minutes, I offered, “I’m Liz.”

“Brian,” he volunteered.

“Is Ethan your first? Or do you have other kids?”

“I have an eight-year-old and a nine-year-old,” he said.

We kept talking—about school, the kids, the chaos of mornings. I mentioned how lucky I’d been to have a mother-in-law who worked with my kids so they were more than ready for kindergarten.

“My wife worked with them a little bit,” he said. “I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, does your wife stay home with the kids?” I asked.

He pressed his lips together and gave the slightest shake of his head. “No. Not anymore.”

There was a pause. He looked down for a second. “She died. She’s not here anymore.”

I felt the floor shift a little under me. I tried to stay steady, even in moments like this. “How did she die?” I asked gently.

“She overdosed in June,” Brian said. He let out a long breath, like he was finally saying it out loud.

I was stunned. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” was all I could manage.

“Yeah…” he nodded slowly, almost like he was agreeing with me, or with himself, or with no one at all.

“How’s Ethan handling it? He’s so young.”

Brian’s face tightened, and his eyes glossed over. I thought maybe he was going to cry. Then he let out another big breath.

“They’re actually doing pretty well,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not doing so good though.”

There it was. The break in the dam.

I tried to steer us out of the heavy silence. “Do you have help? Anyone supporting you with the kids?”

“No one,” he said. Still in the storm. And I got it. In Vegas, so many of us live without ties, floating just above survival.

“That must be really hard,” I said. I hesitated, then added, “Look, I work from home… and if you ever need someone to watch the kids—” I trailed off. I didn’t even have a car. I lived in a studio apartment. What could I really offer?

But then I remembered how I was raised. My parents always said, share what you have. Don’t leave until the work is done. Maybe this wasn’t exactly that kind of moment—but I knew what my dad would have done.

So I straightened up and said it again, more firmly. “No, really. If you ever need help, I’d be happy to. I can only imagine how hard it is.”

He nodded, lips tight again. More parents began to gather as the gate opened. We called to our boys, gave them hugs, and watched them disappear into the schoolyard. Kindergarten goodbyes.

I started to rush for the bus but stopped and turned back. “I wish I could say something,” I said. “‘Good luck,’ or ‘Hang in there’—but really, there aren’t any words that make it better, are there?”

Brian looked at me, softer this time. “No,” he said. And for the first time, I saw empathy in his eyes—for me.

“Well,” I said, “don’t be a stranger. And have as good a day as you possibly can.”

He smiled politely and whispered, “Thank you.”

As I walked toward the bus stop, I thought, I’m so glad I have my trials, and not someone else’s. I looked at the people passing by and wondered—what are they carrying? What hurts in their world today?

Everyone is hiding something behind their smile.

We should all be a little kinder.

__________________________

The Bus Stops Here series started because for a time I did not have a car and would take public transportation. I had the opportunity to have rare glimpses into random lives of every day people. I feel like taking a moment to understand someone else's life helps me to closely examine my own. Every person has a story, a lesson, a legacy. Though I don't always meet people at the bus stop anymore, I do still find the lives of every day people fascinating and love to share their stories.

American Sign Language from Alive!Utah August Column

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Why is it that I have a tendency to laugh when things go wrong? I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten me into more trouble. I pulled out of a parking lot onto the street–cautiously I might add–and apparently pulled in front of someone who did not want me there. I’ll argue I had plenty of time to reach the appropriate speed before she came roaring up behind me and that she was going much faster than she should have and immediately laid on the horn. She jerked to the left (which was completely unnecessary and overdramatic) and then continued to weave around a car in the left lane and pull back in front of me. Apparently, a great multi-tasker, she was still able to do this while still and honking. It appears that she also has some familiarity with sign language, as she was able to convey to me her dissatisfaction with my actions through one single hand gesture.

