Monday, August 15, 2011

Three Reasons

I saw the musical "Showboat" many, many moons ago, and as is typical of me, I instantly ran out and bought the soundtrack the next day. I have that soundtrack on my ragged Ipod, and I listen to it daily. I'm listening to it now. One song is called "Can't Help Loving That Man of Mine". Look....I'm not even going down that road. BUT a portion of the lyrics speak to me..."Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly"...it seems to say that we all do what we gotta do. I understand and embrace that concept.

Today I spent three hours driving to the Omaha airport with my sister Deidra and my niece Maddison, so that Deidra could catch a flight back to Utah. She flew Roan and Posey from Utah to Iowa a week ago after their annual visit with their Dad, and it was time for her to return "home". It's still hard for me to accept that any place she calls home is so far away from me. Again, fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly. The drive passed quickly. Maddison read a book for the first hour, while Deidra and I de-briefed about her visit. We talked about the controversial Pork and Chicken Night at the Coffee Cup Cafe, and laughed about the wild game of Uno Attack that took place at our parents dining room table. Soon, Madds joined us in discussing the merits of a hospital bed that would allow patients to "do their duty" while seated in bed, but without a bedpan. Due to pending patents, I cannot reveal further details, but let me say that intricate diagrams were created.

Maddison and I bid farewell to Deidra at the curb, and shared a few moments of silence as we left the airport. And during the next three hours as we ate up the miles between Epperly Airfield and Sully, Iowa, we talked. We laughed. We even shed a few tears. And I was reminded, as I have been so many times over the years, that I am an incredibly lucky woman.

Yes, I have men in my life who will always be dear to my heart. My brother-in-law Kendall, who has been a part of our family for what seems like forever (or even longer, in his estimation.) My brother-in-law Jeff, who sung the first lullabies my kids had ever heard. My Dad, who spent a lifetime in a cloud of hairspray and lipgloss and snagged nylons, to emerge on the other side as my hero. My brown-eyed son Roan, the one who hugs me at the most unexpected moment, who called me from Utah dripping in homesickness, the one who has wanted nothing more than to sit beside me and hold my hand since he was a baby. I want them to receive the credit they deserve. But tonight the women in my life are on my heart and my mind.

I have three sisters who make me laugh wildly, and who hold me when I cry. I have a mother who may not always approve of what I do, but who has steadfastly remained in my corner. I have two nieces who are wise beyond their years. They amaze and astound me on a daily basis. And yes, I have two daughters. They are separated by six years and sixteen pounds. They inspire me, they challenge me, they exhaust me. I look into their big blue eyes, and I know. I know they are a gift from God. I know that my heart has reason to smile. I know that I will do everything in my power to help them find the confidence, the kindness, the moxie to do what they gotta do. Fish, birds....they will rule both. And then some.

I told Maddison tonight that I believe that I met and married a monster for three reasons:
1. I was meant to be a mother to Penelope. And that wouldn't have happened otherwise.
2. Although I wish it weren't mine to bear, I was the only person who was going to fight and fight and fight until he was backed down, if not defeated. Two other wives and countless girlfriends had escaped and decided it was too risky. I escaped and decided he had to be stopped. And clearly, I was the one who had to stop him.
3. I will take what happened to me and I will use it to help other women. I will someday look other victims in the eye and I will say, "I am living proof that there is life on the other side. I will help you find it."

Earlier this week, I arranged a meeting at the eye doctor for my Posey. She needed to pick out her first eyeglasses, and I wanted her to walk into the fray with resources aplenty. We stormed the clinic - Posey, my Mom, Sister Deidra and Niece Maddison (and yes, Roan, with a frog in his pocket.) Posey picked out the frames that she felt were best for her. And I wrote a check, and while I silently prayed that it wouldn't bounce, I silently thanked the forces of the universe that allowed me and my daughters our grace and good fortune. It must be somethin' that the angels done planned.

Tra la la.


Wednesday, July 6, 2011

21 Days - Day 3

OK, OK. I am making my own rules now. 21 days of writing. I'm gonna do this. But....the 21 days may not be consecutive.

