Back Seat Driver

The day you realize your title of "Mommy" has been demoted to "Mom" is the day you hand over your car keys to the teenager standing in front of you.

My 15-year-old daughter, Allison bulldozed through the front door, jumping and skipping around the dining room table, squealing "I passed! I got it Mom! I can DRIVE now!". Her father saunters in behind her with a Cheshire grin and says, "Finally you can chauffeur me around".

She pulls me into a headlock- hug and kisses my cheek. For a single moment I look into her piercing ice-blue eyes and see the baby that I once carried in my arms. I can smell her sweet perfume and suddenly I remember the sweet smell of her tiny body when she was a baby. I remember the way her hands fit into mine, like tiny doll hands. I remember her toothless grin, and her wild, cotton-white hair standing up straight in the mornings as she squealed with delight when I came to pick her up from her crib.

This is happening too fast. This is not supposed to be this way. Make time stop. Make her stay young, and free of worry, and free of danger. Make her a child forever. Make me her Mommy forever.

Allison pulls me back and says, "What's wrong, Mom?" "Nothing really..." attempting to make a joke I say, "I'm worried about my poor car". She rolls her eyes and grins.

She extends her hand palm up. I look at it and give her "five". She remains standing, hand extended, with a disapproving look. "Oooohhhh... you want me to let you drive; you want my car keys".

Allison grins, her beautiful smile overpowering even the most brilliant of the Sun's rays. I dig the keys out of my purse and reluctantly hand them to her.

She gets in the driver side as I sit in the passenger's seat. The car rocks a bit as she maneuvers the seat settings back and forth until she finds a comfortable position from the pedals and steering wheel.

"Do you want me to get you a phone book to sit on?" I ask, to make fun of her tiny, yet long legged frame. "No mom" she says with an exasperated look.

The car slowly rolls back and suddenly I am transported back to 12-years-old. I'm riding a roller coaster for the first time. The roller coaster is slowly making it's acsending route to the top of the terrifying drop. Click-click-click-click-click....

"Which way do you want to go Mom?" 'Click-click-click-click'... the blinker is clicking impatiently as we are paused at the stop sign.

"Lets go right. We can stop at the store and get something for dinner".

She pulls out slowly and I remind her that, while she is being cautious - which is good - not to pull out TOO slowly, "You'll make yourself a sitting duck if someone flies around the corner". "Okay, sorry Mom".

After a few more, "Okay, sorry Mom"s we are at Publix. She does a fantastic job at parking the car. As I get out, I notice something new about her. She looks so much older. She looks proud and mature.

Mature. I don't like that word. I start to notice boys looking at her, MEN looking at her. Surely they assume she is "old enough" because she was driving. I catch a man, most likely early 20's doing a double take. I position myself in front of her as we walk, and interrupt the all-to-long stare he is giving my oblivious child. He snaps from his daze as he realizes a new picture has come into focus - my glare. He quickly averts his eyes, and head-down walks a clear, wide path out of our direction.

We return to our car to load the groceries. I open the back tailgate, and one of her soccer cleats tumbles out. I lean down to pick it up and examine the scuffed and dirt-streaked woman's size 8. Soon she'll be driving herself to practices and won't need "Mom" to check for her water jug, ball, and gear bag. "It's not over yet." I quietly whisper to myself. "Huh? Did you say something Mom?" "No baby".

We get back in to drive home. She does a superb job despite my death-like grip on my arm rest and small noises uttering from my throat as she manuevers a long S-curve.

She pulls the car into our driveway and the 'click-click-click-click' has been replaced with the whining screech of roller coaster wheels coming to rest on the track.

She looks at me as she turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition. I stare at her a moment, and she says, "Love you Mommy".

Go Fish

I didn't realize how bad I sucked at cards until my six year old clued me in that Go Fish is not as elementary as I had thought.
Cameron and I play every night, and every night I stare in bewilderment as he smugly lays down his winning Book. I have to admit, I severely underestimated his ability to play the game without me "cheating" on his behalf.
Each night I come home from work, he patiently waits until I'm done with my homework. Well, maybe not completely patient; he tends to hover over me as I work on my laptop, asking "Are you done now?", while holding his deck of Lightning McQueen cards in his hands.
I end up saving my place in my work and closing my laptop as I say, "IT'S ON!". His smile spreads across his face displaying two missing bottom teeth, as he moves my books and stacks them neatly out of the way. He hands me the cards and says, "Seven each. "Remember Mommy, TWO hands - and that's it".
His little hands are not quite capable of spreading the cards into a fan, so he lays them neatly in rows on the table in front of him. "Don't look Mommy, that's cheating." "I know, Cam. I won't peek."
The two hands usually turn into five as I try to redeem myself from a total shut-out. Our last hand he wins (again) with his NINE books to my one. Despicable.
I don't mind being subjected to the "Loser" dance each night; it's all worth it just to have a few moments away from the demands of my nightly school work.

