Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Weekends are always a readjustment for me and the kids. My husband commutes into the city and frequently does not get home until 9:00. Dinner during the week is just me and the three kids.


Over the years, we have developed a rhythm and rituals as to how our weekday family meals go. 


Of course, it's my job to do most of the serving and cleaning, and I'll often say, "Mommy is not..." and the kids will finish the sentence with "a genie, or a fairy, she is just a mommy."


I'm very attuned to my kids, and their behaviors at the family table. Perhaps because it's just the four of us, I'm more relaxed than my parents were with my sisters and me while I was growing up.


Growing up my family ate only in the dinning room. My sisters and I set the table with china and the good silverware. Manners and decorum were very important. 


If you were to laugh and spit milk up through your nose because your sister made you laugh too hard, you were exiled to the kitchen for at least as long as you needed to pull it together.


I spent my fair share of dinners banished. Of the three of us, I was always the easiest to crack up.


Dinners could be stressful when I was a kid, but I've always tried to keep it light with my children. 


I also know what it feel like to be plagued with motor skill problems, and I have tried to teach my kids in a slightly more relaxed fashion.


Forks are required of course, but if Peter happens to be struggling with getting his pasta around his fork and goes to use his hands, I will laugh and then say "humans eat with..." and he will laugh and say, "forks." No point in ostracizing a six-year-old for a utensil violation.


Each child has their tolerance for certain foods. For some unknown reason, Peter, will just out of the blue decide that he no longer has any appetite for something he until that exact minute salivated over. 


Out of self preservation and a choice to pick my battles, I no longer ask questions. I have a little sympathy too because I can be the same way. Peter is also a wonderful eater who would rather eat vegetables and fruit than ice cream. So if every now and then, he wants to eat cereal or bread for dinner, I'm OK with it.


He is very particular. If he says he wants bread, he means the white bread, not the white bread with seeds or a kaiser roll. He means the bread, in the green package. He does not want butter, and he likes it if you cut it up in four pieces.


I have learned this from years of on-the-job training.


On the other end of the spectrum we have Tom, our 13-year-old. Tom will eat no vegetable unless it is in sushi. Again, I no longer question.


I will still offer the vegetables that Lizzy and Peter fight over, but I know that Tom will only eat the protein I'm serving that night.


Lizzy, our beautiful 10-year-old, is pretty easy in that she will eat just about anything I make. Though, she does want to wear her fairy wings to dinner. I'm okay with that, but I draw the line at the costumes. She can wear a tiara and a flower crown if she must.


Lately I have to watch her pretty carefully so she doesn't steal vegetables off Peter's plate.


Once everyone is settled and we have eaten our main meal, we eat our little desert and then dinner is over, and it's on to the getting ready for bed portion of our program. 


It's a comfortable, familiar routine that I have come to really love. It can be hectic, and I sometimes want to pull out whatever hair I have left on my head, but I do cherish our dinner time.


But it all changes when the weekend rolls around and daddy is now at the table and in the mix.


For the longest time, we use to go out to eat on the weekends or at least take food out. But we were getting tired of spending so much money just to eat. Plus, as Lizzy's special needs have become more complex again, it's easier to eat at home. I also like that it's a bit healthier for us as well.


Since Joe still wants me to have a break during the weekends he takes charge of the meals on the weekends. 


Things are a little different when daddy runs the show.


Take this Saturday. Joe made the pizza and he added a few new cheeses to the mix. The troops handled this politely enough, but Peter decided this would be one of the nights he would have bread for dinner.


"Mommy, bread please."


"OK Peter, I will get you bread," says Joe, trying to give me the break he knows I desperately need.


Joe goes to the fridge and starts cutting up a hard roll. The same kind of roll that Peter likes to eat in the morning. 


Total rookie mistake. Just because Peter likes rolls at breakfast does not mean that he will eat that at dinner.


I look over at Joe cutting up the roll and wonder how to handle this. I don't want to hurt my husband's feelings, but I know my kids.