Here's the deal. Sometimes the things I write (such as my blog on Day 2) are heavy. It takes a lot of time and energy to write them. And it takes more time and energy to shed them. I've been shedding. I've been thinking and praying and hoping. I kinda feel that I should burst into song at any moment. Tra la la la la.

We recently celebrated Independence Day. It's a wonderful holiday, and I love the BBQ's, the parades, and of course, the fireworks. But this year, Independence Day has an even more personal meaning. I spent the 3rd and 4th of July communicating with my attorney, as we worked together to prepare my motion for a renewal of my domestic violence protection order. In the fine state of Washington, where my DVOP was granted, the "law" requires you to request a renewal exactly 90 days in advance of the expiration date. For me, that 90-day mark is July 7th. Let freedom ring, indeed.

I sent my attorney my declaration earlier this week, in which I stated that I was afraid for my life, and for the safety of my children. I wrote that I had given up a lucrative position, a beautiful home, and a network of colleagues and friends to escape my situation. All of those things are true. And none of them matter to me, not in comparison to the safety and security and happiness of my children. It hit me today that I would gladly pay this price and then some for my kids. Roan is learning to hit a baseball with a bat. Posey is toothless and lovely and a budding artist. Penelope counted 1...2....3 today for the first time. What does it matter that I am afraid, really? If they are happy, I am happy.

This is the stuff of life.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

My Name is Dori - Day 2 of 21

My name is Dori, and this is what I am....a college graduate, a daughter, a fierce negotiator, a friend, a singer, a successful businesswoman, a loving sister, a writer, a reader of hundreds and thousands of novels, a person who cares about people and who makes a point of asking the right question at the right time. I am a mother. I am the person that many people reach out to for help and guidance and love. I am also a survivor of domestic violence. And I believe that if it happened to me, it can happen to anyone.

My name is Dori, and this is what I am.....lucky. During the two years that I spent with my abuser, who happened to be my husband, I was beaten, I was shoved, I was locked out of my own home in the pouring rain, I was jailed, I was called a whore and a slut and a worthless bitch, I was left stranded at countless restaurants and stores, I was homeless, and I was afraid. And still, I am lucky. I got out.

My name is Dori, and this is what I have become...a woman who speaks the truth. I spent over two years lying to every person I loved to keep my dirty little secret under wraps. I told concerned co-workers that everything was fine, and that I was wearing long sleeves in July because I was cold blooded. I told the nurses at the hospital that my husband was under a lot of stress and acting completely out of character when he stormed out of the hospital the day I was to deliver our daughter. I told my girlfriends that I was happy and secure in my marriage, and that the fact that my husband tried to bed them was amusing to me. I am smart and I am tough and I believe in honesty, even when it hurts. And I lied every day. I have no doubt that there are other women living the same lie - because the truth is too horrible to accept, much less admit to anyone else.

The million dollar question that everyone eventually asks is this: Why did you stay? It is difficult, if not impossible, to explain to anyone who hasn't been there. I stayed because I was convinced that if I did everything "right", he would no longer be angry. I stayed because he said I was the problem. I stayed because he told me he would take our baby from me. I stayed because he promised me he would take medication and see a counselor. I stayed because he had pushed my friends and family so far away from me that I felt alone. I stayed because I felt sorry for him, because he had buried us in so much debt that I couldn't see my way out, because he made me believe that I was worthless and ugly and pathetic. I stayed because I was deeply ashamed of what my life had become. I stayed in the hope that the rare moments of normalcy would last. And ultimately I stayed because I knew that leaving him would be the most dangerous decision I'd ever make.

My name is Dori, and I've only just begun.

Monday, June 27, 2011

21 Days - Day One

Monday, June 27th

I've been told that if you want to develop a habit (like jogging, or making your bed) that you should consistently engage in the desired activity for 21 consecutive days. As of Day 21, voila! A habit is born. Although I have many habits I should rid myself of - picking at my cuticles, and humming "Like A Virgin" while grocery shopping, to name a few - I want to re-build my writing habit. And so, for the next 21 days I'm going to write a little something every day.