Sunday Sweetness

Sunday mornings: laying in bed, snuggled into my pillows, waking to the aroma of coffee brewing, sifting into my sleeping senses.

Kurt is carefully planning our usual Sunday feast and working quietly in the kitchen while the sun's morning rays are beckoning me to wake.

Our cats, Buckaroo and Hollister are yawning and stretching at my feet while our Boxers are in the kitchen (no doubt) intoxicated by the scent of pancakes and sausage.

I wake up, brush my teeth and wash my face. I pull my hair back into a haphazard bun and head into the kitchen. I pass Cameron in the front room playing a video game. I know without having to ask that he has been up for sometime. He has learned to be patient on the weekends. I am thankful he doesn't insist on waking us up at the crack of dawn. My weekdays begin at 5:30 so it's nice that on weekends I can sleep until 8:30.

The teenagers are still in slumber, but I know both Allie and Marshall will be awake soon, lured out of sleep by their dad's famous Sunday Breakfast.

I love these mornings. They are quiet and peaceful.

Soon we'll be getting ready for the soccer game and behaving in our normal soccer hooligan fashion along the sidelines, cheering for Allison and her team. I look forward to those moments too.

The girls are older now and watching them play thrills me and makes me proud. I don't coach anymore but I can throw down one hell of a cheer when they score! The girls love it - even if they grin in embarrassment. Once I didn't do my cheer after a goal and instead of celebrating with one another they turned to me and yelled, "Where's our cheer??!" I love those girls.

I am going to surely go through withdrawls when Allison starts high school this fall. No more attending practices, no more raising my eyebrow when Isabella utters profanity on the field, no more holding their cell phones and making sure they have their water bottles, no more comforting them when they are injured or have a bad day.



I'll no longer be on the side lines encouraging them as they run past heading for the goal; I'll be 50ft away sitting on a bleacher.

Ugh. I'm going to hate that, But for now, I am going to cheer the loudest and still be there to call them by their full names when their little smart mouths start running.

I do love those girls.

another clue

I was reading through my FB homepage this morning and stopped at my dad's. It was a story he was sharing about his first vehicle. A 1965 VW bus painted red and white with a peace sign on the rear and both sides, and Budweiser curtains hanging up. The seats had been removed to accommodate his Suzuki 100 dirt bike that he rode while he lived in Kansas.

Three things:
1.) never knew what my dad's first car was. Isn't that supposed to be a major topic of conversation amongst dads and teens (girls and boys) when getting around driving age?
2.) didn't know my dad lived in Kansas. When - was he born there? Shit - I don't even know WHERE he was born.
3.) didn't know my dad was a Hippie that rode a dirt bike. All I knew was he enlisted into the Army and went to Vietnam (which I know nothing about either).

I can't explain the feelings that up welled within me. It was like sharing a moment -a moment meant for fathers and daughters only; a moment that was meant for me at 15 years old.

I wanted to post a reply that hurt him as much as I was hurting in that instant. I wanted him to feel the hole inside that I felt. I wanted to make that sadness fill up with revengeful sarcasm.

Those moments passed years ago and they are gone.

I have no real point to this - just a moment passed that I missed.

Happy Easter

Easter is coming faster that I would have liked. Another holiday to hurry and up and wait for.

It never fails... every year I have the best intentions to get all the shopping done on time and sit back, relax, and wait for the moments to come. However, that would just be too damn easy for my mindset.

I find myself at 11 o'clock at night, rolling my eyes at the back of some idiot's head in the checkout line, because they are exchanging recipes with the cashier, all the while the eggs in my cart all but seem to have incubated and hatched. I should be more patient, but honestly, it is a bit rude not to take into consideration that procrastinators (such as myself) are on borrowed time.