This is my favorite part about road ragers. They are driving like maniacs and then for all of their urgency, they will end up at the same light; and conveniently next to you. This made me smile as I tend to calm down in stressful situations. She still wanted to sign to me and when she did, I looked over at her with a smile. When I saw a frumpy, middle-aged woman with bleach blonde hair who looked like she was late for an appointment with the drive-thru I couldn’t help it. I really tried hard not to giggle, but I just could not stop it.

About 22 years ago, I had the a similar incident happen with my sister Vicki. We were on our way to see our sister, Dona, in Ogden where she had just given birth to the first grandchild. I don’t know why we were driving so late, but I believe it was after midnight. There weren’t many cars on the road and we were punch-drunk tired. The two of us have a tendency to over-giggle when we get together anyway. We still do.

This particular night, Vicki was driving and due to the low amount of traffic and, and, and…okay, who am I kidding?  It had nothing to do with the low traffic, I just decided to play a joke on her. We approached an intersection and she stopped as the light was red. She wasn’t paying attention and after a few seconds, I said, “Go. It’s green.” (Of course there were no cars coming. Yes, I was a mindless teenager, but had at least taken that into consideration.) She punched the gas and went through the light. Halfway through as I was laughing she realized what I had done and started laughing too. In the car next to us were some wicked, hardcore Ogden girls with four inch bangs and bad perms. I guess our lawlessness upset them and they decided to pull up next to us, roll down their window and yell.

We looked at each and started laughing. They got madder. We laughed more. But, they wouldn’t leave our side. I convinced Vicki to perform another illegal maneuver and she raced around a car positioning them behind us and blocked from passing. Then the laughter machine started up again. They managed to make their way to our side again. I told Vicki I think they want to fight us, which brought peals of more laughter. I said seriously, we better stop laughing. But the thought of two little small-town girls on their way to a hospital to see their first niece getting hounded by Ogden gang girls just seemed so hilarious.

After contemplating our demise, I said why don’t we just pull over. She said what if they do something. I said they’re doing something right now. I’m a competent negotiator and figured we could all talk and go have a cupcake together. Ironically, the confrontation ended when we pulled into a small parking lot and they kept going. I think we were somewhat relieved, but couldn’t help trash talking them as they drove away. It was something like, who’s tough now? That’s right, we’re not scared. We straightened our leg warmers and drove to the hospital.

I realize people like road ragers have their own issues if they choose to get that angry and belligerent. When I first looked at the lady “signing” me, I wondered if she had ever been to Ogden. I kind of did want to follow her and say look I’m a really nice person. I’m sorry if you thought I pulled out in front of you, but I believe you were driving above the speed limit. Then I realized people have their own demons and probably have more troubling lives than I do. She was going to have to learn to be happy by herself and without my kind instructions on how to do it. Besides, I didn’t have my sister with me to back me up this time. Have a nice day, angry lady. I hope your life gets better.

The Bus Stops Here: I Only Have 6 Friends on Facebook and Only Know 2 of Them

Since I’m riding the bus these days, I figure I might as well share some of the interesting people I meet along the way. I try not to judge—just observe through my little lens into the random, unfolding lives of strangers. Plus, let’s be honest—I have to write about something, so why not launch a new series: The Bus Stops Here?

_______________________________

I had settled onto the bench with no idea when the next bus might show up. There's a universal look at every stop: a silent longing in the eyes of riders, gazing left down the road in hopeful anticipation. When someone first arrives, they instinctively glance right, just to be sure they didn’t miss it. Buses run on their own logic—sometimes early, sometimes late. You just learn to wait.

Thankfully, the weather had cooled off a bit—meaning it had dropped into the 100s. Odd as it sounds, after surviving July in Las Vegas, it actually felt nice.

He was standing when I sat down, staring down the road. Dark-skinned with long black hair pulled into a bun, his arms were covered in tribal tattoos. He looked Hawaiian. Turned out, he was—sort of. His father was Black, his mother brunette, and his grandmother a redhead. “That’s how I got the good hair,” he explained with a little pride.