Long pause. OK, this is harder than I thought.

Top Three Giddy Joyful Events
1. Roan and Posey played in their little league ball tournaments over the weekend, and both the MudHens (Posey) and the Red Sox (Roan) were champions of the tournament. We celebrated with lots of sugar and a late movie Saturday night. Roan or Posey didn't grasp that it was pretty amazing for them to be champions when neither one of them hit or caught a ball the entire season. Ignorance bites, but innocence is bliss.

2. After purchasing a used guitar in 1999 in Utah and moving it from state to state to another state since then...I'm finally going to learn how to play the damn thing! I worked up the nerve to approach our local guitar instructor at the ball games on Saturday, and I will be his newest pupil in August. I believe that a happy home should be filled with music, and I'm hopeful that the sounds I one day produce on the guitar will be mistaken for that.

3. Our deck is almost finished! I'm amazed at how that little wooden square has transformed our home and brought us to much happiness already. We've got two lawn chairs, a garden hose full of excellent water for guzzling, and Barbies. What more do we need?

May you always be as happy as you've made me tonight. (OK, I totally stole that line from Barbara Mandrell, but I've always wanted to use it. So just work with me.)

Cheers.

Friday, June 17, 2011

A Walk Down Memory Lane.....with a stain

I love my sisters. And despite their penchant for occasionally ripping the armpits out of my sweaters with wild bar room dancing, or the fact that one of them rear-ended me once in a mall parking lot and then laughed so hard she nearly wet her pants....I know they love me back. As Pam Brown once said, "Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize. Indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks. Borrow. Break. Monopolize the bathroom. Are always underfoot. But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there. Defending you against all comers."

It sounds as if Ms. Brown has some great sisters. But she ain't seen nothing compared to mine. Yes, they have annoyed and criticized me. And they have defended me. They have also held me while I cried, helped me buy bras and maternity pants, held my children in their arms with as much love as I do, cut a rug with me on dance floors from London to Myrtle Beach, and they have never failed me. They are my freedom and my anchor. They are the source of some of my fondest memories, one of which I am writing about today.

One summer Dad decided to surprise Mom by re-painting our old picnic table with redwood stain. More accurately, he decided to surprise Mom by having Sister Darci and I re-paint the table. This was during the era when redwood stain was all the rage, and Dad knew Mom would want to remain at the tiptop of patio fashion. In order to maintain the element of surprise, he decided that Darci and I should be hidden away while we created our masterpiece, so he hauled the picnic table into our (un-ventilated) garage, rolled the doors shut and opened up a can of stain. I was five years old at the time, and Darci was a wise and wicked seven. Dad left her in charge and disappeared to "mow the lawn"...code for smoking a cigarette behind the garage.

I staggered towards the table with my dripping brush in hand, ready to work. Darci, however, had other ideas. She leaned in closely with a buck-toothed smirk and simpered, "Wouldn't you like to look like an INDIAN????" Perhaps it was the age advantage, perhaps it was the fact that I weighed about 32 pounds and was instantly gorked on stain fumes....but for some reason it seemed like a wickedly clever idea. Of course I realize now that I should have run screaming in my hand-me-down Keds into the house, but I didn't. I dumbly nodded. And a story was born.

About 20 minutes later, Dad emerged from a cloud of cigarette smoke and whipped the garage door open to check our progress. Even though I often forget my commute to the office, and sometimes have trouble recollecting my social security number...I am certain that I will never forget the look on my fathers face at that moment. Never. Ever. There I stood, in the middle of the garage, wearing nothing but a sad pair of blue flowered undies. Except for the two white circles Darci had kindly left around my eyes, every inch of my skin was covered in redwood stain.

And for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of being painted with a dangerous chemical...let me tell you...it burns. I did the only thing my five-year old self could do. I moaned and cried and may have even gnashed my teeth. And I ratted Sister Darci out without a moment of hesitation.

