The Mother

Tis the night before Christmas.

As a child, even in the toughest of times, when the only thing certain was the uncertainty, this night was filled with excitement. I never believed in Santa, but there was something magical about the anticipation on this night. 

Every year on Christmas morning, we read Luke chapter 2, the account of Christ's birth. When young, I could identify with the worship and joy of the shepherds. I gloried in the songs we sing at this time of year, imagining myself as the little drummer boy, a king from orient, an angel on high. Happiness was the Christmas spirit for me for many years. 

Today, this Christmas Eve, I feel my joy tinged heavily with sorrow, even as the first Christmas must have been.

As a young, Jewish girl, Mary must have known of the Messiah who had been prophesied for thousands of years. When the Angel Gabriel announced she would be His mother, I wonder if, like any newly pregnant woman, she was filled with not only the normal worry that comes with the territory, but the additional shock and awe that would come with bearing the Savior of man. 

I've had three children, and with each one the pain of child birth was severe, but the moment they were born, there was ceaseless joy. She must have felt that, but how soon did she begin to think of the inevitable moment: her sweet, innocent baby boy would die a gruesome and merciless death on the cross. 

Joy tinged with sorrow. Maybe tinged is an understatement. Joy inundated with sorrow. 

With the anticipation of gifts and festivities on Christmas I also find myself in dread of the day after tomorrow. Because of the divorce, my own babies will be splitting the holiday time with their father. He will have them for eight days. 

I've never been away from any one of them for that length of time.

It's on a small scale, I know, but this year I identify with the Mother, who must have been afraid and chose to trust anyway. Who must have been heartbroken in the midst of her happiness. She must have held her baby tighter, pondering the eventualities in her heart. I know tonight I held my own, and let tears fall. 

It's only eight days. It's only forever.

Winter Nights

My worry is like a shadow. At times it is before me, at times it is behind me, but it never leaves me.

The sun shines brightly on my life, the blessings the light brings reflect off the golden hair of my children, brilliant rays that bring peace and clarity. The shadow is behind me, distant and small.

Yet, some days there is a cloud, some days the darkness looms, some days I cannot break free of its shade. Larger than life, it grows to blot out the sun. I cling to the truths I know: the sun still shines, I just can't see it.

In those moments, let me cling to you. No words will dispel the dark, but let me feel your strength when I can't summon mine.

Don't say what I know, that all will be well, that all is for a reason, that all works for good. These mantras play in my head, and yet they cannot always be a flame in the cold abyss. But if I could rest in your arms, and dream in your love, the shadow becomes a solace; only with you.

Please be still. Please be silent. Please show me what I can't see for myself.

Just in this moment. Just for a little while.

The 45th Parallel

"Divorce is always good news. I know that sounds weird but it's true, because no good marriage ever ended in divorce." - Louis C.K.

Friday night I was driving with the kids toward Salem, OR. At one point we passed a sign that said "The 45th parallel: half way between the equator and the north pole." It reminded me of the first time I crossed the continental divide, a moment made intrinsically valuable for no other reason than I had never been there before, and was excited about what was on the other side.

On the other side of the 45th Parallel is Müsh.

Interactions with him make me more and less of what I am: More peaceful, less worried. More loving, less hateful. More forgiving, less bitter. More calm, less angry. More secure, less vulnerable. This is accomplished in one way, in my opinion - he simply lets me be. Extraordinary.

I started this post with that quote because I feel there is an expectation of certain behavior, particularly in the Christian community, during a divorce. I myself have lain expectations on people in the past of what I feel their behavior should have been at a time like this.

I've had to go back and eat the well meaning advice I gave to them, a massive serving of humble and "walk a mile" pie.

The process of divorce is quite terrible. But the results, at least of mine, have been astronomically better than the entirety of my marriage. What I've learned about God, love and about myself in the last six months is more knowledge than I've gained in the 12 years I was with the Marine. Hard won, to be sure, but worth it, because now I get to experience something totally new: being valued in a relationship for who I am, not for who I could be if I work super, super hard at it all of the time.

Müsh is someone I've known for years, a member of a family I love dearly. Consequently, he's seen me at some of the worst moments of my life, at my most unguarded and imperfect. And it was, in fact, in one of those moments that he saw something of worth in me. Imagine being esteemed when you are at your lowest point. Like I said, extraordinary.