His name was Ritchie. He’d moved to Vegas from Oklahoma to be near his mom, but a DUI had stripped him of his license almost three years ago. He was hopeful—he thought he’d be eligible to get it back soon. Until then, it was the bus.

That day, he’d just come from the library where he’d been researching trade schools in Texas. He wanted to learn pipe inspection. Welding excited him. Especially underwater welding.

But he couldn’t sit still. He kept pacing. He hadn’t made it to the smoke shop yet, and the folded five-dollar bill in his pocket was calling his name. He told me that as long as he bought the lowest strength Spice, he wouldn’t get addicted.

He said this while visibly twitching from craving. The irony didn’t seem to land for him.

On his leg was a scar I couldn’t ignore—deep and jagged, shaped like bite marks, with chunks of flesh missing. I had to ask.

He told me the story like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. He was deep in a drug-induced sleep, recovering from a long week. A knock at the door yanked him out of it. The bus to work took two hours each way, so his 8-hour shift turned into 12-hour days. Weekends were sacred.

He jumped up, opened the door half-asleep, and was greeted by two people campaigning for Obama just before the election.

“Dude, I don’t have time for this!” he said, slamming the door. He stormed back upstairs, furious—his only day to sleep in, ruined.

By the time he got to his room, his anger had spiraled. He lashed out and kicked the window on instinct. The glass shattered—and a sharp edge sliced into his leg, deep. Blood began pulsing out in rhythm.

He was wearing nothing but boxers. Without thinking, he yanked them off to try to stop the bleeding and stumbled down the stairs, completely naked, screaming for help. A neighbor rushed to his aid. He made it to the hospital in time.

“I found out later I coulda sued them for malpractice,” Ritchie said, pointing to the scar. “But I missed the deadline. You only got a year. It happened last August 12th. Too late now. Coulda got a lotta money.”

Now he was here, trying to start over—but struggling. He said he hadn’t made many friends in Vegas. He didn’t know anyone. He had six Facebook friends, but he only recognized two of them.

The bus finally pulled up. I got on first. Ritchie followed—and sat right next to me.

And The Balloon Pops

[continued]

I've scrambled to come up with a new plan and attacked it furiously. I've minimized my expenses to $1,200 a month including $200 for food and $130 for bus passes. For that, I am proud of myself. I did have to eliminate my smartphone completely, but in reality no one calls and there's no one I can't reach online. In fact, that's how 99% of my communication is done anyway. I can Skype anyone else I need to call. I have an appointment to donate plasma tomorrow and I've got about $100 worth of stuff to sell on Ebay. I have to email my attorney and break the news to her. I owe her a lot of money, and she earned every penny of it.

I know everything will work out, because I have 42 years of experience watching it work out. It's just a lot harder when you have three children and are shackled to this wretched town. Every time, something always comes around that is better. It's the time from the disappointment to that new exciting thing that is dark and and keeps me blinded. But, I do know something great is on the horizon.

And if it wasn't for darn kids who have the sweetest of little hearts, it would be easy to just take care of myself and take the first bus out of town. Unfortunately, you can't hide as much financial stress from them as you'd like. They do notice when you don't have a car anymore. But they are very adventurous and think the bus is very cool. Porter said, "Mom, we're like the poor people now, aren't we? I mean not poor like the poor people that don't have a house; just poor like the people who don't have cars and have to ride the bus." Madison said, "Does this mean we don't get to order anything when we go to McDonald's now? You know like we did last year?" They are really adaptable and don't mean to drown me in guilt with my own feelings of failure.

Porter sweetly asked, "Mom, if you could have anything right now what would it be?" I said, "Porter, things can't bring  you happiness. Whether you have 'things' or not you still have a choice to be happy." He replied, "Oh, I thought you would said you wanted a car since you don't have one anymore."

