Re-Entry

It has been nearly a year since I last posted a blog. And so much has happened. I won't even to try to spill it all in this entry—I suppose it will all come with time.

We'll just cover the bigger points.

I got off the wheel. We got off the wheel. We both quit our jobs. He no longer works for the government and I no longer have to sell my soul in advertising. We are both sleeping much better. We live and work with people with special needs on a working organic farm.

Most people will read that last sentence and roll their eyes and think I've bought a one-way ticket to Hippieville. But it's far from the truth. The farm is legit... a non-profit international organization that has been around for over a half century, offering volunteers Blue Cross Blue Shield, paid vacations, holidays and family leave—not to mention ample opportunity to work abroad if you so desire.

Drinking the Kool-aid is optional.

After the big move, I took two weeks to go down to Houston for the birth of our gorgeous girl—and my first grandchild. Madison Michelle was born January 11, 2008. She weighed in at 8 lbs. 9 oz. and was long-legged like her mama—all 21 inches of her.

I spent two weeks sleeping on the sofa, tag-teaming with feedings and diaper duty. For the first week, I managed to smile and make small talk with the baby daddy, Bob. The second week, all bets were off. The birth of his first child did not give way to some miraculous change in his behavior, like I had hoped.

And leaving my firstborn to care for her firstborn was the hardest thing to date that I have ever done.

Nearly three months later, Diana called me in tears. "I want to come home, mama," was all I needed to hear and we booked her a one-way ticket out of there. She and Madison are living with us, and Diana has been accepted as a volunteer—providing her and her child with health insurance and money for college—no recruiters, no contracts, no M-16 and a Kevlar vest.

The most rewarding aspect of all of this craziness over the last year has been two-fold. My younger children are thriving. They got their childhood back. No longer are we scrambling to carve out quality time with our kids. I walk them to the bus stop and greet them when they get home from school. They can run out the front door and play on over 500 acres of lush farmland. They are learning musical instruments, how to milk a cow, raise a pig and grow vegetables—and competing in BMX. Mom will never miss another birthday or soccer game, because a client needs his/her hand held. That part of our lives is over. A new chapter has begun.

The second carrot in all of this is Diana. In the five months she has been here, her self-confidence is back and she has grown into an amazing mother. She is working with people with special needs, learning to cook incredible meals, manage finances and develop real skills that will get her through life. She gets to be a working mom, and never has to hand her child over for someone else to raise. She doesn't have to send Madison to day care with a low-grade fever, or explain to her boss that she has to leave in the middle of a meeting to pick up her sick child.

I am not expecting that this change in lifestyle will erase all of the mistakes and sacrifices I made—but I am hoping that the difference I seek to make in this world will teach my children that there is something far more important than the next big thing. And we are off to a good start.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Five

Man, I need to find a way to wrap this up. The road of my life looks a lot like the image posted today. The months that have passed since my trip to Houston offer up so much material, that I've resolved myself to get through this—so that I can move on—on so many levels.

The big day came. Graduation was at 4 p.m. Diana really wanted to eat at Salt Grass, a steakhouse that was once famous for it's amazing beef, but has since become another corporate "Dolly." But she really wanted a filet mignon—she liked the way the words sounded when they fell off her tongue. So we made reservations for the whole damned clan.

We all filed into a long row near the stage—my parents and I and Diana's father and his pregnant wife, young son, father-in-law and mother. I hadn't seen him in over five years. And he looked good, as always. A tall drink of water with midnight blue eyes that were starting to show their age, the same smile that got me here in the first place, and curly black hair now peppered with gray.

It's hard for him to look at me these days. It has been since the day I walked out.

We were every jack-and-diane-young-turks-living-on-a-prayer song. Crazy in love from the moment we laid eyes on each other. But you don't hear what happens to Jack and Diane or Tommy and Gina 10 years later. It ain't pretty.

He let his insecurities get the best of him. I know that now. So here we are, sitting together at our only child's high school graduation. Everyone around us is making small talk, but we are silent. And reading each other's minds. Pride and nostalgia. Worry for her because we both know where she's headed.