"Daddy, I want bread. Plain white bread for dinner. Not a roll. A roll is for breakfast."


Joe starts laughing and gives me a look like "Is this kid for real?"


"Peter, it's okay the world will not stop spinning if you eat a roll for dinner instead of breakfast" I add. I find sometimes I need to remind him of this fact.



"Oh yes it will Peter. The world will totally stop spinning if you eat a roll for dinner," chimes my wonderfully helpful Tom. He has been relishing his role as big brother lately, and if he can inflict a small amount of torture, he won't let the opportunity go by.


Now of course Peter is convinced the world will stop and starts to cry.


"Honey the world will not stop. You can eat a roll."


I shoot Tom my death ray eyes.


"Peter, it's OK. I'll get you a slice of bread." Joe is a softy, I probably would not have caved, but then again, I would have known the difference.


"Bread please," chimes in Lizzy. Lately she eats everything, and I have to make sure she doesn't eat too much and get sick. 


One of the many problems of having a child who has such difficulty with communication is I don't know why she is eating so much. Is she really hungry? Bored? Not feeling well and thinks eating will calm her stomach down?


I don't know? I don't even know if she knows.


Since Lizzy has only picked at her dinner, I nod to Joe that the slice of bread is probably safe.


Now, we finally sit down together to eat. Peter starts singing a song from the Beach Boys. 


He then gets up from the table to go in my room to check on the TV music channel.


"Peter. Come back," says Joe with his "Mean Daddy" voice and scares him.


Peter cries and comes over to me.


"Mommy I need a hug."


"It's OK Peter. Daddy didn't know you want to check out the year of the song. Next time just tell Daddy that's what you are doing."


Joe and Peter make up. Peace is restored.


"I like the Beach Boys. I like Elvis too." Peter says matter of factly.


"And you like Buddy Holly, right Peter?" says Joe, trying to get into the conversation.


"No, I only like Elvis and the Beach Boys today."


"But Peter, you love Buddy Holly, you were just singing a Buddy Holly song 10 minutes ago," Joe continues. Clearly not getting just how fickle Peter is.


"No daddy, I don't like Buddy Holly anymore."


"Peter, you still like the Beatles today though, don't you," says Tom, totally enjoying the complete influence he has over his little brother.


"Yes Tom. I like the Beatles, Elvis, and the Beach Boys."


Joe gives me a look that says, I-know-you-say-this-is-how-it-is-each-night-but-I-really-thought-you-were-making-it-up.


Lately it is these little rituals that have been keeping me going.


The familiar patterns, the particular ways of each child and the unique rhythm is very comforting to me.


Especially now.


Lizzy' issues are so in our faces right now.


Physically she is getting illness on top of illness. The school year began with a nasty case of whooping cough. It's still giving her trouble and is only being exacerbated by a string of sinus and ear infections. We even had a case of conjunctivitis thrown in for good measure.


The problem with having an undiagnosed condition that affects all aspects of her development is that no doctor can ever really completely help us. We just go symptom by symptom putting out whatever fire is up.


And, of course the manic behaviours are back. The mania that turns my very sweet loving child into an aggressive, nonsense speaking child who will even at times say she is not Lizzy. 


It is a hard thing to admit, but I don't know how to deal with it anymore.


I'm thankful that we have the doctors we have. I'm thankful for the insurance we have that makes going to top specialists possible. I'm thankful that when Lizzy's doctor suggests we may have to start thinking about an in-treatment facility in the event that we have to completely change her medications, I have family around that would make it possible for us to do that.


But I'm scared. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed.


I'm keeping the family together with laughter and kisses but I'm a human. And, I'm getting mad that this is happening to us.


And that this is happening to her. A sweet, little girl who just wants to wear her fairy wings, go to school and play with her brothers.


But life has to go on. Dinners need to be made, children need to be fed, floors need to be cleaned.


I'm grateful for the silly behaviour at the table. I'm grateful for the laughter. 


I'm grateful that for a small amount of time each night, we get to be a family just eating dinner. 