I think there should be time limits at checkout lines. If you can't get it right the first time, you have to go to the end of the line. In fact, I'll take it further. They should have a line set up special for those that A): cannot count past 10 items, and B): have screaming children throwing themselves into a limp mess on the floor, faces so red you wonder how long it will be before they pass out.
I do feel for these moms and dads. I am a mom so I know, that like C4, a child can blow - leaving you there, shell shocked, with waves of embarrassment radiating off of you like radon.

I had that happen to me once - and only once. Cameron was 10 months old. Instead of finishing my transaction. I simply took him in my arms, took my purse, and walked out of the store (of course only to realize I left my car keys dangling in the cart I had abandoned). That was a fun day.

I end up smiling warily and shuffle forward, secretly wishing 42inch tires and an obnoxious air horn were mounted on my shopping cart.

I get home, go to my closet and proceed to stuff eggs with chewy gelatin byproducts. As I am filling the eggs my mind begins to roam, as it usually does when I am doing mindless tasks.

I can't for the life of me figure out who in the Hell would have thought it a great idea to make a jelly bean that tasted like buttered popcorn. I love popcorn - and the more butter the better, but in a jelly bean? That's just wrong. I snicker and tell myself that must be what the Easter Bunny brings all the bad little girls and boys.

After my legs are fairly numb from sitting cross legged for so long, meticulously placing even numbers into each egg (because Lord help me if one gets more than the other) I stretch out and take in the Easter carnage laying on my closet floor.

I gather all of the empty bags and plastic wrappers to throw them away. I have to shove them to the bottom of the garbage so the kids won't notice the Easter Bunny has used their local Wal Mart to do their Easter shopping, and because Cameron has learned to look through to see if I have thrown any of his things away. Let me clarify. I don't throw his toys away - that would be heartless. I throw out things such as trucks with three wheels, or broken crayons. For whatever reason, he - like his father - cannot get rid of anything.

I place the baskets neatly on the dining room table and wait for the morning to come. That moment, the moment where they come from their rooms, grinning and giggling, in a full run to see what goodies were delivered during the night, is what makes it all worth it.

Moth balls and Cat Food Sandwiches

I've been absent for a while... "I've been busy" would most definitely be an understatement. I started school again about three weeks ago. I'm currently taking three classes at the local Community College to finish up my AA. I know it's been a while, but now or never is how I look at it.

Working full time, three children, and college is draining but in the long run it will be the best thing I have done for myself.

After the next few semesters, I would like to move into a University and finish my degree in Education. I want to teach. I want to be in a classroom with kids - but not the "can you tie my shoe Mrs. Danish?" kids... I want to teach high school.

When I tell someone that, they look at me like I have two heads. They immediately retort with some line about guns and knives. I shrug them off and say, "Can you honestly picture me teaching first graders?" My personality and sense of humor would damage them beyond repair, although I'm sure the school counselor would appreciate the job security.

I think my dream started when I was very young. My mom is a teacher and I would spend my afternoons in her classroom.
My mom has been teaching for as long as I can remember. She would bring home her papers to be graded and would hand me a red ink pin. She would let me draw the smiley faces on them or write the 100% on the upper right corners. She would ask my sister and I to come and help decorate her bulletin boards and help cut out shapes and letters for her calendars.

I remember lining up my dolls and I would teach them lessons from old workbooks my mom handed down to me. My sister and I would spend hours in our basement sitting at the white table and ice cream chairs my Nan Nan bought us. The smell of old books and moth balls would linger in my senses, and to this day their smells remind me of those moments. We would take turns being the teacher and the student.

I wanted to be - and have always wanted to be -just like my mom. She doesn't teach high school, instead she teaches VE (Varying Exceptionalities). Some know it better as the "special kids". I don't know how she does it; she works every day with an age range of third to sixth graders, all with their own varying degree of mental and emotional disturbances. I think it's her sense of humor that keeps her going. She has a fantastic sense of humor.

She calls everyday and we talk. Sometimes she will vent about her day, the kids, and the crazy parents she has to deal with. One of my favorite stories is the one with the two brothers. The day before, they fed their cat a ham their mother had made, so in turn she sent them to school with cat food sandwiches. She laughed as she said she could not figure out what smelled so bad in her classroom until it was lunchtime. That must have been one interesting phone call home.

I remember another story she told me years ago. A child in her class walked up to her with a pencil and said, "Mrs. Lucy, the voices in my head are telling me to stab you with this pencil". She said she just looked at him and said, "Honey, you tell those voices to shut up. Now go sit down".