He still loves me and looks at his new wife with regret. I still love him and look at my new husband with appreciation. It's lop-sided and sad. But make no mistake. My sympathy stops there. You reap what you sow.

Diana attends an inner-city school. Caucasians are the minority. Latinos and African-Americans fill most of the auditorium. Living in Houston gave me an education on people and culture—it seemed every country was represented here. My new home doesn't offer up much with regards to range on the color spectrum. So I have come to the sad conclusion that man must have a never-ending quest to find something to hate or belittle. Material up here is limited so the old codgers whisper things like "Whatcha expect—he's a Finn dontcha know?" or "Dem Norwegians ain't the sharpest tools in da shed."

As the procession of students passed us, I could see her down there in her royal blue cap and gown. She looked up and smiled and waved at me. She and I knew what it meant. She had saved that smile just for me.

Each student walked across the stage and accepted their diploma as family and friends cheered wildly. These beautiful young people were about to embark on life's journey—the real deal. And everyone in the room felt a little pride and worry whether it was their child or the person next to them.

Because few students planned to attend a university, some had plans to go to community or vocational colleges. But most were off to basic training. I found it hard to cheer—so many of these young people were displaced by Hurricane Katrina, and most of these kids had with no other way out. I feared for them and wished that our government had a conscience and prayed for those families whose children won't make it back.

And then they called her name. I shot to my feet, my cheeks stained with mascara and tears, and screamed "Nana-Banana!" I hadn't planned on saying that—but it just came out of my mouth. I knew she'd call me on it later. And she did.

I thought my heart was going to pop. I had waited for this moment her whole life.

So many images of her flashed before me. The red, wrinkled baby girl handed to me nearly 19 years ago. Her peaceful, round toddler face as she slept in her bed, cuddling her Dino—and the look on her face the first day of school when I said it was time for Dino to go away. The look in her eyes the morning I told her daddy and I were getting a divorce. Her puffy face, swelled up from tears as we sat silently in the restaurant the night before, holding on to my hand for dear life as she absorbed the brunt of what was growing in her belly. And her body language today as she stood up straight and walked across that stage like she owned it, took that diploma and turned to her family and smiled.

Good job, Diana. I love you. No matter what.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Four

Prior to dinner, we stopped by Diana's apartment to drop off packages along with some things my mother had brought from home—the rocking chair she rocked her children and grandchildren in, dishes and embroidered towels handed down from her mother. This was our chance to get a look at Robert before we all sat down to dinner.

And there he was—shaggy, unkempt hair, baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt. I give her props. On the outside, he's adorable. Big brown eyes, broad shoulders and a devil-may-care-panty-peeling grin. She has all of my weaknesses when it comes to men. Which is why I could see right through him the minute he flashed that grin and said in his sweet, Southern drawl, "Hello, ma'am."

I had seen that smile before. A hundred times. And it got me in trouble—short-term, long-term, lifelong trouble—every time.

I had gone over the conversation I was going to have with Bob a million times in my head. It always ended with some Dirty Harry line that involved a blunt object, a waiting line and a willingness to serve time. But I sat through dinner and tried to keep the conversation light with a few pointed questions thrown in.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" became "What are you interested in as a career?"

"How much bleach would it take to clean up your gene pool?" became "Tell me about your family."

Questions my mother never thought to disguise when interrogating the father of her first grandchild.

When the bill came, mom picked up the tab and excused herself and my dad. They left the three of us there and went back to the hotel—they'd had enough small talk and had made their quiet verdict. Bob was toast. Now I had my chance to really let Bob have it. But I remembered sitting in that swing not two days before, listening to my mother and Aunt Connie drone on about child-rearing, and how small I felt then. And the promise I made to Diana that night.

So, I listened. I listened to him tell me about his low-life brothers and drugged-up mama. I listened to him tell me about the day his daddy walked out like he was reciting an article from Readers Digest. He was three and never saw him much after that. He talked about the various relatives he'd lived with throughout his life and his high school years—never taking anything seriously, playing pranks, getting sent to detention and graduating simply because faculty just wanted him to leave.