One moment with him is worth more than thousands without him. One day with him brings more joy and laughter than years prior. So don't pity me for the break of my marriage. Don't feel sad for me, because things didn't work "as they should have."

All is exactly as it should be, because love grows on either side of the parallel.

HTTR

*to the tune of "Friends in Low Places" by Garth Brooks. Ben, this one is for you. Start prepping your vocal chords, my brother.*

Blame it all on my faith,
I just texted Kate,
To bet against next Sunday's game.
The Pat's and the 'Skins,
Let the the battle begin,
And may the loser be shamed.

So my teams three and four,
Maybe somehow they'll score,
Against the Pat's defensive line.
If Cousin's can lead,
And Garcon can receive,
I feel it will turn out just fine.

Cause I'm a Redskins fan,
Whatever, whenever,
Every week I believe,
They'll keep it together,
It hasn't gone that way.
But we'll be ok.
Yeah, RG3 should've been a never,
And it's hard to see the team getting better,
But I'm a fan,
Whatever, whenever.

So I guess I was wrong,
I forgot about Gronk,
Edelman, Brady and Blount.
Another Patriots win,
They did it again,
Dominated, and wore my team out.

Yet I'm not gonna freak,
I'll wait till next week,
In seven days things will look great.
Meanwhile, I lost the bet,
And she won't let me forget:
This song's for the Patriots and Kate.

Cause I'm a fan,
Whatever, whenever,
Every week I believe,
They'll keep it together,
Every week I'm let down,
But I still stick around.
And every game feels like forever,
But I can't give up on this sad endeavor,
Cause I'm a fan,
Whatever, whenever.
 

The Pizza Is Real

You've known me your entire life. If you know one thing about me, you know that I love pizza. I've always loved pizza. I've always wanted a pizza to call my own.

One day, I walk into a pizza place and decide I will eat no other pizza but the pizza from this place. For better or worse. Till death do us part.

For twelve years, I do just that. I never get tired of that pizza, though very sad that it's starting to make me feel miserable more and more. Still, this is the pizza I've chosen and by God, I'm going to stick with it if it kills me. Why? Because I love this pizza.

Then it happens. I find out the pizza isn't even real pizza. In fact, nothing about the pizza was true. The pizza is a lie. Not only is the pizza a lie, it's been giving itself out free while I've been having to pay all these years.

The pizza place closes its doors and moves elsewhere, to continue giving its fake contents out to people who either don't know or don't care.

This hasn't ruined pizza for me, though. I decide to move on. I try other, new pizza in rapid succession, hoping that any one of them will be better. Not hard to top, but in the end I give up, knowing that the right pizza might just have to be something that shows up.

Then I notice a pizza place that has been there the whole time, I'd just didn't see it because I was so focused on my twelve year pizza commitment that it didn't even occur to me until I was pizzaless. I think, "Ok, I'll give it a shot."

And guess what? It's the best pizza I've ever had. Ever. Eeeeeeeever. And because you've known me your whole life, and known the struggle is real, I rejoice at the chance to tell you, "I think I found new pizza!!" I'm ecstatic. I'm giddy. I'm so happy, I can't stop smiling at the very thought of this pizza.

I'm bursting at the seams with unfathomable joy when I tell you.

And the only thing you say is, "Ew."

Fine. I'm not going to share anything about the pizza with you.

One Man's Trash

After the ex moved out at the beginning of July, one of my dear friends suggested I jump into the dating game. Why wait? God knows my ex hadn't and that was while I was still "blissfully" married to him. I weighed that advice against the people who told me I needed to wait a year, at least, before jumping into a relationship. 

Dating is something I've never actually done before, at least not dating more than one person. I'd only ever been with my ex. What do people even do? As a young lady, I was taught that dating was specifically for the purpose of finding your mate. Is it any surprise I married the first guy I dated? And while that isn't untrue, it turns out you can go out with a person and have absolutely no intention of ever marrying them. 

Dating for fun. It's possible. Who knew?

I stood on the precipice of this vast canyon of unknown experiences and was given this additional, and life changing, piece of advice. 

"Kate, there will be men you want to hang out with, and men you want to sleep with. The trick is finding the one you want to do both with." As I contemplated stepping over the edge, I didn't hear the added, "and you'll probably have to go through a lot before you find him."