That's the kind of teacher she is. She is caring, funny, and NO nonsense. That to me is what a teacher should be. Like a mother should be. Like the mom I have.

Bad Girls

I went to check in with Allison and Kaylie last night. I walked in and both girls were propped up on Allison's bed, knees up supporting laptops. They both looked up and grinned, then both heads went back down in succession. I went to turn and noticed a pink carbon copy paper taped to the wall. It was taped with packaging tape, to be sure it was securely displayed - right next to her soccer trophies. I stopped short and said, "What is this?" On closer inspection, I realized it was a Dean Referral with my daughter's name on it. I spun back around and both girls were staring at me with a smirk. Allison said, "I wondered when you were going to notice that". I gave her the "oh please do tell" look and she proceeded... "Remember the day I was really mad at you?", in which I replied, "Which day would that have been Allison? There are so many to choose from lately". She just rolled her eyes and said, "Read it".

It was the day a boy hit her in her face. I remember that day. My husband (her dad) had gone berserk on the Dean and wanted repercussions immediately. It turned out, Allison had "flicked" him on the back of the neck, which resulted in a two day suspension for her and a five day suspension for him. Technically she put her hands on him first. I had been so angry with her. I was angry that she had not given me the whole story. That she had twisted it and shaped it to fit her as an innocent victim that had done nothing to provoke a fight or argument. I stood by my daughter, regardless. No boy should ever lay a hand on a girl. But my anger was because she had omitted information, which is the same as lying.

I looked at her and said, "So you get mad at me and plaster this to your wall?" Kaylie chimed in with, "Yeah, the night she put it up, you came in here and turned to leave; you never even noticed it! Allison was amazed!". They were both grinning and giggling like it was the best practical joke they had ever thought of.

I looked at them both. Two teenage girls so proud of their indignant behavior -and in that moment I was thankful. Thankful that this was the worst they had done. Thankful they were propped up safely in bed listening to music and watching YouTube.
I looked at them both under my eyebrows, and said, "Huh... maybe if you get enough of these I won't have to paint your room pink like you wanted". Their eyes widened and laughter blurted from their smiles, filling the room. I winked at them and turned. I shut the door to them still giggling.

