His name was Brian

Brian was born to a popular, playboy city kid and a kind, wounded girl. He had red hair & freckles the moment he was born. He was a brilliant child. IQ through the roof.

He watched his father beat his quiet mother. He saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. He ran with his mother. He saw the blood splattered apartment his mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & his bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet. He watched as his mother did the unthinkable. She got a lawyer and won an annulment, the car, the furniture, the dog, the restraining order...in the 60's. My mother slowly shed her wounded childhood heart and become a women to be reckoned with. She put her foot down, slammed the door & made a new life for herself. But she was punished, by her mother, her society and her church. The Catholic church excommunicated her for leaving her abusive husband. Her husband....he finally walked away from her, never to see punishment in this lifetime.

My brother was about 9 when mom ran. Mom married a nice man, who took Brian on ski trips, camping, fishing & canoeing. He taught him how to fix cars and anything with a motor. Brian was safe. But he never healed for everything he witnessed.

A boy & his beloved dog

Brian with the "new" guy on his wedding day.

Brian, his freckles & his blue eyes.

At 15, his sister was born. I must have thrown him off greatly, because at 15 he became a drug addict. It started with a cigarette his friend offered him. Then a beer from the friend's father. Soon after..pot. 15, Fifteen.

Me & my brother who, on this day became my Godfather.

My parents tried everything, well everything you could do for an addict in the 70's & 80's. But in the end nothing helped. My brother traveled the world...selling drugs. He was a pusher, a pimp, a felon, a thief, a user. He was the guy who would sell drugs to your children. A brilliant mind wasted.

My exhausted mother & my "high" brother at Thanksgiving dinner.

He finally left our lives for good when I was about 10. I breathed a sign of relief. My mother just sighed. I cringed when I received his gifts to me. Cards that said "be good." Clothes, jewelry, flowers. The gifts came for my birthday or Christmas. My mother, never received a thing, not even a word from her son. I hated him because I knew what he was doing. He was slowly killing our mom.

Brother & sister

My mother was a strong, feisty, fun, kind, loyal women. She never showed weakness. She tried not to cry over Brian. The closest she got was when he was stabbed in the gut after a failed drug deal. He lay dying in a New York hospital. Mom cried, not because he nearly died, but because he healed & walked out to sell more drugs. He left her sitting by his hospital bed alone. The tears she swallowed soon settled over her heart. She never again allowed them to flow, so they festered in her breast till it rotted with cancer. Her left breast carved off her body was a reminder of how powerful a wounded heart can be. All that remained was twisted, black, burned flesh that she tended to day in and day out for months. Tending the hurt Brian had left her. Mom lived with her cancer for 5 years. I watched everything. I saw the flesh. I saw the infections & the rot she would get. I watched as her hair fell out, then her fingernails. I heard her vomit violently after chemo, only to apply fresh lipstick & march out the door & go to work. I listen to the years of hacking she did. An uncontrolled cough that would break her ribs. My brother remained silent. Knowing she was dying & never getting clean enough to care.

At 15...Fifteen... I buried my mom. At 15 my brother slithered back to attend her funeral. I hated him. I hated he was in our house. My father made him cut off all his stingy red hair. He took him to get his teeth clean. He handed me a wad of cash to take my stupid 30 year old brother shopping for respectable clothes. I watched as my brother twitched & fidgeted. He couldn't walk without looking behind him, waiting for someone to stab him in the back. At 15 I knew a jonesing drug addict when I saw one. I hated him. My mother was dead & I was hauling his pathetic ass around Crystal Point Mall. He said crap like "I'm clean. I went to rehab. I'm getting better." Liar. "I love you. I'm sorry I left you." Liar. "I'm sorry I never wrote mom, I love you, forgive me." Liar. He could barley try on shoes he was shaking so hard. He jumped every time a salesmen talked to him. Liar, I hate you.

At mom's funeral, my clean, suited brother stood by my dad's side. He wore a light pink shirt and a light colored suit. I refused to stand near Brian. I refused to be his sister. I had a friend say that he was cute. I told her "His nose cartilage has rotted away by all the blow he did. Oh yeah, thanks for coming to my moms funeral, so nice to see you."