Mommy Blocked

This week I have really been struggling with trying to find something to write about. It's a classic case of writer's block. 


Usually, when I'm working on the weekly blog, I rely on a memory or an event that makes a good story.


But this week, nothing.


Nothing wants to take shape.


I usually like to work with music playing, so first I try the oldies station I love. Today, the familiar tunes I heard as a child do nothing.


I then switch to the soft rock station, the one my husband Joe has nicknamed, "WIMP -- Wimp Radio.


Joe's a Dead Head and a fan of Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. He'll tease me about my love of Celine Dion and The Carpenters.


How did two people who have such different likes and interests join and make a family?


When I first me Joe and he told me he spent the first two years after college following the Dead, I thought he was joking.


I actually laughed.


He wasn't kidding.


How could this nice, mild-mannered guy in a suit be a Dead Head? 


Obviously this relationship could never work. I thought of this as I listened to him tell me all the places he traveled just to attend concerts.  


I was a choir nerd in high school. I like Frank Sinatra and Dan Fogelberg. I love Broadway show tunes. What would I have in common with a Dead Head?


Twenty two years and three children later, I guess we found a few things to talk about.


With no music on I can hear the incessant ticking of Joe's alarm clock. Tick, tick, tick, that and the occasional tapping of my keyboard is not helping.


Nor is the noise my children are making trying to get my attention, while pretending to let me have time to work.


"No don't do that Tom, Noooo. That's silly Tom," six-year-old Peter says to his older brother. 


"Mommy, did you think of something to write about yet?" says Tom.


He is very sweet and is trying to entertain he brother and sister, but I also know he too wants my attention.


"No. Please guys, let me work." I croak out, my throat still sore from the cold I can't shake.


"Tom, you're talking too loud. You're hurting my ears," continues Peter.


"Mommy. Tom is pretending to be a dog. He knows I hate dogs. Make him stop it."


"Tom don't pretend you're a dog. You're freaking Peter out," I croak out in a louder voice.


"Please guys, knock it off, I have nothing to publish today. Please help me out. I help you when you have a problem," I say as nicely as possible, hoping to employ a small amount of  mommy guilt.


It's not working.


I start thinking about the fact that I really don't know why dogs freak out Peter so much. Poor thing. When we went trick-or-treating this year, a very small dog greeted us at one house and Peter ran down the driveway screaming.


He wouldn't even take the candy from that house.


"Mom, I  do not like dogs," he said very loudly.


"Yes, Peter, I know that."


"I love dogs."


"Yes Lizzy, I know you love dogs."


That was most of the conversation as we went house to house this Halloween. Now that Tom is an official teenager, he was way too cool to go out with his younger brother and sister. Forget about mom. He did his trick-or-treating with his friends.


It was just me and the comedy duo of Peter and Lizzy. They were so funny this year.


It will be so sad when even they no longer want to trick or treat.


I still have to think of something to write.


Who knows what the dishwasher will do if I don't publish a post each week? Perish the thought.


Now I hear Lizzy pretending to be a frog. I probably should check on them and make sure the house is still standing. Having the door closed might not be such a good idea.


I look back at the screen.


I still can't think of anything to write about.


The noise is getting a bit louder. Lizzy is now pretending to be a princess.


Peter is trying to get her back to reality.


"Lizzy... Lizzy... Lizzy... Car 54 where are you?"


I start laughing. This is the phrase that I have been using with Lizzy since she was a baby. For some reason whenever I say, "Car 54, where are you," she will usually snap back and respond, "Right here."


It's funny and sweet to hear Peter employ the same technique to reach her.


Listening to the the three of them playing, I feel grateful that they are such good kids. And entertaining.


I think back to the times my own sisters and I would play and fight trying to occupy ourselves when my parents were busy.


I stare at the blank computer screen willing myself to write something.


The phone rings.


I think about not answering it, but I decided it may be a welcome break from looking at a blank screen.


Hearing my own dad's voice on the other end of the phone is a nice surprise.