It was all heart-breaking. Until I asked him why he broke all of my daughter's hangars and kicked her out of their apartment. And he just smiled. "I've got a bit of a temper," he had the nerve to say.

Like it was some f*cking badge of honor.

At that point, Diana was in tears. And I asked Bob to go find something to do for an hour. I needed to talk to my daughter.

As they stood outside and said there good-byes, I sat there and cried.

My hangars were never broken. But many other things were. And when he ran out of things to break, he came after me.

By the time she came back to the table, I had dried my tears. I scooted next to her and lay my head on her shoulder. "Diana. I love you. I hope you know that. And I'm saying this as a friend—because you are my best friend."

And she knew what was coming and started to cry again.

"Don't do this. Don't think you can fix him. Because you can't. And it will only get worse. I promise you. The decision is yours to make. But I know more than you think. And I hope you're listening to your heart."

And we sat there for an hour—in silence. I prayed for her. And she sat quietly and wept—and asked herself the same damned questions I asked myself 18 years ago.

And like me, she would have to learn her lesson the hard way.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Three

I drove the rest of the way to Houston. Crossing the New Mexico border into Texas, we saw a sign outside a small west Texas border town—Texico—that read “Welcome to the Lone Star State. Home to the 43rd President of the United States—George W. Bush.” I looked around the nondescript town, sprinkled with single-wide mobile homes and expansive cattle ranches and wondered why they couldn’t come up with something more legendary than birthplace to the worst president in modern-day history.

The drive through Texas was beautiful. I had forgotten how much I missed this part of the country. Southern hospitality. Biscuits and gravy. Men who took their hats off when they entered an establishment, and held doors for perfect strangers. Cattle country as far as the eye could see. Texas deserved to be proud of itself. Except for George.

I left my anger and disappointment somewhere around of Dalhart. Mom and I had a couple of really good conversations. We stuck to issues that were safe—parenting and the latest gossip about friends and family. My mother is a wonderful woman. The older I get, the more respect I have for the sacrifices she made as a divorced mother—when divorce was social suicide and sexual harassment was the price you paid for working outside the home. I’m convinced she’s a closet liberal. My money is on the fact that she married a man who is an ex-cop and is selfish in his views about the world—and she has had to adopt most of his truths to keep domestic peace. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The moment we entered the outer city limits of Houston, the unreserved quiet of the Texas prairie seemed like a dream. Like some extreme video game, cars, SUVs and pick-up trucks on steroids—lots of them—whizzed by at lighting speed, weaving in and out of traffic, in a balls-to-the-wall race to the finish. Urban guerillas steering 2,000 pounds of steel with cell phones in their ears and Big Gulps in their dashboard cup holders blew past me—oblivious to anyone outside their fabricated, leather-clad bubbles.

I suddenly remembered why I left this town. Living in Houston is like living in Chicago or L.A.—but with attitude. Bigger is better. And if you ain’t first—you’re last.

Mom and dad were white-knuckling it. Everything I had remembered about driving in a big city came back to me—but this time, I was a few years older and more afraid of dying. I kept it under 80 and reminded mom to breathe—and found my happy place, thinking about the pristine pine trees and slow pace of northern Minnesota.

The minute I saw her face—I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. She will never realize how beautiful she is—or how loved. I suppose none of us will. She is a long, tall glass of water with big, beautiful blue eyes—and now she is sporting a paunch. I have to stand on my tiptoes to hug her. And I squeezed her as hard as I could and fought back tears.

She filled me in on her morning sickness, her first visit to the doctor—and Bob. His name is Robert, but I call him Bob because I don’t like him. It’s my sinister way of reminding her that she can do better. He is nineteen and a colossal idiot. He drives his truck like he stole it and treats my daughter like she’s disposable.

Half-way to Texas, she called me in tears. He’d lost his temper again, broke all of her hangars, threw her clothes all over their room—and kicked her out of their apartment. This visit was killing me.