Two of a Kind

I always wondered what it was like to grow up in a large family with brothers and sisters, but then again, I am sure a lot of people wonder what it's like to be a twin. I get that question often. My reply is simple, "I don't know what it's like to not be one".
It's just Currie and me. We have no other sisters or brothers, except for step-sisters and a step-brother, but that doesn't really count because they never grew up with us.
We have always been close. I attribute that to having only each other after our parents divorced and my mom remarried. Don't get me wrong... my mom and step-dad have always been there for us, but there is comfort in knowing you share a special bond with another person that cannot be compared to any other.
There is a sacred bond between twins. A connection to each others souls that not even time and space cannot break.
We are truly identical, but as we get older we maintain our own unique characteristics that confine each of our identities. My eyes are a bit bigger, my hair curls at the ends- hers is straight as a board, and my face is a bit more heart shaped, while hers is rounded. I'm even two inches taller than she is! We found that out only three years ago. We were measuring ourselves (long story) and decided to do our height. What a shocker. I laughed and she sulked.
Of all the minor differences, we still remain a spectacle when we go out together. People stare and do a double take, while others ask, "Are you sisters?" Our unanimous response is, "No. We just met". Some get the sarcasm while others, not so fortunate with the dry humor gene, just give us a blank stare.
Growing up was a bit more difficult. Unless you knew us on a personal level, there was no way of telling who was who.
When we were babies, my grandfather actually drew an X on one of our foreheads, then of course forget which one he marked. He was quite a character.
When we could walk and talk, we wouldn't reveal our identity, so the adults would resort to asking, "What is your sister's name?".
On many occasions my mom was called to our classrooms to help the teachers tell us apart. I remember she was sick and wanted to go play outside on the swings, but I wanted to stay in and draw. So we switched. We wouldn't budge. I don't think we were being defiant on purpose... I think it was more of a secret pact between us... I wasn't going to tell on her and she wasn't going to tell on me.
Teachers confused us often so as we entered elementary school, they split us up and we had to attend different classes. I'll never forget that first day of school when I had to enter the classroom without the security of my sister. I never felt so alone. But we managed to find each other on the playground and stayed linked, arm-in-arm, until the bell rang.
As teenagers we stayed close, sharing the same friends and interests, but our personalities were admittedly different. I was content staying in for a quiet night, while Currie's motto was "Go, Go, Go".
Once, I was swimming in the pool and her boyfriend approached with this sheepish look. I didn't understand what he wanted until it became clear he thought I was Currie. He had just returned from a family vacation, and had purchased her a gift. He was bringing it to her (me). It was a set of black pearl earrings. I listened as he fumbled around his words, grinning widely at the notion he had NO idea the difference between me and my sister - HIS GIRLFRIEND. I sat propped up on the pool side with my face resting on my elbows as he shyly handed me the jewelry box. I paused, thinking "This is way too easy, what an idiot". I opened the box and did my best impression of my sister's surprise and then flatly said, "Thanks. I'll make sure Currie gets these when I get home." His face must have turned three shades of white, then four shades of red. I smiled, placed the box on the pool side and went back to my laps. I think they broke up a few days later.
After a while, I became known as the "prissy" one while she was the "flirt". I remember distinctly at a party we were having, a friend of ours, Matt Schlomer saying, "I didn't know you were so cool." I didn't know how to respond to that. I never thought of myself as a total dork. I mean, I had a lot of friends, and went to a ton of parties, but I guess I was always a little more reserved (for lack of better words). I was the "calm" one and she was the "wild" one. We balanced each other, and I don't think it would have worked any other way.
After High School, we both married, very young and started a family right away. It's funny how in physical form we mimic each other, and in life we do the same.
Her oldest was born in 1994, a girl. My oldest was born in 1995, also a girl. A year later in the fall 1996 I had my oldest son. Then in the fall of 1997 she had her oldest son. In 2000 she had her last child, a boy and three years later in 2003 I had my last, also a boy. I am sure my mom and dad thought we were on a mission to populate Brevard County, but it just happened that way. None of my children were planned, in fact I have given them all nicknames: "Uh-oh", "Oh Shit", and "Oh well".
Our children are all very close - more like brothers and sisters than cousins, but none of them will ever know the bond we share. They will never share the same thoughts or finish each other's sentences (we are a force to be reckoned with at playing Trivia Pursuit and Pictionary), they will never have the bond of being sisters and best friends always.
I hope the gene does skip, and one - or two - of our own children will carry on the twins in our family. It would be nice (one day) to ask them as they get older how it feels to be a twin.

The Blame Game

I don't blame my dad for leaving when I was two years old. Marriages fall apart. I blame him for the gaps between years that we never saw or spoke to him. I blame him for the lies my mother had to tell to protect us from the ugliness that tangled their marriage. I blame him for the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering why he wasn't there when I wanted to talk to him and be a part of his life. I blame him for not choosing us.
He has remarried three different times since and never had anymore children. He has step-children that have consumed his life since I was 10. His first marriage, Elizabeth LeBeach, or as known by mom, Elizabeth LeBitch, was the epitome of an evil step mother. I was only three, but I remember her well. She had long black hair, was young - twenty I think - with long red fingernails.
It was her idea to have my father give up parental rights,though I cannot deny responsibility for the final say so to my dad.
I was four. My mom had remarried and he came to my step-dad and asked him to adopt us. We legally took our new last name shortly after.
I remember the next few years. I can clearly see his truck parked out front of our two story brick house with a pale yellow balcony. I remember running down the front walk of our home and jumping into his arms. I don't remember LeBitch in those years. By that time, he divorced her, and in turn she took everything: his big yellow jeep, the house on the lake, and even his dog, Sambo.
I was 10 and in the hospital. I had been admitted for tests because of headaches I would often get. As I lay in the hospital bed, my mom was sitting in the chair next to me. I saw my dad come in. Behind him was a woman I had never seen. Initially, it was a flashback to LeBitch because all I could focus on was the long black hair. My mom jolted up and stood ready for a confrontation, but quickly realized it was not the woman that had thrown all of our toys away or would call in the middle of the night to harass my mother. Instead, this was Debbie.
She was my favorite. She was kind and soft spoken, and cared for us like we were her own. She had a daughter, Ashley, that was four years younger than us.
My mom and step-dad moved us to Florida not long after so he did not call or see us much.
We spent the next four years sporadically keeping in touch and visiting him in Mississippi during a few summers. During those summers we would stay for weeks. He worked at Meridian Aviation, managing the Linemen. It was a small, private airport that stood adjacent to the larger, Meridian Airport.
Some days we would spend the day with him at work, hanging out in the Pilot's lounge, but mostly we would spend our time with Debbie and Ashley. We rode horses a lot. He had four: Sundance, Willie, Sport, and Bandit.
Debbie rode Willie, a blond Palomino, and we would take turns riding Sundance, a mellow brown Quarter that had an affinity for Mountain Dew. Sport was a young buck who spooked easily, a lesson I learned while on a ride that ended with three cracked ribs.
I was 14 when they divorced. I missed her terribly and still kept in touch, though I have not seen or spoken to her in over 8 years.
He married Barbara when I was 15. She has three children, Jennifer, Amy, and Chris. They still remain married, but our time with him faded as he became more and more consumed with his new life.
I have three children of my own now. Allison and Marshall haven't seen him for almost seven years, and Cameron has never met him. He now has grandchildren through Barbara's children.
Recently, Barbara's youngest child, Chris took my dad's last name as a gesture of appreciation to him for being the father he never had. Chris has a son, who now shares my dad's last name as well. A legacy to the bloodline he will never physically share.
I am angry and hurt. I am angry because we were never given the choice to choose our name. I am hurt because I feel erased. I feel forgotten. I feel like an outsider to his life.
I have fewer memories and more regret. Of all the things I regret most, are the gaps in my memory. The spans of time left dangling between the years we saw or spoke to him. I was too young to remember much of it; the pieces of those years float in my memory like foam on the waves of the ocean. They come together, but quickly disperse before making a discernible form. I want to keep them because that is all I have been given.
He has been making an attempt to reconnect the bonds he let deteriorate between us, and I want that. I want to be a part of his life, but it feels superficial. It feels like trying to reconnect with a stranger. A stranger who's eyes and nose I have. A stranger who's sense of humor I have. A stranger who's blood runs through my veins. A stranger that I call Daddy.