I can't believe he's going to be gone for three weeks. 


I call for Tom because I know that as much as I may miss my dad, Tom is really missing him more.


My father is close to all his grandchildren, but he and Tom have a  special bond. I'm glad that they both have each other. It's sweet to see.


Tom has the biggest smile on his face. 


I'm glad my dad's escaped the New York cold for the Florida warmth and some fun with his two cousins, but I'm going to miss having him around.


Living only six blocks from my parents has turned out to be a real blessing. But my mother still works, so it's my dad that I see most days and turn to in a crisis.


It will be a long three weeks without him.


I'm alone with my computer again.


Tom, Lizzy, and Peter have gone downstairs to watch a movie.


Okay, I've got about 15 minutes before they start bugging me again.


Back to looking at a blank screen.


I wish I could think of something to say.


Writer's block is not fun.

The United Federation of Moms

I belong to, arguably the oldest union in the world, ‘The United Federation of Moms.” 


I was issued my card 13 years ago when I had my first child. I held my beautiful baby boy in my arms and became a proud member. 


Whenever I'm facing a particular pesky parenting problem with one of my children, I fall back on the safety of my fellow members. 


Mom: Why can’t I have ice cream for breakfast? Why can’t I jump off my bunk bed into 20 pillows? Why can’t I go without my hat and scarf during a blizzard? 


I have found the quickest answer to be, “It's against union rules.” Believe it or not, this works most of the time. 


I found my relationship with other mothers to be vital to my sanity as well as my parenting. 


Who but another mother knows what it feels like to love somebody so much you feel like your heart is going to explode? 


Or be driven so crazy by the same child that you find yourself singing “brush your teeth and go to bed” to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” just because you're getting tired of your own voice and you need a little variety. 


When I had my first child, Tom, we had recently moved to Queens from Manhattan, and I found myself a little isolated, caught between the world I knew and a world I hadn't completely accepted. 


I retired from my office job and found myself alone and lonely. The long hours my husband worked seemed endless now that I was by myself with my wonderful, but completely baffling, baby. 


I needed friends. 


I often joked that I felt like a single woman cruising the bars when I would go out searching for mom friends. I would walk through my neighborhood in  Queens looking for women pushing strollers. 


I went to Dunkin’ Donuts so often in that first year that the people behind the counter bought my son a Christmas gift. He still has the stuffed bear! 


I still remember the day I met Debbie. She was walking to Dunkin’ Donuts, and I was on my way home. We exchanged numbers and a friendship was born. Many cups of coffee were drunk quieting and entertaining babies. 


Soon after I met Debbie, we met a few other moms and formed a mothers’group. Our union local was born! 


We cheered each milestone our children reached and worried when there was a problem. We saw each other through sleepless nights, trips to emergency rooms, speech delays, and the Terrible Twos. 


The other day I was looking over some pictures from Tom's first birthday party, and there we all were. A group of tired, but very happy moms. We were sitting in my basement that was decorated with Blues Clues balloons, holding our babies, and feeding them their first tastes of pizza and cake. 


Eventually we moved from our house in Queens. It was really hard for both me and a two-year-old Tom to leave the safety of our friends who  had become so important to us. 


But time moved on, and so did our friends. As our families got bigger with more children and our time started to be structured around preschool and other activities, time together got less and less. New friendships were made, and new alliances were formed.


But the lessons I learned and the memories I have from that very sweet time in my life will stay with me forever.


I needed those women to get me through the baby and toddler years, just like I need the friends I have today that see me through middle school,  homework, and cases of bad attitudes. 


I am a far better mother because of my mommy friendships. 


And, a very proud member of the United Federation of Moms.

Authors note: I first ran this story back in December 2010 on Momster.com. where I published it under the name Blessed Mom of 3. I also used it for a guest post on the blog My Life As Five, in July. It is the first time it has been on this site.

Since the dishwasher and I decided to support my fellow bloggers and go dark yesterday in protest of SOPA, I wanted to break from my regular "Sunday only" schedule and add an extra post for today. 