Let me pause for a moment to explain that my Dad really does love children, even his own. I am confident that it never occurred to him that shutting two young girls in a garage with a can of paint was a bad, if not potentially dangerous, idea. This is the same man who burned railroad ties in the furnace to save money, and who was kicked out of a junior high school skating party for initiating the worlds' largest skating chain. He didn't MEAN to poison us, or deplete the ozone layer, or cause little Kimmy Van Genderen to knock out her front teeth....those things just happened. His heart has always been in the right place. His head...not so much.

On that fateful day, Dad realized that he needed to remedy the situation - and quickly. My mother was inside putting a final coat of "Luck Be A Lady" on her nails, and she would soon wonder why all was silent in the backyard. After attempting to spray off the stain with a garden hose and realizing that it was impossible....thus the word stain, Dad reached for his trusty gasoline can with a grim look on his face. I can only imagine that wild animals caught in traps must bear a similar expression, seconds before they begin gnawing off their own appendages. The next ten minutes were filled with Scrubbing (Dad), Swearing (Dad), and Screeching (All Me). By the time I wearily climbed back into my Garanimals Ensemble of the Day, I resembled a small, hopelessly depressed orange pygmie covered with a nasty rash. Dad picked me up and said, by way of encouragement, "Well, kiddo, you don't look nearly as bad as you smell."

They say that if life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade. To that I can only say Pffffffffffttt. In my world, if life hands you a can of redwood stain, you should make the most of the situation to get your sisters' new hairbrush, a trip to Rite Aid for glittery lip gloss, and your choice of Disney movies every Sunday night...for as long as you smell. Cheers.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

If I had another child, I'd name it Scotch Tape...or maybe Scotchy

May 18th

Eight years ago today I became a mother for the first time - twice - when Roan and Posey came into the world. I know every mother has prego stories, and I'm no exception. However, I'm completely bored with the thought of discussing morning sickness and swollen ankles and buying undies of an alarmlingly large size (but golly PETE, have you seen those undies???) Rather, this is a reflection on the journey Roan and Posey and I made together to reach that first May 18th.

I think every mother worth her salt loves to celebrate the birthdays of her children. For me, I have twice the joy and twice the gratitude...and not just because I have twice the children. Roan and Posey came early - way too early, and it's no exaggeration when I say that they are little miracles. Although I don't always show it...like when Posey asks me why I never comb my hair (usually on my way to work), or when Roan makes the armpit fart sound for the 216th time at the dinner table....today I am simply wallowing in it.

I am the second sister in my family to become pregnant with twins. For all those pesky people who want to know, no, we didn't use fertility. We are just fertile. My brother-in-law once - and only once, due to the wrath he suffered - proudly referred to us as Double Yolkers. Sister Darci had twin girls ten years before me. And, as is typical of Darc, she sailed right through the pregnancy with her belly blazing a way through Wal-Mart aisles across Iowa. At 39 weeks she was induced and my ultra cool nieces were born. They were big and healthy and beautiful. I was quite confident that I would have the same experience. I had apparently forgotten that Darci and I have many similarities - but vast differences. For example, while Darci was helping my Dad chop firewood, I was inside highlighting interesting passages in the Encyclopedia Britannica. While she was racing a minibike around our backyard, I was wearing a skirt on my head and impersonating Crystal Gayle in the living room, complete with candlestick microphone. When someone needed a babysitter, or a housesitter, or someone to cleverly design their new kitchen cabinets, they called Darci. The only reason anyone called me was to see if Darci was home. Regardless, I felt certain that even my affiliation with Wonder Darci would work in my favor.

So imagine my surprise when, at 20 weeks, I went into labor. Instead of having baby showers and nesting, I was rushed to the hospital that day, and there I stayed. In fact, I was a full-time resident until the very day I reached 29 weeks, which just happened to be May 18th, 2003.