It wasn’t too long ago that I was in her shoes. Young, self-depricating and in love with a man who showered me with crazy, passionate, leave-me-and-I’ll-kill-you affection. And now karma has come back and bitten me in the ass.

So I took her shopping. And bought her the maternity clothes he had refused to provide her. And a comforter and sheets for the bed he’d promised to buy her, because her back was killing her sleeping on a cheap mattress on the floor.

I bit my tongue the entire afternoon, trying to be cool and listen and offer up “girlfriend” advice, instead of motherly. My stomach knotted up inside every time she told me about one of their fights. I sat on my hands while she told me about her failed attempt to apply for Medicare and WIC, because he was bored, and didn’t want to have to wait in the long lines.

I was meeting Bob for the first time that evening. We—Diana, Bob, my parents and I—were all going out to dinner. I had visions of launching myself across the table and wrapping my hands around his throat, while the restaurant staff tried in vain to pull me off of him. She said he was really nervous.

Bob had no idea.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part Two

My mom drove the first leg, navigating the steady stream of traffic from Denver to Colorado Springs. She white-knuckled it as cars sped past her, on cement-barricaded-under-construction highways that seemed to go on forever. She didn’t want to talk. She was too nervous. Fine by me. I was in the back seat medicating myself with strong, black coffee—wishing I could just hook the to-go cup to my vein and relax while the Columbian nectar did its magic.

To calm her nerves, she turned on the radio. A Limbaugh-esque conservative talk show host was bashing the Democrats—something about destroying al-Qaeda and supporting your troops by spending money at your local Wal-Mart this Memorial Day weekend.

Out came the iPod and in went the headphones. And the anger rising up in my throat was soothed by Elton John serenading me with “Tiny Dancer.” I stared out the window and wondered when it was going to happen. My meltdown.

My step-father sat in the passenger’s seat, reading one of his James Patterson novels and occasionally looking up to make sure mother was remembering to breathe. Mom listened to the radio, nodding her head in agreement and clenching her jaw.

I love my parents. But it is hard for me to understand how they can be so indifferent now. My entire young life, my mother preached to me about love and tolerance. Turn the other cheek. Cheer for the underdog. Help the less fortunate. Be kind to your neighbor. Cherish our differences. Work hard. Be honest. Stand up for what’s right. All the stuff we’re supposed to teach through example as parents.

And now she listens to morons who are at their core bitter, angry, intolerant, maligned and misinformed. She watches them on TV. She votes them into office.

It is heartbreaking.

Because I heard every word my mother ever said. Every lesson ever taught. And I passed these values on to my children.

My kids are amazing. Yes, I’m a bit biased. But ask anyone who has shared the pleasure of their company. They are polite. Respectful. Helpful. Courteous. Compassionate. Genuinely good kids. My kids have never thrown a fit in a store. Or disrespected an adult. And they know when I say ‘no’ I mean it. And I have to believe it’s because I have instilled in them the same values my parents gave me.

I cannot have a normal conversation with my mother. We don’t agree on anything. Suddenly she sees the world as “every man for himself.” This woman told me to share with my brother—and now she won’t share with hers.

I could feel my jaw starting to clench as we pulled into a Country Kitchen in Trinidad, just north of the New Mexico border. My shift was next.

We sat in the restaurant, attached to a worn-out La Quinta and waited patiently for bad service and even worse food. My mother tried to hide her disgust at the waitress’ less-than-stellar work ethic and the wilted lettuce on her $8 salad. But at one point she couldn’t contain her disdain and whispered that “those people”—a reference to the young woman’s age and ethnicity—don’t know how lucky they are to have a job. I bit my tongue.

While we finished our coffee and waited for the check, the conversation somehow steered toward the issue of global warming—an issue my parents are convinced is a big conspiracy and a ruse to revive some sort of communist takeover. I listened to them complain about the inconvenience of recycling and the high cost of their electric bill since summer came early this year.

But the most disturbing moment came when my step-father said, “That’s the good thing about getting old—we won’t be around long enough to see the outcome [of global warming].”

My eyes filled with tears. I grabbed the check, took the keys and waited outside for them to finish their coffee.