This piece seemed fitting to run. 

Just like my mom friends saw me through the first few years of motherhood and continue to see me through the highs and lows of life as a mom, my blogging friends have helped me through my blogging journey. 

In a little over a year I have gone from someone who didn't even have an e-mail address to a full-fledged Mom Blogger. I couldn't have done that without the great support and friendships that I have made with my fellow bloggers.  


January 12th marked the first anniversary of this site. Thank you for spending a few minutes each week reading about my crazy life with my possessed dishwasher. It means more to me than you will ever know.


See you Sunday. 

We are black today!

The dishwasher and I have decided to add our voice, as small and possessed as it may be, to the fight to stop SOPA. If you want to learn more click the banner that is on the side and add your support. Thanks. We will be back and possessed as ever tomorrow! Thank you.

Kathy Radgian

Mommies don't get sick days

I'm in bed with an extremely sore throat. I can barely talk. I keep trying to reach the office to let them know I won't be in today. But I can't seem to get through. 


I'm in a full-blown panic because I want to go back to bed, but I have to reach my office to let them know I need a sick day.


Then I wake up.


This is the recurring dream I've had since I left my office job 13 years ago for life as a stay-at-home-mom.


As I was waking up from my familiar dream last night I started to feel relieved that, yes, it was only a dream.


But that feeling was short lived because as I opened my eyes, I saw my darling six-year-old Peter standing over me.


It was 6:30 in the morning.


"Mommy, I want sushi."


"Peter," I croak in a voice that is better-suited for a 1-900 number and not a mom of three. "Mommy is sick, go downstairs and watch Nick Jr."


"Mommy, I want breakfast."


"Mommy, I need food."


"Go into the cabinet... and get some cereal. Daddy will... get some muffins in a minute."


I turn to my husband who I know is awake even though he is pretending to be asleep.


"Joe... Please... muffins... for... kids. I'm sick." Each word is excruciating to get out.


I was glad it was Saturday so I could finally get some rest. I have had the same cold that has kept my house a revolving door of germs. 


Since the kids went back to school after the holiday break almost two weeks ago, at least one has been home every day. I thought it was all over Wednesday when all three finally got on a bus. They looked healthy, and I was glad to say goodbye and blow kisses at the bus window.


The fact that it was Lizzy's birthday and I would have to go to school to bring a snack and read a book for her special day was fine. I could rest afterwards. Joe even took the day off. I had help. Life is good.


Although, I did pounce on Joe with a Ha! When he suggested that maybe he shouldn't go to Lizzy's class because he thought he was coming down with a sinus infection.


"You have got to be kidding. I have been sick for two weeks. I'm going. You can go."


The poor guy didn't stand a chance.


With our birthday duties all done, I finally got to slip under the covers. I was good to go until 2:30 when the little people started coming home. Plus Joe was home. He even brought me a cold tablet and tucked me into our bed.


Life is good, all is right with the world.


That was until the phone rang.


Lizzy, the same child we left only two hours ago smiling and happy to be celebrating her birthday with the great kids and teachers in her small special needs class was throwing up.


Joe and I fly out the door.


Poor Lizzy can't catch a break.


There she is in her adorable pink sweater that she wore for her birthday, her 'Everyday Tiara' lopsided on her head as she looks up to see us.


Then the vomiting starts again.


We call the doctor because I'm worried that this new symptom may mean something more sinister is going on.


She looked pitiful. She just laid her head on my lap and slept as we drove from her school to the doctor's office.


Once the doctor's visit is over, but not until she threw up three more times in their office, we get yet another diagnosis of a sinus infection. We walk out with yet another perscription.


We get Lizzy settled in at home and already she looks better.


Now I'm sick, and stressed out over the day's excitement.


Lizzy is a trooper. She started to perk up once she got home and could put on her fairy wings. She even had some pizza and cake later with her brothers and my parents.


But now it was finally Saturday. I was free. 