I met other women while in the hospital who relished their bedrest. They knitted sweaters and wrote long letters to their grandmothers. They played online games, designed baby announcements, watched soap operas every morning and napped every afternoon. They were peaceful and relaxed. And I wanted to punch them in their smiling, pregnant cow faces. Didn't they realize that the world was going on outside? And we were missing it? Didn't they know I had a surgery center to run, parties to attend, and a nursery to decorate? And didn't they lay in bed in fear every night, as I did, and worry obsessively that their babies would fly out of their uterus at any moment if they so much as sneezed? Clearly, they did not. I retreated to my room and entered a phase that is best described as The Great Depression.

Under normal circumstances, I'm just not the lay-around-and-relax kind of gal. I'm more of the run-your-ass-off-all-the-time variety. So when my activity was suddenly, completely, unilaterally curtailed, I became a nasty little prego. A caged animal on a double dose of hormones, if you will. For some reason I still cannot explain, the only item that temporarily soothed my inner beast was Scotch tape. Poor Sister Deidra was living nearby at that time, and she became not only my link to the outside world, but my supplier. She would speed to the hospital after putting in a full day at a demanding job, and spend her evenings engaged in such fine activities as helping me pee in a bed pan, inspecting my belly button at my insistence to see if she could see the babies coming out, rubbing my feet, opening and then closing the curtains at my whim, fetching pudding, then a spoon, then a different spoon, damn it, didn't I say spoon not a spork?, then a different flavor of pudding. When she finally escaped my clutches and walked (or ran, God love her) down the hall, I would snatch up my phone and dial her mobile. And I would sob uncontrollably. When she would ask me what I needed, the only thing I could squeak out in reply was, "MORE TAPE!!!!!" She brought it to me in packages, in rolls, in dispensers. Colored tape, double-sided tape, scented tape. Dr. Seuss could write a series of books about my love of tape and its' many uses. To this day, she and I cannot enter a Fred Meyer or a Target together without her instinctively turning to me and asking, "Dor, do you need any tape?"

Almost nine weeks and nine gazillion rolls of Scotch tape later, Roan and Posey made their debut. At the ripe old age of 31, I was convinced that I had seen and done all that mattered, and that kids were like icing on an already very satisfying cake. And then came that moment. The moment when they held up my teeny, tiny Posey and I looked into her enormous blue eyes for the first time...and I was lost and found and everything in between. Just one minute later, I had the same experience while gazing into Roans sleepy brown eyes, already fringed with to-die-for lashes. I was forever changed. In the span of two minutes, in an operating room in Salt Lake City, I became a mother. Had I not been numb from the chest down, I would have leapt off the table and wildly hugged every pregnant cow face in the hospital.

Eight years later, with my kids tucked into their beds and my sisters and I wildly texting each other into the wee hours, my heart smiles. I don't think parenthood is for everyone, and I will be the first one to support your right to remain childless. But I'm grateful for every fingerprinted window, eye roll, dental bill and call from the teacher, because each one reminds me that I am the lucky mother of two vibrant, sassy buck-toothed kids who defied all the odds to be here today.

Happy Birthday, Roan and Posey.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Home Is Where the What Is??

5.12.11

The kids and I have been living in our "new" house for almost three weeks now. I can't quite get past the feeling that I'm just visiting. I catch myself thinking that I will call the former owner and ask her why she chose that color for the laundry room, or if she has a trick for making the shower stop leaking. I picture the two of us sipping hot tea and chatting about how the snag in the carpet happened, and maybe kneeling side by side to scrub at a pesky spot on the kitchen floor. Then I realize that if I hate the paint (which I do), I should change it. And if the shower leaks (and it so does), it's mine to fix. The house - and the yard, the appliances, the front door that blows open every once awhile, despite being locked - they are mine now.

And so is the anxiety of living "alone" again.

It is technically true that I don't live alone, as I'm very lucky to have three constant companions in Roan, Posey and Penelope. But I'm the only GROWN UP in our home, and that means that all dog vomit, paper cuts, unpaid bills, mystery smells, spiders and scary night noises fall firmly into my domain. When you don't have another grown up to turn to and say snidely, "Can you deal with the laundry FOR ONCE?" you tend to feel alone. And you know what? I can deal with alone. It's the transiency I would really like to shed.