I stood in the parking lot and called Diana. I needed to hear her voice.

I felt like the curtain had been stripped away and I had seen them for who they really were. Self-absorbed. Hypocritical. Bitter.

I didn’t want to see my mother that way. I wanted to feel the love and the nurturing side of her that had comforted me through pregnancies, kids with high fevers, cheating husbands and deployments to Iraq.

At least it was my turn to drive.

To be continued.

Robert Frost Was Right—Part One

The trip from Minnesota to Houston was a long one.

It wasn’t about the physical distance. Long car rides never bother me—I find a great deal of pleasure staring out a car window at the great expanse of my homeland. I love being on a long stretch of road, seeing the beautiful landscape dotted with small towns and houses and yards with clotheslines and swing sets—and every once in awhile, seeing people moving about. Road trips make me contemplative, reflecting on my own life and wondering about the lives of others and their level of satisfaction relative to my own.

This long journey was about the company I kept, the people I would see when I reached my destination, and the past that I was finally able to leave behind.

I headed down to Houston to watch my girl graduate high school. There was a lot of logistical planning—the flight from Minnesota to Denver… the rendezvous with the parental unit in Denver, and then the long drive to Houston, piloting their every-bell-and-whistle-known-to-man minivan—with a radio that was programmed to play only mind-numbing, conservative talk radio.

For starters, I hate to fly. I’m a bit of a control-freak. I like to be in the driver’s seat—on so many levels. However, my fear of flying is quelled by my love of the airport 24-hour lounge. Half a Valium and a couple of Crown and 7s at 10 a.m., and suddenly flying at 30,000 feet isn’t so bad.

I landed in Denver mid-afternoon, numb and half-tanked. I hate DIA. It’s the Hollywood starlet of airports. Pretty on the outside. F*cked up and confused on the inside. I navigated my way through the terminal to the train, which whisked me to baggage claim. The first stop on my journey back to the future.

The same scenario has played out since the first time I left home and came back. I see my mom and my aunt Connie in the distance, and pray that I can sneak up on them before they notice me—and summarily embarrass me in front of thousands of strangers. But alas, it never happens the way I hope it does.

My aunt Connie notices me first. She’s not my aunt by blood—I’ve just known her my whole life because she’s my mother’s best friend. And I love her to pieces. But she’s loud—with bleach-streaked hair, a red silk bowling jacket and a nasal voice that cuts through the crowd, screaming, “There she is!” And every head in the airport whips around in my direction. And my mother, whose mind hasn’t told her legs she’s not as young as she used to be—throws her arms up in the air and comes “running” toward me, shouting “My baby! Would you just look at her?”

I’m 38 years old, and the minute I see my mother coming at me like a spider monkey hopped up on happy pills, tears of joy streaming down her face—I am sucked back into my childhood. Red-faced and mortified. I’m seventeen again. This is going to be the longest five days of my life.

I’m so different from my family in so many ways. I’m not better or worse. Just different. I come from a family rooted in the Catholic faith—the branch that believes it’s okay to skip Mass on Sunday because the Broncos are playing. As long as you confess on Wednesday for having a little too much hooch and shouting expletives at the TV screen in earshot of your children and your mother-in-law—all is forgiven. My family, mostly my mother’s side, is also ultra-conservative. Except for the swearing and the hooch. In that arena, they suddenly become a bunch of flaming liberals—slurring something about freedom of expression.

Anyway. I’m different. My political views are different. My religious views are different. My social views are different. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart. I don’t eat at chain restaurants. The list is long.

We drove from the airport to my old neighborhood and I was amazed how much everything had changed. Wide open fields where groundhogs used to run free, and kids would play kickball—gone. The mom-and-pop sandwich shop where I used to hang out with my friends—gone. The streets my friends and I would cruise on Friday nights—belting out the words to “Sister Christian,” rebelling against itchy uniforms and teenage oppression—now made me feel claustrophobic. This place was now filled with trendy shopping centers, over-landscaped apartment complexes and outback-applebees-chilis-texas-roadhouse-macaroni-grill-brightly-colored-everything-tastes-the-same restaurants—as far as the blinded-by-neon eye could see.