I survived the two weeks. I could now have my reward. Being sick in bed without my ever-present responsibilities looming over my head. My partner, best friend, and husband was home. Saturday. Mom heaven.


But there he was. My adorable Peter relentlessly trying to get me out of bed.


"Mommy, I don't want daddy's breakfast. I want yours."


I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 


I could hear Joe laughing next to me. I knew he was listening to the hounding I was getting.


"Peter... please honey... I really need to rest."


"Peter, daddy will get some muffins from Dunkin' Donuts. Let mommy sleep," comes the authortative voice of Joe that the kids call the mean-daddy voice. 


I slip into the abyss once again. 


Sweet slumber.


But not for long.


"Mommy."


"Mommy."


"Mommy."


"What... is... it... Peter."


"Can I hold your hand?"


"Yes, sweetheart."


"I love you mommy."


"I love you too."


Now I'm feeling gulity. The poor thing just wants his mother. I remember that feeling too. I also make a mental note to call and thank my mother for not eating her young. I know my sisters and I tortured her when she was sick, just as my son was torturing me now.


"Mommy."


"Yes baby." I now use the sweetest mommy voice I can croak out for my sweet child who just wants to cuddle with his mommy.


"Come walk with me to the kitchen and get me something to eat"


"Joe. Get... up... and take him with you before... I sell him." I croak out before I just pass out and go back to sleep.


It is a hard pill to swallow but I realize why I keep having my recurring dream. There is nobody to call to let them know I won't be in work today.


Mommies don't get sick days.

The Unexpected

It's funny how some events occur and we know instantly that our lives have been changed forever. Yet there are other times when something happens without us really knowing that the course of our lives has been completely altered.


I would definitely put the days I found out I was pregnant with each of our three children in the first category. As well as the day each one of my babies took their first breaths and cried out to me and my husband that they were here to stay.


Or, the Valentine's Day almost 20 years ago when Joe asked me to marry him.


These are the moments that take your breath away. The ground shifts right under your feet, and your life has changed.


Then there are the subtler moments when we don't realize until later that that was the moment our life changed direction. 


The day I met my husband comes instantly to mind as one of those times. 


Joe and I met on a blind date almost 22 years ago. We had a few date planning calls on the phone and one really good conversation before our big meeting. 


The year was 1990, long before Google, Facebook and dating sites like Match.com or EHarmony. These were the old days when people met through friends and had to actually talk on the phone if they wanted to meet.


I was at a strange place in my life. I had decided to leave acting, or rather the dream of an acting career. Though I felt that was right, I did not know what I wanted to do with my life. 


I was in a job that paid the bills, albeit by the skin of my teeth, and I was officially on my own living in New York City. I felt very direction-less and kept kidding around with my friends that I was waiting for the postcard from God as to what I was supposed to do with my life.


Desperate for an answer I had the bright idea that I would go on a prayer vigil. 


Mind you, though I was raised in the Lutheran Church as a child, I have always considered myself more a spiritual person than a religious one. 


My prayer vigil wasn't out of religious fervor, it was out of a deep-seated need for guidance. I was hoping that by setting time aside each day and concentrating on what I wanted I would get some sort of an answer. 


If it came from above in a nice, easy-to-read card all the better.


I could have picked a beach or a park to hold my vigil, but I lived in Manhattan and there are beautiful cathedrals and wonderful churches on almost every block. A church seemed to be as good as any for my daily meditation.


I wasn't particularly choosy as to what church I would use. At the time, I worked on Park Avenue, and more often than not I went to Saint Bartholomew's, a beautiful Episcopal church on Park Avenue and 51st Street. 


Sometimes I would vary it and walk to Fifth Avenue Presbyterian, or if it was on the weekend, I would pick the small Catholic church near my Upper East Side apartment.


During the week I would go at lunch, sit in one of the pews, quiet my mind for about 10-15 minutes, and pray. 


I was very specific in my prayer. I wanted to know what my purpose in life was and what I should do about it. 


A simple request, I wasn't asking for much.