It's a fact that my concept of "home" has taken a sound whacking over the past few years. The last home I owned was in Washington, which I left when my crazy (then) husband - side note, he's STILL crazy, just no longer my husband - threatened to kill me and my children. I left suddenly. I left without a plan. Hell, I left without my toothbrush and most of my clothes. I left with the knowledge that if I stayed, something terrible was going to happen. I left without knowing where the four of us would sleep that night. However, thanks to the goodness and courage of my friend Cheryl and her husband Gordy, we found a new home, albeit temporary. The four of us slept in their family room on mattresses lined up side by side on the floor. Believe it or not, we had fun. We played and laughed and watched goofy movies. While they slept peacefully at night, I cried. Time passed. I spent dozens of hours and thousands of dollars in family court, fighting to protect myself and my little family. And when that was taken care of, we moved yet again into a space that I never dreamed I would inhabit after the age of 18. Yes, friends and neighbors. You know it. My parents basement.

There is a reason why we grow up and leave our parents homes, and both my parents and I are painfully aware of those reasons. If Alex Trebec had a category entitled, "Reasons Why Parents Should Avoid Co-habitation With Their Adult Offspring", my mom and dad and I would ace it. 1. Knowing Too Much About Your Parents Bathroom Habits 2. Being Unable to Lie around in Your Underwear on Saturdays 3. Wishing Nobody Could Hear You Whisper Scream at Your Children, etc. That said, we made it work. And despite my sassy mouth, I will never be able to thank my parents sufficiently for taking us in and holding us close.

And now....here we are. In our home. And while my kids sleep peacefully, I clean and I sing and I pray. And I wait for the day that home feels like home again.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Home Sweet Crazy Home



Last night the kids and I had our first meal in our "new" home. Life has been full of twists and turns for us, and although this is the fourth home I've purchased in my adult life...this one represents not only home for us, but much more. Safety. Security. A new start. Family. Strength.

And with all those deep thoughts, I looked around the blanket last night (I can't look around the table as we don't yet have one) and saw the same look of giddy happiness on all of our faces. We each expressed that happiness in very different ways.

Roan announced that he had to poop the second we walked in the door. Lucky for us, the previous owners had left us a roll of toilet paper, and Ro disappeared into the bathroom, seemingly to make his mark. 12 seconds later he emerged, looking rather unsatisfied. After running through (and receiving emphatic NO's) to my usual list of mom questions following an aborted bathroom break 1. Is the toilet plugged? 2. Is it overflowing? 3. Did you put something other than poo in the toilet? I pulled him aside for a private moment. Roan seemed flustered. I attributed this to constipation...and was mentally reviewing the items I had at the ready to remedy such a problem (prune juice? beer? a cup of joe?) when he announced that what he REALLY wanted to do was PEE OUTSIDE. I pondered this request for about 3 seconds. And then I nodded. We high fived. He whizzed in the bushes and all was right with the world.

Penelope march-sprinted through the house at top speed, screeching "UP!" and "PUPPY" and "Slimcankdooderot" at random moments. (yes, she really does say that, at least that is what it sounds like). She licked a few walls. She sat in my lap and smiled.

Posey, in her typical seven-year old trapped in a 35-year old body style, dashed to her room and began deciding where every piece of furniture should be placed during the move. We had our usual mother/daughter tussle regarding such vital topics as the panties she will wear the first night in the new house, the first friend she will have overnight, and her proposal regarding a flashing NO BOYS ALLOWED sign on her door...and then we did what girls do. We giggled hysterically, applied fresh lip gloss, and went back to the kitchen to bark orders at the menfolk - namely, my Dad and Roan.

It seems that we all constantly define our own sense of normal. I'm thrilled that very little about my children is normal. I'm proud of their complex little selves. And I am deeply sorry to our new neighbors for the sight of my half-naked son in the backyard tonight.

Until next time...