My nostalgia was gone too. The familiarity of my youth was bulldozed and replaced by something out of a weird sci-fi movie. This wasn’t home anymore.

I spent the evening having dinner at TGI Friday’s with my parents, my aunt Connie and her son, Joe. Joe is thirty-three and just moved out of my aunt Connie’s basement—and the only thing he can talk about is his new truck and the ins and outs of workman’s comp. Just before my last cocktail arrives—my brother, who I haven’t seen in five years, walks through the door, loaded. Some things never change.

Sitting there watching my baby brother, now in his thirties, still struggle to cope with what I accepted a long time ago was painful. We did not choose the paths our parents had envisioned. I did not become an Ivy League attorney. He did not follow in my father’s military-career shoes. We both took Frost’s advice.

I revel in my separateness. My brother wallows in it.

I sat out on the porch with my mom and my aunt Connie that night, and enjoyed the cool Rocky Mountain air. I politely sat in the porch swing as these women lectured me about motherhood and raising kids and how I need to treat this “situation” with my daughter. Connie does love to give speeches.

I rocked back and forth, my feet not quite touching the ground—just like when I was a kid. And I looked up at the starry sky and thought of Diana. Her sweet face. How much she had become my friend. How cool it would be to hang out with her again. I missed her. And I sent her a message by way of the heavens.

“I promise. I will never make you feel like you’re seventeen—ever again.”

To be continued.

What It Means to Be a Mother

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. The kids have been smuggling in construction paper cards, tulips made from egg cartons and pipe cleaners, and Styrofoam cups filled with green sprouts.

This is my second time around.

I was nineteen when I had my firstborn. And she was two weeks old before I fell in love with her.

Mom had come to visit for two weeks. And it wasn’t until she left that I understood what it means to be a mother.

I was lying in bed the morning after mom left, and I could hear my baby girl stirring in her crib. But I lay there, praying she would go back to sleep. She started to fuss, and again—I lay there like a spoiled teenager stealing five more minutes of shut-eye.

To this day, I can still feel those phantom hands on my back pushing me out of bed and my chest filling up with a sense of urgency like I had never felt before.

I walked into her room, and there she was. Her receiving blanket wrapped around her head and the fussing I heard was her gasping for air.

In a panic, I unwrapped the blanket and she immediately began to wail. My eyes filled with tears as I picked her up and pulled her close to me, caressing her and kissing her tiny head and whispering to her “everything is going to be all right.” It was more for me than for her.

Her cheek pressed against my chest, my heart pounding—and she stopped crying.

It was at that moment I knew I would love this person all the days of my life. A love so deep, it hurt to breathe. And it was then that I started making deals with God.

She is eighteen now. And two weeks from now I am going to Houston to watch her graduate high school.

She has been my anchor. We’ve been through so much together. Two divorces. Three marriages. The birth of the twins. But we’ve always had a motto, the two of us. “No matter what.” Regardless of what curve balls life threw our way, or what catastrophic error in judgment I made with regards to my relationships with men—we were a team.

No matter what.

She lives in Houston now. I live in Minnesota. That’s a conversation for another time. I talk to her on the phone and I want to cry—I miss her so much, it hurts. I miss her face. The dimple in her cheek when she smiles. The freckles on her nose when she’s had too much sun. Her eyes so blue and so revealing—the hurt I have caused her stares back at me with a vengeance. And yet she still loves me like she did that day she pressed her sweet face against my chest and found comfort.

Love like that can never be communicated in a Hallmark card.

She called me today. She is pregnant.

I hung up the phone and immediately ran upstairs and sought out my first Mother’s Day present. A little clay pot that I keep my spare change in, that still bears the markings of her tiny fingerprints where she pressed against the clay to form the crude bowl. It is my most prized possession.

I held it in my hands and cried. Not tears of sorrow. Although some would argue that I should not consider this a cause for celebration.

Her life is about to change. She is going to learn the meaning of worry. And heartache. And unconditional love.