This is not the post to talk about the descent and what manner of things I found there. Oh no. This is the post to tell you about two things I've learned:

First, unless you have an idea of what you're worth, you will put up with a lot of things you ought not to for longer than you ought to. Take it from me, someone who denied my marriage had actually been very bad for a very long time. 

Second, my new mantra is "truth and perspective." 

I am shocked at the way my ex sees me. It's ugly. In his mind, I've been as ugly to him for years as he is ugly to me now. He doesn't see me as I am, and I no longer see him as who I thought he was all this time. According to him, I've been worthless. Worse than that, I've been a soul-sucking leech, the reason for his financial ruin, for his giving up the only job he ever knew, for his three little "consequences," twelve years of misery and, to date, his greatest regret. 

That hurt. But that's perspective without the balance of truth. Nothing will change it for him. 

And for a while I thought nothing would change it for me. I thought the world of my ex for a very long time, a lot of hero worship. For him to think those things of me is devastating and some of it really cut me to the core. 

But after a summer in the canyon of vast experiences, I can tell you that perspective always needs to be balanced with the truth. Not just his of me, but my own of myself. 

If I hadn't learned this before now, I would be second guessing something that happened to me recently. Someone I've known for a very long time looked at me and saw something valuable. I don't know what that means, where it will lead, or what will happen in the future. But I do know that while the perspective of one says I wasn't worth keeping, the perspective of another is that I'm worth having. 

Rathe than question the latter, I've decided to take it as truth. 

Maybe, just maybe, I can be treasure this time. 

Worthy

It was one of the most beautiful days. Blue sky for miles, and fluffy white clouds. Country roads and cool air. Early spring, just after Easter.

She was just a baby in the backseat, my oldest. Not yet two, with her mass of curly hair and her little cherub cheeks. I was in the passenger side, my brow furrowed with worry. We had a flight to catch back to California, and I was plagued by what I had to face there: a husband about to go on deployment, and a marriage that was crumbling.

I looked at him as he drove. He was my dear friend. He looked as he always did, pale skin, blue eyes, black shirt, scruffy and blonde and young. He always seemed so young to me, even though we were only a few years apart.

"What will I do?" I asked him. "What will I do if everything falls apart?" I wasn't strong back then, or at least I didn't see myself as such. The idea of being alone and raising a baby terrified me. I couldn't see beyond my fear.

He didn't take his eyes off the road as he answered.

"Give me a few years." He replied. "Give me a few years to make something of myself, and I will take care of you."

I was touched by his words, surprised by what he meant by them. Something between us changed that day. He suddenly didn't seem so young. From a boy to a man, right before my eyes.

To my lasting regret, and for what I thought was his own good, I was dismissive. I responded with something like, "That's sweet."

I think of that conversation a lot these days. Give me a few years. Give me time, to prove to you what you surely must know. The offer of security. The offer of stability. The offer of love. Give me time to be worthy of you.

He felt I wouldn't take him as he was. He was right, but for the wrong reasons. Five months after that conversation, he was driving that same car and was in a fatal accident. It was only after his death that I understood that he wasn't unworthy of my consideration. I was wholly unworthy of his.

Over five years have passed. I find myself in much the same circumstances, with more to worry about. With three little kids instead of one. But I am not afraid. The marriage did crumble, but I haven't crumbled with it. There is strength, and at its source is the will to do anything for the ones that I love. At its source is a wellspring of love given to me unconditionally that I was to reciprocate.

I will make something of myself. Give me a few years. Give me time to be worthy.

Truth and Reality

Here is the reality:

I wake up at six every morning, usually with one or more kids sleeping in my bed. No one sleeps well these days.

I go to work, struggling to find a routine, to find my place. I worry I'm not doing a good job.

I come home, just in time to help get the oldest from the bus stop.

Walking back to the house, I pass his car. Sometimes it's there. Sometimes it's not. He lives across the street from me. His life is his own business.

He lives with his aunt. She was my friend. She might still be my friend. But I don't know. My feelings about his walking away from all of us, and getting to walk right into her home, makes me feel like my feelings are completely invalidated. Like the heart break I feel, the gut wrenching, chest tightening, rivers of tears pain I feel doesn't matter. It's all for the kids, right? It doesn't feel like it.