Lane asked if the bathroom could be his room since he doesn't have his own room. He slept in the bathtub the last two nights after filling it with blankets and pillows. Those things are probably fun to them, but torture me. They've asked why we don't have apple juice anymore. Another slice of the knife cuts into me. I already asked before everything happened if they could wait a couple weeks after school started before I bought them clothes. They were so gracious and said we already have clothes! I bought new shoes for Madison and Porter, but had to skip them for Lane. Unfortunately, Porter's came a half a size to small so Lane inherited them. But, Porter has assumed the role of "man of the house" an honor he takes much too seriously for his young age. He takes it in stride and asks if I want the money in his piggy bank to help. Pouring vinegar on the wound.

If nothing else, this gives me something to write about and as much as I am wallowing in my disappointment, it is just that. If I owned a mansion and an Escalade and died tomorrow, I'd still be buried in the ground. I was so frustrated over everything I spoke my mind and probably shouldn't. I told the kids I feel bad because I can't give them things they want. Porter said, "Mom, all we want is you and we have that." And all I want is them, and I have that.

The Balloon Soared High In The Sky

July of 2012 was when my divorce was officially finalized. It marked the end of a decade, but the beginning of my liberation. I spent a year trying to recover from financial ruin. I worked very hard. I worked two jobs. Last month, when I officially earned a paycheck for my writing, I felt like I had climbed to the top of the mountain. This wasn't something I had just desired for the past year, it was a dream I've wanted my entire life. I wanted it more than anything--to be a "real" writer; paid for my work. The last three weeks have been bliss even though there was a little slack in the pay, but it was going to catch up on this next paycheck. Then, things would not only be better financially, I would be writing for my job. It was hardly work as I anticipated each new article I would be assigned. This is what I had hoped for so that I could spend more time with my babies. I was like a balloon soaring high into the skies. It was a beautiful view from up in the sky.

My editor wrote me yesterday. Google changed their rankings. No more inundating the internet with organic articles. Too many would hurt the clients rankings instead of help. The simple bottom line was that there would not be anymore writers in the main stream pool. My job, my paid writing job, was gone. My balloon hit a wire. It popped. It plummeted. It deflated as it hit the ground.

I'm at the library now after taking two buses and 42 minutes to get here to return a book. The library closes an hour earlier than I thought it would and I forgot my book. I rode again and remember the faces of struggle I saw before, but they don't enlighten me like they did last summer. They don't motivate me. They make me sad. I left these people, and yes I do feel for them. Everyone has their struggles and I'm sure they have dreams too, but could any of them want to be a writer more than me? Did anyone take 42 years to doubt themselves until someone said they would pay them to write?  I can't discount their lives. I don't know what they are going through. This time, I don't want to ask. I'm sulking and making my disappointment the center of the universe.

I was so close to walking across the financial bridge. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and it was a bright light. I was going towards the light. I had to use the last little bit of my meager $700 savings to pay a lawyer for my custody court on Tuesday. On Wednesday, when I left to run errands my car was gone. Apparently, I didn't get across that bridge in time. This paycheck was going to fix that. That was a rough day as I tried to figure out how I would transport the kids back and forth. I worked it out though. I put a smile on my face and was grateful for the direct bus route that led from my house to theirs all the way across town. It's unusual, in fact nearly impossible for something like that to happen in Vegas. That was something to be thankful for. I calculated how much money I would be saving in gas, insurance, car payments to be made up, and maintenance. Hey, I was going to save a ton of money! My family offered a vehicle. I had to options: one I could use for free; and one I could purchase with low payments. I went to sleep that night feeling exhausted, but grateful. I am always grateful.

The dream of being a writer was so sweet, so close. I can't go back to a regular job when I have tasted what has created an addiction. I have to figure out how to find my way back to the oasis.

[To be continued...]

What A Life

I think I am turning into the construction worker whose house is never finished; the landscaper whose yard is incomplete; or the mechanic who has cars in the driveway. I have neglected to keep my own blog up for awhile. This is probably my most important writing project as I began it with the intention of having a yearbook chronicling the lives of Porter, Madison, and Lane's childhood. When they are 18 and I give it to them, I can say, "Here's your proof you had a good childhood. Here's your proof I was a good Mom. Take this to your therapist." Okay not that extreme, but I know how forgetful the mind can be. I can already go back the past year and have brought to memory an event recorded that would have otherwise been forgotten.