And that is what I feel today.

No matter what.

Happy Mother’s Day, Diana. I love you.

Canadian Bacon

I was ten years old when my father took me to see the movie “Grease.” I remember feeling so completely mesmerized by the music and the energy. I wanted to be Sandra Dee. And not the Sandra Dee crying by the kiddie pool. I wanted to slither about in a black cat suit and red high heels while men who moved like John Travolta fell at my feet. I had no idea what it meant to “skip a period” but I was certain that when I grew up, I wanted to be just like “bad Sandy.”

And not because of some sexual fantasy. I was in awe of her independence.

The sexual fantasy came later.

My mother had forbid my father to take me to see the movie. My mother, hell bent on raising a good Catholic girl, insisted that an impressionable young mind such as mine should not be subjected to a movie filled with sexual innuendoes and gyrating dance moves.

But my dad had a reputation to uphold. He was the one that took me with him every time he went drag-racing under my mother’s radar. He was the one that let me stay up late and watch “All in the Family” and “The Jeffersons” while my mom was at PTA meetings. Ice cream for dinner. Mismatched clothes. Uncombed hair. Dad was cool.

Until I became a teenager. But that’s a story for another time.

So he took me to see the movie with the obligatory sworn oath that I would never tell my mother.

So there we were, sitting in the dark theatre. Both of us fantasizing about “bad Sandy.” Although in very different ways, I’m quite sure. And there were a few moments, when I could feel my father cringe… and question whether taking his ten-year-old daughter to a PG movie was a good idea. Catholic guilt is a bitch.

But true to his wrong-side-of-the-tracks-of-Chicago-Catholic-boy roots, he was rebellious to the bone marrow. And that moment of guilt was followed by a flash of his Hollywood smile, and a shrug. Enjoy the moment. Memories like these don’t come around very often.

A few weeks later, my mother found out. I don’t know how it happened. Neither does my father. But we both remember the fight they had because of it.

Fast-forward to present day.

We don’t have television. Let me clarify. We have television sets in our house, but we have no reception of any kind. No rabbit ears. No snow channel. Nada.

The man of the house has set up a sweet home theater system, complete with surround sound and a projector that shines glorious images from classic films to new releases on to the opposite wall, putting big screen TVs to shame. Nemo is suddenly four feet long and the infamous car chase scene in “The French Connection” grabs you by the balls and takes you along for the ride.

And so it has become a family tradition every Saturday night. We have family movie night. I pop popcorn the old-fashioned way… in a pot of hot oil on the stove. And we gather around the projector and watch a flick with the kids.

We are determined to broaden their horizons and give them and education in film, introducing them to the classics as well as the magic created by Pixar and DreamWorks.

The kids have seen “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “The Great Escape” and “The Blues Brothers” more than once. They love “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” They sing along to the amazing soundtrack and my son can imitate Pete’s exclamation “you stole from my kin” as if he spent his entire young life in the marshlands of the Mississippi delta.

So, last weekend we rented “Canadian Bacon.” From what I remember, it seemed harmless enough. Poorly acted. Political messages that would certainly fly under their seven-year-old radar.

But somewhere in the middle of poking fun at the self-centered nature of Americans, one of the main characters spews the line, “The American public’s attention span is about as long as your dick.”

And all of a sudden, I was back in that dark theatre. Only this time I was my father. Cringing, wondering if my round-faced, naïve children picked up on the euphemism for a penis. I looked over at them and saw no response at all on their little faces.

My son didn’t get it. My daughter looked bored to tears.

I wrestled with whether this was due to their young minds or the fact that they have been exposed to so many great films, that they understood that what they were watching was really bad—and so they weren’t phased by the bad jokes and gross humor.

I opted for the latter. And then the fight scene at the hockey rink sent them reeling with laughter. And I looked at them, flashed my father’s smile and shrugged.

Things Are About to Get Interesting

It seems like an eternity since I last blogged. So much has happened, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

The Israel/Lebanon conflict this past summer was just another notch in the belts of our global neighbors, illustrating the Bush administration’s utter failure at diplomacy and foreign policy. But we didn’t stop there. Because while we’re over in Iraq pushing democracy, we are perfectly willing to support Israel’s desire to topple the ELECTED government body in Lebanon.