"We would have done the same for you," she said. That's easy to say. I didn't walk away from my family.

I asked him today to please be with the kids for an hour. Just an hour, so I could get the oil in the car changed.

"I have plans." he replied. "I'll be out." Smug. Smirking. He ran by us today, as we walked home. He reminded me again that he had plans.

Congratulations on being out. I'll be taking care of my kids after a long day at work. I'll be fielding their questions on why they can't see you tonight with generous answers of "it's just not daddy's night," instead of, "Daddy would rather spend time with other people than you."

Do I sound upset? I am.

Here's the truth, though:

I wake up at 6. Shortly after, my sweet cousin, who isn't even my blood relative, shows up to baby sit. She makes me breakfast, she packs my lunch, and she gets the kids ready to walk to the bus stop.

When I arrive at work, I'm surrounded by coworkers and friends who love and support me in my goals. Who saw me cry at the end of the day, and put their arms around me and told me it would be ok. They're here for me.

When I come home to the bus stop, my youngest babies are waiting there, arms stretched out and running across the grass waiting for me.

We walk home, his car is sometimes there and sometimes it's not. He ran by us. It hurts. I won't deny it. Seeing him, knowing he is with other women, knowing that we mean so little to him...it hurts.

But it won't always hurt. I can't see through the darkness right now. I can't imagine a day when I won't look at him without feeling loss, and anger and hate. But my cousin said to me, "You're in the dark of the cavern, but don't start trying to sprint out. You'll just be hitting the walls. Walk slowly, and believe eventually you'll see the light."

When I feel like falling apart, I tell myself, "It's not my loss, but what I've gained."

His cruelty and indifference are not my loss. I've gained freedom without him.

Shoes to Fill

We are enemies, he and I.

When he was a 40 something year old man, and I a 19 year old girl, we became each other's nemesis. 

He is a selfish, vindictive, pitiful and small man, who would rather hold on to his feeble pride than humble himself before the ones he has hurt so deeply. He caused a lifetime of pain to people I hold dear. They still suffer the scars of what he has done and have had to actively heal from his actions. He's a narcissistic, sociopathic, apathetic bully who hides behind a false god and false character and false strength. He's a weakling and a coward who manipulates and abuses people to feel powerful, who abdicates all responsibility for what he's done and blames others for his troubles. He steals innocence under the guise of being a loving and doting father. He's a poison and a sickness and until very recently I was sure I would never despise another human being as much as I despise that man. 

But then, the son.

I don't know when it happened exactly. Perhaps it was when he called me lazy and entitled. Or maybe when he said he didn't know why any man would want to be with me. It could have been when he told me I caused him to be the worst version of himself. Perhaps it was when he went out of his way to belittle my intelligence, insult my friends, and hint at the new woman (or women) in his life. Maybe it was when I cried and asked why he was so cruel and he told me, "You made me this way." Maybe it was when he complained about not seeing his kids whenever he wanted and I reminded him that he walked away from them. 

"Not them." He replied. "You. And I didn't walk away. You pushed me away." 

In the end, perhaps it was less of what he said and more of my response that caused me to realize what we had become. Because everything I said about his father, I think it about him. Some of it I've even said aloud. Sharp words that pierce like a sword; that's a weapon I know how to yield. And each time I draw blood with the sting of my words, I take momentary pleasure at the hatred I see in his eyes for me. 

Good. At least he feels something. 

I feel immeasurable sadness at what has become of us, two people who swore to love each other until the day we died. 

We are enemies, he and I.  

The New Normal

There's no getting around the fact that I have completely rethought everything I ever I knew about relationships, and how to behave in a relationship.

I am coming to the realization that I have no concept of what a "normal" romantic/spousal relationship looks like. 

Don't sit there and think that there is "no normal." There is. I've glimpsed it. It's shimmering on the edge of my periphery. I'm afraid to look directly at it for fear that it will merely be an apparition that will disappear when I turn my full gaze on it.

Normal looks like nothing that would catch my attention. It's not covered in heartache and daddy issues. It's not living with the dead. It's not the raging current under the calm veneer. 

It's eye contact, and smiles, and an open heart. 

It's not blaming people for its circumstances. It's accepting of its own limitations. 