We are starting a new chapter as a family that I am really excited about. With my new writing job, I can work from home. It has been a lot of fun getting to be with the kids more. It has lessened the pain of being apart and the kids are really enjoying it too. I've had to work a lot of harder to find time to still meet my deadlines and juggle kids, but it's working. We are multi-tasking our activities. I take them to the pool. They swim. I write. We went to a library program Saturday. They played, I wrote. We're going swimming again and then I'll probably let them play at McDonalds for a couple of hours. I'll be writing.  I've had to ask them to help me a little more by having quiet time while I am in the middle of writing at home. Just being present is good enough for all of us. It's been amazing and I am so blessed to have this opportunity. I really feel more gratitude than words can express. A year ago, I told myself I wanted more money and a job that I could have more time with the kids and now it is happening.

The kids....Porter is really into learning how to do things on his own. He wants to learn to make as many things as he can all by himself. He's able to fry eggs. (Occasionally forgets to turn the stove on or misses the skillet.) He's adept at Top Ramen, instant oatmeal, and toast. He can almost make macaroni and cheese by himself. He can blend a smoothie and makes great barbecue chicken. And, last but not least, he knows how to thaw a bowl of frozen peas. He can't live without those. It's nice when he can make stuff for the other two--and they do take advantage. He pretends he is opening a kitchen.

Madison is slowly turning back into her pre-divorce self. She still struggles, but she's coming out of it. She has a lot of unanswered questions and doesn't even know how to articulate them. She is still struggling with reading, but every once in a while gets it. Her memory is phenomenal. She saw an ad on for Red Roof Hotel and said, "Isn't that where we stayed when we went to the concert in Phoenix?" I actually had quit a memory at her age, and I'm wondering if hers will kick in and she'll be able to read better this year. With my new job, I can spend more time in their classrooms too! Yea...not. Madison is the most amazing, helpful child when she wants to be. She can be quit the opposite when she chooses not to. I already noticed a big difference with her being with me more.

Lane is starting to get a little more independent from me. I have "he's my baby syndrome" bad. Fortunately, he's too independent to fall for it. He wants to do what Porter and Madison do and still doesn't quite agree that they're not the same age--even though he realizes they are 7 and he is 5. He reminds me of Kim when she ran around with the boys. She didn't know she couldn't do what they were doing so she did it. Lane is doing so well with his writing and reading. He knows so much already for school. I have to credit his Grandma Smith for that. She is really good at working with the kids. Lane still has a little lazy in him. He has to find ways to make cleaning fun. If he can pretend the trash can is real and it needs to be fed, he's good. His toys always have to be "rescued" by a superhero to get back to their toy box. He's great at cleaning the kitchen--as long as I will help him.

I am always interested in listening to them say what they want to be when they grow up. Lane wants to be a Fireman still. Madison wants to be a Veterinarian. Porter wants to be a rockstar. It's hard to believe I will have two second graders and a kindergartener. I'm excited for them and their futures as they are such good kids. I relish the moments of their childhood now because I've seen plenty of people have their children change as they become teens and young adults.I don't know what the future holds for my family, but know I have to enjoy every moment. They teach me more than I teach them.

I Is A Real Writer Now

My first day "off the job" as a paid writer. My company training is complete and I am spending my first at home day working. I haven't dressed, combed my hair, or put on makeup. I'm wearing old boyfriend shorts, a t-shirt, and mismatched socks. No commute in Vegas traffic. Haven't seen a soul. Complete solitude. I have corresponded with my editor three times and taken a phone call from him. (I just like to say "my editor". I have an editor.) I am experiencing slight eye-strain. That can't possibly because of my age. My computer must not be functioning. I shall carry on....or type on.

Two Sides of the Coin

My "It Is Life" column for July:

http://aliveutah.com/it-is-life-two-sides-to-every-coin/