North Korea did what it said it would. It tested a nuclear weapon. But what’s really important is Iran.

Latin America has flipped the proverbial bird at U.S. corporations.

Meanwhile, more brave men and women have lost their lives in Iraq than the victims lost on September 11, 2001.

And then there’s Capitol Hill. So many scandals. So little time. I think it might have been page-turner Mark Foley that finally sealed the fate of the Republican party.

Rummy’s out. The Dems are in.

Now if we can just convince everyone (leave your political affiliation at the door) that an exit strategy is more important than anyone’s political career—we’d be headed in the right direction.

But I didn’t come here to talk politics.

I came here because my life is about to get turned upside-down.

Most people who read this blog do not know me personally. I’m just some faceless blogger with an opinion about everything from abortion to proper happy hour etiquette.

Those of you reading this who do know me personally, know that I don’t favor any particular political party or politician—except the smart ones. And I’m pretty embarrassed at the way my country’s global representatives have conducted themselves, past and present. I don’t subscribe to any organized religion. I am not registered with any particular political party… except I did register at the Wake Up Wal-Mart site. I hate that store and everything it stands for. And I finally cancelled my subscription to Columbia House.

But I digress.

Love does not begin to describe the feelings I have for my husband, my children, our parents—and every dysfunctional family member in between. I love my friends. I love my job. I love my dog. And Goofy freaks me out.

My husband served as an officer in the U.S. Army from October 2001 to May 2005. He was deployed during Operation Iraqi Freedom from April 9, 2003 to March 23, 2004. I know these dates by heart.

My husband is the bravest man I know.

He not only went into battle with the lives of 20 men in his hands (and brought them all back), he came back and married a woman twice divorced with three kids.

He saw the best and the worst over there. He drank tea with Iraqi men who just wanted their children to be safe and happy. He shared camaraderie with his soldiers that goes far beyond brotherhood. He took fire, and dished it back.

He called me from Qatar while he was on R & R. And he told me the story of SGT Eddie Merriweather from a nearby engineering company, whose body parts my husband placed in a Hefty bag. I will never forget that soldier’s name. And I can still hear my husband’s voice as he told me that story. Choking back tears of pain, anger and sorrow for a soldier's children who will never know how brave their daddy was.

My husband is a good man.

We both believed our government when they spun stories of WMDs and links between Sadaam Hussein and al-Qaeda. I was so proud of my husband and each and every soldier who served with him.

And no sooner did he come home, that reports of the atrocities at Abu Ghraib began to surface. That was the awakening. We were both so angered by these soldiers who took everything their fellow soldiers stand for—what our country stands for—and blew it all to hell with one fateful photo. And we started to listen. And read. And question.

Haditha. Guantanamo Bay. Secret prisons. Warrantless wiretapping. Halliburton. KBR.

So here we are, present day.

One week ago today, my husband received the packet. Orders to report to Ft. Something in South Carolina. Complete with travel vouchers, pay scales, Tricare information, and a complimentary book on how to prepare your family for your pending deployment to a combat zone.

We knew this was coming. In the last few months, my husband has been inundated with e-mails from random sergeants and staff sergeants, dangling big, fat bonus checks and quoting the bible.

And he will refuse his orders.

Our parents struggle to support our decision. But we are only acting upon the principles our parents instilled in us as children. Love your country. Stand up for what you believe in. Do the right thing.

He will not go to Ft. Something in South Carolina. And he will not serve in any capacity under an administration that has thumbed its nose at the UN Charter, the Geneva Conventions, and the Nuremberg Principles.

And because he will refuse his orders, he faces jail time. He could lose his job. We could lose our house. But more importantly, our kids will lose the stability and strength he has brought to our lives.

They don’t know it yet, but he is about to teach them the greatest lesson of their lifetime. Honor before obedience.

He is the bravest man I know. He is a good man.

And he’s my husband.