It's not hateful, even in the face of painful events. It's kind and pleasant, and being in its presence feels peaceful and safe. 

Normal doesn't pull away when you reach for it. Normal reaches back.  

Normal doesn't hold you to impossible standards. Normal simply lets you be. 

Normal doesn't despise you for who you are. Normal accepts you as you are.

Maybe you're right. Maybe there is "no normal" after all. 

Because normal seems extraordinary to me. 

Bitterness, Gasoline, and God's Laughter

He comes jogging up, just finishing his two and a half hour gym session, I'm guessing.

I'm sitting on the lawn, attempting to figure out why the mower keeps cutting out. I'm two hours into yard work and I'm nowhere near finished.

His free time to go to the gym is sponsored by walking out on the yard, the house, the wife and the kids.

My free time to mow the lawn is sponsored by a napping baby and the kindness of a cousin to keep watch over the boy child while I do outside work.

"Does it have gas in it?" He asks. The gas can is next to me, and I calmly reply yes, it does, but it can't seem to stay running.

"Huh." He says. "Well it was working fine the last time I used it." With that, he puts his earbuds back in and jogs away.

I start the mower, finish the side yard and call it good for today. Walking into the house, cousin asks me, "You get it all done?"

"No," I reply, "but I need a shower. I smell like gasoline and bitterness."

As I strip off my grass stained shoes, my dusty pants, my long sleeved shirt required for lawn mowing, my thoughts begin to spiral. It must be nice, I think, to have the time to go jogging and weight lifting. To not be responsible for anything except yourself. To not think of anyone except yourself. To take time to care for your body first, instead of meeting the needs of three little ones before you can begin to think about your own. 

I'm happy to say those thoughts were only for a moment, because as I stepped into the shower I began to think of a different matter, and a different man, altogether. As the hot water beat down on me, I was sure I could hear God laughing at me for my prior thoughts. Laughing because I have nothing to be bitter about.

Each time we pull into the driveway, the smallest one says, "Daddy!" She's sure he will be there when we open the door. Only he's not there to hear her call his name, or walk with her arms outstretched toward empty space.

Each time it happens, I can't help but think how much love he's missing out on. I'm not bitter about him leaving; I pity him for what he gave up.

I haven't lost anything in this situation. I've gained. I'm surrounded by the three greatest gifts I could ever ask for, I have family who loves me, friends who support me, a church to belong to, and the possibility of a future greater than I could have hoped for.

It's not always going to be easy. But it's always going to be worth it.

And that knowledge is sweet as honey.

Sadomasochist Poetry

I hurt. 

Inside me, I feel a flood rising, waiting to spill out of my eyes at any moment. A mass has pooled in my heart, of anger and fear and worry. At any moment, one word or one look or one silence could send the liquid of my feelings forth into the world, via tears or words or a slap across that arrogant, unfeeling face I have to look at a few times a week. 

I hurt.

It's partly self inflicted. I question, I rail, I ask why, why, why? I ask, when I know there is no answer I can hear that will satisfy me. I ask, knowing full well the answers will only tear apart the already shredded entrails of my spirit. I ask, as though I am unaware of the verbal onslaught that will happen occur each time I do. 

I hurt. 

Him. I hurt him, or at least he would hurt if he was capable of feeling anything. I use the only weapon I have, the sharp sting of cruel words. Like I sword, I wield them, cutting into wounds I know exist even if he's spent so much time trying to cover them up. With strokes swift and lashing, cold and calculating, I send the daggers of my words to where his heart must surely feel it. I can see it in his eyes and when I do, I cut deeper. As his pain grows, mine must surely lessen. 

I hurt.

Despair. I despair what we have become. Made in the image of God? I've never felt such moments of contempt in my life, both being given and received. I sorrow for what we could have been, what we should have been. What have we to show for the years? Weakness of character, weakness of will and weakness of spirit; a pair of cowards. 

I hurt. 

Inevitable

This will not come as a shock.

Six weeks ago, someone asked me how my relationship with the man was going.

"We're doing well." I responded. "I think we are going to make it."

This last year has been the year that I have waited for. He and I finally lived together as a couple after a lengthy separation. We spent every night together. No deployments, no trainings, no obligations to the "other woman" (the USMC). Raising our kids together, going to school, working, supporting each other, living our American dream: the house, the kids, the dogs, the whole kit and caboodle.