Toward the end of the 30 days I was sitting in St. Bart's and started to cry. It was at that moment I realized that, although I had some great friends that I really loved, I was profoundly lonely. 


I admitted to myself and God that I really wanted to find someone special in my life.  


But, I then quickly added that I wanted the purpose first. I made sure I was very specific, I didn't want to confuse God. I wanted that purpose. 


I was sort of mad at myself for confusing the issue. It was the purpose I was looking for, love could come after, I could wait.


I'm a little fuzzy on the exact time line but it was around this time that a friend of mine had mentioned she knew a guy who had the sweetest personality and the sweetest face. She thought we would really hit it off.


I remember not being extremely impressed with this offer. I had heard it all before. I had been going on a string of blind dates and set-ups for a few years with little real success.  I was tired. 


The idea of declaring myself a professional spinster at almost 25 was starting to seem like a good idea.


But I told my friend I was game if she didnt' mind that I would take the guy's number rather than giving out mine. I was getting tired of the man having all the power. It was the 90's, and a guy could wait around for my call. 


I walked around with Joe's number in my purse for about three weeks. 


Truth be told, I wasn't really that into meeting anyone new. I was casually going out with a fraternity brother of my roommate's boyfriend who lived in Philadelphia. I liked him, but I didn't think he was someone I was meant to have a serious relationship with. 


We had planned for me to visit him in Philadelphia, but as luck would have it, it turned out to be the same weekend my family had planned a big reunion at my uncle's dairy farm in Upstate New York.


Despite my father being less than thrilled with my decision, I was all set to ditch the reunion for the guy. Then one day I admitted to my mother that I had a feeling I was going to go to Philadelphia and end up staying there even though I really didn't think this was the right path for me.


"Then don't go Kathy," she said. In her next breath, she said, "Why don't you call the guy whose number you have been carrying around in your purse." 


When I told my roommate that I had cancelled my plans to go to Philly, she also suggested I call the guy in my purse. She didn't know my mother and her had the same idea.


I called.


I immediately liked the voice on the other end of the phone. I also found myself laughing very easily.


But I was cautious. I had kissed my share of frogs, I didn't really expect to meet my prince anytime soon.


A few days after the reunion I met Joe in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The first thing I noticed was that he was very tall. My friend was right, he did have a sweet face. He was very nice so I said yes to a second date, but I told my roommate I didn't think much was going to come of this.


It took me three dates to realize I really liked him. After seven dates I knew this was different from anything I had felt in the past. I had fallen very deeply in love for the first time in my life.


I was a little freaked out. My plan was to have my purpose and life all in perfect order before I met the person I was going to spend my life with.


A few months into my relationship with Joe I was talking to a friend. She was telling me how happy she was that I had found such a great guy. 


I told her that I was really happy but that this was not the way it was supposed to work. I had clearly asked God for my purpose in life, I only added that I wanted someone as an afterthought. Why did God hear that plea when I spent thirty days asking for my purpose.


"Kathy, you don't know God's plan. Maybe Joe will be part of your purpose."


And he was.


The ground had shifted and my life's direction had changed course, and I hadn't even known it.

Life's Lessons

When I was a young girl, one of my favorite places was the woods in my back yard. Although, the word "woods" might have been a bit of a stretch. 


We lived in a small Cape Cod in Levittown, New York. The woods probably weren't much more than four or five trees in a row behind the fence that backed Hempstead Turnpike. It wasn't exactly Little House on the Prairie, but for a little girl of six or seven, it may as well have been. 


In my woods, I was free to go off into the wonderful and exciting adventures I would imagine without anyone to interrupt or make fun of my daydreaming.


I could pretend to be married with my own family. And for the record, I was the kind of mom who let her child do whatever she wanted to do and did not make her share with her sisters or clean her room. I would let her have 1million Barbies, too. Maybe even a dream house.


Or I could be a famous singer living in Manhattan, wearing beautiful clothes just like Barbie did, going to exciting parties, and travelling to far-off exotic places. 