What is Your Return Policy?

So the saying goes, "Treat each day as if it were a gift", or something along those lines. Whoever spoke that did not have the package that I had the displeasure of unwrapping today.
I'm mentally exhausted from my job. It's not a career - it's a job; something I have to do to bring home the bacon and keep our heads above water. I answer the calls of patients that need/ want every kind of narcotic and medication known to man. I am so drained I cannot even muster a decent blog. Just a rant. That's all this is. Nothing more.
It's like every low emotion swirling in my head: anger, apathy, distaste, sadness, and a slow depression creeping back into the into the corner of my mind, like a fog hovering thick and low, whiting out the sun's rays. Okay, well maybe that was a little too deep, but you've had those days when you just want to hit the reset button - or eject the disc and start a new game altogether because you can't get past that one pesky Level.
It's not entirely my job... that is only half the battle Monday through Friday. It's coming home. I love my family. That I know more than anything. It's the demands put on me as a wife and mother. It's the constant worry that Kurt is in a bad mood because of his constant pain. It's the worry that I will have to pick up the emotional pieces that are left of my 14 year old daughter because, well...let's face it - she's 14. It's worry that my 13 year old son did well in school today and completed his homework. It's worry that my 6 year old has expanded his vocabulary with yet another colorful expression picked up by his older brother. It's the worry of being on guard and ready to Ref another argument between the 14 and 13 year old.
This is my life between 6:00am and 10:00pm - each day - everyday.
I know what my gift is every day before opening it. It's like getting socks for Christmas - and not the cute, fuzzy soft ones - the socks in the value pack from Wal-Mart, with the cheap price tag displayed boldly in the upper right corner. You take it politely and say "Thank you", because after all, it is a gift, and it's the thought that counts, but in your mind you're thinking, "This is what I get? After all I have done - this all you could come up with?"
Of course this is no body's fault - it never will be. This is just where I am for right now.
I love my children. I love their laughter and squeals filling the home - even if it is followed by a 'CRASH' and a "OooooOoooOooOo you're gonna be in big trouble when Mom sees what you did!" I love that Kurt is getting better each day - even the bad days, and can be home with the kids after school and be a bigger part of their lives.
It's just moments like this where I sit quietly as I soak in the chaos swirling around me. The moments when you have the same song stuck in your head and can't get rid of it. The moment when you open that gift, hoping it is something exciting and new, but instead only a package of generic white socks. You smile- a weak, empty smile and say 'Thank you' then pray the store allows returns.