Five weeks ago, I could tell something was bothering him.

Four weeks ago, he told me he wanted a divorce.

Three weeks ago he went to a lawyer and filed for one.

Last week he moved out.

By the end of September, the end of the mandatory ninety day waiting period, he and I will no longer be he and I.

My emotions have run the gauntlet this month from denial to anger to sadness and everything in between. Senseless. That's my word for all of this: Senseless. It makes no sense to me why this is happening. I simply don't understand.

I'm beginning to realize, after asking the same question for the millionth time ("why?"), that I don't have to understand. But I do have to accept.

There are so many things I want to say, eleven years worth of things. Those closest to me have already had to hear them. "Didn't I give, didn't I love, didn't I forgive, didn't I stay?" On and on and on. I can talk about all the things that I think contributed to the marriage but in the end, none of those things matter.

No, seriously. None of those things matter if he doesn't look at them and see love. That doesn't mean love isn't there, no. That means it's not being shown in a way that he can recognize. The fault for that lies with both of us: him for not being able to communicate to me what it was that he wanted, and me for assuming that what I had to give was what he wanted.

Last night it occurred to me that my biggest struggle in all this will be learning to be content with this aspect of my life. I can accept that this is happening, but am I happy about it? Absolutely not. No, not when I look at my children and wonder how this will affect them, or when I struggle with all the spiritual questions that arise from these situations, or when I see him and want to slap him because, damn it, I thought we were finally ok.

But there are things that I am truly joyful about, and that is that both he and I have people in our lives that truly care about us. I have family and friends who, instead of telling me what I ought to do, simply ask what it is that I need. We are surrounded by prayers, for us and for the children. And most important of all, no matter how thick the fog of this situation becomes, I can look through the haze and see the Light and believe that the Light is good.

Continual Blindside

I can't decide if this hopeless optimism I feel is a gift or a curse, or is it optimism at all? Perhaps it's only naivete. Or perhaps it's a mixture of both. 

Synonyms for the word "naivete" include: artlessness, unsophistication, trustfulness and innocence. For the word "optimism" we have: hope, confidence, buoyancy, cheerfulness. 

I am confident that I am completely unsophisticated. Artlessness is the boat set sail by my buoyancy. I am cheerfully innocent. I am hopefully trustful. 

Therefore I don't see the train wreck coming at me in my periphery. There's no warning whistle, no rumbling of the tracks, no red lights flashing and arms dropping to stop me from standing in it's path. No, I let it hit me with the full force of its uncommunicative fury. Then I lay there in a soul shredded heap as each coal car runs me over again, and again and again. And in the milliseconds between each jarring hit, I think, "This won't happen again. This is the last one. I can change this." 

One of my favorite songs of all time is called, "Waiting for the Train to Come In." It goes like this:

"Waiting for the train to come in. Waiting for my man to come home. 

I've counted every minute of each live long day. Been so melancholy since he went away.

I've shed a million tear drops or more, waiting on the one I adore.

I'm waiting in the depot by the railroad tracks, looking for the choo-choo train that brings him back.

Waiting for my life to begin, waiting for the train to come in."

It's a song I have sung to each one of my children as I rocked them to sleep as babies. 

Truth be told, I waited so long for the train that I gave no thought to how it would arrive or in what condition. I thought I would be so content with the presence of the train that I didn't think about the actual content of the train. Certainly I expected the train to be at the station for the long haul. Instead, the engine has hitched itself to another set of cars, and made sure I felt each one of them on its way out. 

I'm not angry with the train. After all, it's just a machine. I'm angry I wasted so much time waiting for it.  

Questions in Poetry

How long did I dream about you?
How many days spent waiting,
Praying for your safety,
Pining and aching, those nights I'd dread waking,
To the sunrise alone, it's true,
For I'd much rather dream about you.

How long did I dream about you?
For the day you'd remember,
What we had together,
Leave your ghosts forever,
Cling to me as your tether,
And when we make it through,
I won't have to dream about you.

How long will I dream about you?
Knowing how you regret me,
And how fast you'll forget me,
Just after you've left me,
God help me, I'm such a fool.
How long will I dream about you?

Words Can Hurt

Back when my eldest was in preschool, we had the misfortune of working with a particular speech therapist that I genuinely disliked.