Sometimes I would just talk to the trees and grass and flowers and wonder what it was like to grow in the ground or be a leaf on the tallest tree. 


I lived in my head a lot. I would go off whenever I wanted to escape, whether or not I could physically leave.


I was the kind of child that preferred to be alone. I was happier in a world I could create and control.


As I got older and realized that being in my own world made me different and sometimes the target of ridicule, I realized I had to choose. I left the world of make-believe. My goal in life became to fit in and look "normal." 


It was not easy. I really liked my own world, but I knew I could not live in my head and fit in with the cool people, if I continued to live there. I made a conscious effort to stay in the here and now and live in the real world. 


Blending into the crowd was my main objective. Creativity and individuality became something I actively shunned. I wanted to be like everyone else. 


My "odd" mind that saw things differently and went in directions that others didn't was a source of embarrassment and shame. 


I desperately wanted to be like the girls who didn't have dyslexia and could go to class without getting lost, or read without flipping letters and words. I wanted to comb my straight hair in the mirror and put on my lip gloss as I chatted easily about boys with my friends.


And, I succeeded. By the time I got to high school I reserved my creativity for acting class and even then was careful how much of that side of me I revealed.


I may not have been exactly the most popular girl, but I was happy to hang out with my choir friends and managed to look pretty much like any other girl in my high school.


As I got older and left acting for the joys of eating and paying my own bills, I started to blend in more and more with the other young women who lived in the City. I was content to sit in an audience and let others perform.


I was thinking of this the other day as I was walking out of a mall with my daughter. Lizzy was wearing her new flower-adorned fairy crown and flower headband. She held her Disney Princess flower wand and happily walked a few paces ahead of me, clearly in her own world.


She would have put on her new fairy wings and the three princess dresses she just bought, too, if I wasn't such a mean mother and made her wait until we got home.


If Lizzy was just a small girl of five or six, this may just go unnoticed or looked upon as something cute. But Lizzy is days away from her 10th birthday and could easily pass for 13. She is tall and stunning and would draw looks just because of this, but her need to be anywhere but the real world paired with her developmental delays and speech difficulties draws people's attention whenever we're in public.


As I was walking out of the mall with my beautiful enigma and my own mother I couldn't help but see the irony. 


The girl who so desperately wanted to live in a world of her own but chose the real world because of her equally desperate need to fit in gave birth to a daughter who because of her yet-to-be diagnosed neurological disorder was so clearly entrenched in her own space and didn't care who knew it.


I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.


At that moment I imagined Lizzy as a yet-to-be born angel looking over the world with God to pick her mother.


There are millions of women who are comfortable nonconformists and embrace their originality. Instead she chose me--a woman who for years tried and succeeded to hide her creative soul. 


I always thought God had a sense of humor. I know Lizzy does.


Lizzy's challenges are many and any parent would feel overwhelmed at times and wonder why their child had to endure all that my daughter does.


I hate to admit it, but for the past few weeks as she has gone through an exceptionally manic period, I have felt sorry for myself. Why me? Why her?



It is not uncommon for people to tell a parent of a special needs child that God picks special people for special children. I have even gotten the "You must be a saint" comment more than once.


Somehow when we look at children with special needs, we cast the parent as a hero or someone who is saving their poor disabled child. In reality, Lizzy is saving me.


Lizzy shows me everyday that it's OK to be who you are. If you want to wear three crowns and six dresses, so be it. I talk in funny voices and use the creativity I was born with in order to communicate with her. I laugh a lot.


I sing her songs and she begs for more. I drape a piece of fabric on her head and declare her a bride, and she runs to the mirror to admire herself. I play with dolls or listen to her play with spoons or pencils and see myself as I once did.


I'm beginning to see the wisdom of why I was chosen to guide Lizzy in this lifetime. Who better to help and understand a child who's mind can't help but live elsewhere than a person who has intimate knowledge of that world? 


And who better to help a mother who was never comfortable with her own creativity find it again than a little girl who can't help but live in a fantasy world?