On paper, she looked like the perfect individual to work with deaf children. She had her masters in Deaf Education. She was young, she was energetic, she was blonde and beautiful.

"How long have you been signing?" I asked, assuming that since she had her masters in Deaf Ed, she'd be an ASL pro.

"Oh, I don't often use sign. I work on speaking and listening." In other words, auditory/oral.

In other words, we were destined to be rivals.

I remember visiting the classroom one day, and watching her interact with my daughter. She would come up behind her and talk directly into her implant. She would take my daughters processor off without warning. She would speak to deaf children like they could hear. It was difficult to not stand up and shout to her, "THEY CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

In my head, I often referred to this woman as "Nazi Prison Matron." In my opinion, there is something wrong with a person who masters in Deaf Education and doesn't even use the language of the deaf. There is something wrong with the notion that a deaf child must learn to listen for a language they cannot hear, and speak a language that they cannot hear. I'm not saying that a deaf child can't learn to speak, I'm only wondering why it's necessary. What good will speaking do when they can't hear the response given?

The idea that a deaf child MUST learn to talk is ridiculous, and frankly that mindset is dangerous. I've seen in my own work place education professionals who sometimes visit the classroom hardly give a second thought to a child, who didn't have language for the first year of their life, signing a whole story. My heart bursts with pride because they have finally been given the means to express themselves.

When that same child vocalizes at all, even if it's just sounds, they are highly praised for it. And when that happens, all I can think in my head is, "That's right, little monkey! Dance!" As if the deaf children are pets or play things. As if they are poor, disabled creatures with no understanding. As if the strides they have made learning a language they can use mean nothing without verbal communication.

Please.

Just a few weeks ago, a woman I hadn't seen in over two years came up to me and asked how my daughter was. "Great!" I responded, "She's in first grade, she's on the honors reading program, she's taking ballet, etc."

"Huh." She responded, "And is she talking now?"

Because none of the other things she's accomplished mean anything if she can't say the word "purple" clearly.

I'm not at all ashamed to say that I lied to that woman. "No." I responded, "She uses sign almost exclusively."

Is that true? Not really. But my daughter isn't her pet, or her plaything. She's not a parrot, or a dancing monkey. And being able to speak doesn't make her better at any of the things she managed to accomplish.

And personally, I believe that she isn't doing well in spite of her deafness. She's doing well because of it. I'm proud of the strides she has made in her communication skills, be they sign or verbal, because I am proud of her. Period.

I guess my whole point to all of this is check your attitude. Maybe some deaf children will never learn to speak. That doesn't make them any less valuable, or smart. Be proud of what they can accomplish, because they are capable of anything as long as their time isn't wasted on nearly pointless pursuits or the agendas of people who think they know better.

For Love and the Game

I like a lot of sports, but in particular I love soccer and football.

My two favorite football teams are the Dallas Cowboys and the New England Patriots, but I will cheer on just about any team because I love the game.

I grew up in Virginia, and people who know that are sometimes surprised by my choice of football teams. Often times, by way of explanation, I just give the short answer of, "I lived in Texas for a while, and my dad's from Massachusetts." Both those things are true, but that's not quite all there is to it.

Football, and those two teams, are connected to exactly one thing: Happier times.

I remember being the age my oldest daughter is now, watching football games in Allen, TX with my family. Football is the unifier in my young mind, the common denominator in a family where my older siblings and the younger were quite spread apart in age. I became a Cowboys fan in Texas, watching those games in which Aikman, Irvin, Sanders and Smith ruled the field.

And then, just a few short years later, everything fell apart. My parents split up, we moved away from Texas and for a long time, things weren't very happy for anyone.

But there was still football. There were games with my siblings, and neighborhood games that I wasn't often allowed to play in but would still watch. Backyard games and churchyard games. And there was still the Cowboys.

My parents divorce was not an amicable one, and I didn't see my dad for almost a decade. I became a Patriots fan because it was a way to hold on to something that connected me to him.

Football remained in my life, morphing in my teen years from a unifying force to an equalizing one. As a girl who struggled all her life with her self image and her self worth, playing football on Sundays brought a sense that I was just as good as anyone else, at least for a few hours.

Maybe it's silly to attach so much emotion and sentiment into something so trivial. After all, it is just a game.

Isn't it?