Brain followed me everywhere. Outside to breath...Brian. Sitting on the steps...Brian. Bathroom...Brian. He creeped me out. I over heard my dad tell him "stop hovering around your sister. She doesn't trust you. If you bother her, I will kill you." I smiled at that last line. After the funeral my dad thought it would be fun to take a road trip to visit his sister in Minnesota. Grief makes people do weird things! I sat in the back of the car as Brian & his stepfather drove in silence...the whole way. One night at the hotel, I decided I needed to away from the men folk, so off to the pool I went. Swimming in the pool....Brian. Diving board...Brian. Ahhh hot tub....what the Hades?!....Brian. I bolted out of the hot tub & ran off to find a place to hide. Me, being oh so smart hid in the....sauna .........Brian. Brian in a bathing suit, awkward me in a bathing suit. Door shut...sauna. I felt the bile rise in my throat. He had me trapped. A drug addict had me trapped! I stayed calm as he sat next to me. I scooted away. He started to cry. He told me he knew he messed up. He knew I would never trust him. I asked him why he did it. Drugs. Leaving mom. He started to retell his story. "I watched my father beat my quite mother. I saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. I ran with my mother. I saw the blood splattered apartment my mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & my bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet."

"It's still not an excuse, but it was too much." "I was too weak." "Mom...mom...mom suffered terribly. I saw it all. Somethings to horrible to repeat.""I'm so sorry.""I missed you.""You are my only family." Cold air rushed in as my dad slammed open the door. My dad, standing there in his short swim suit growled, "Get away from her...now" My brother towered over him as he walked out. My brother hide his tears from dad. My brother disappeared when we got home from our trip. He left saying he was going to get better. Make his life better for mom. But he knew, as we did, it was too late.

The awkward trio in MN. "Smile everyone! Mom's dead & you are standing in front of a lovely lighthouse. Ain't vacations fun?!"

His father called one day out of the blue. I knew immediately as my father said "John" with disdain & dripping with hate. My dads face never changed as John told him what happened. I didn't have to hear John to know. They found Brian alone, dead of a heroin overdose. All he had left of the $300 worth of clothes, shoes & toiletries my dad bought for him was a duffel bag, a pair of socks and a worn picture of me. A picture of me.

My dad & I didn't shed a tear. All my father could say was "at least he waited to die after your mother."

I don't remember when or where he died. I know I was still in high school. I continued my life just trying to survive my teen years. I didn't have time to think about a brother that deserted us. But all these years later I search for him. Sometimes I imagined he was alive...hiding somewhere from the drug lords that owned him. But I doubt a 5o something druggie is smart enough or healthy enough to survive this long.

When I joined the church I heard about how families can be together forever. I didn't want Brian to be apart of my family. All the agony he caused our mom....it caused me to hate him. I put the thought about doing his "work" into the back of my mind. I got married & moved on with my life. I forgot about Brian. Until one night my husband & I had a dream...each. It was of my brother, in white..... "please, I'm sorry." He actually looked happy. Dang nab it...now I had to find him! Besides, I realised, if I don't do it, no one will. I am his only family. I asked my Dad if he remembered Brian's death info. He didn't. So the search began.

Years ago we didn't have the Internet yet. I couldn't just pop on the computer & find all the info I needed. So I had to go the old fashion route of working with a genealogist and then writing 3 stated for his death records. My searches came up empty. But now, I got smart (I really don't know what took me so long!) I finally realised I could contact Social Security to have them search for his SS number & hopefully it will tell me when & where he died. So here I sit. Waiting for the paper to tell me his info.

I don't know if I really believe in "the work." It's a sweet but impossible, confusing thought. The best I can do is offer up this olive branch. Offer him a new life. Remeber him as a child. Think of him as a brother he wanted to be. Do the work & HOPE that in the end...it is true. And in the end I will see my mother and brother healed...together.

Teen angst

I have entered a new faze in my life....mother of a teenager. So far...a few hours into it, it has been going well. I'm not weepy or sad. I'm excited for my baby. I think I'm a little more excited for him then he is. He enters into this new world with hesitancy & a bit of fear. I, on the other hand embrace this change as exciting & thrilling. I am giddy for him...is that weird?

On Sunday I was trying to think of something symbolic for him. A little turning of age ritual for a boy turning into a teenager. I offered to get his ear pierced or get a tattoo...he promptly turned me down. So I settled for a picture scavenger hunt. For me a scavenger hunt is symbolic of a child turning into a teen. The game itself is childish. The lure of gifts is a selfish childish desire. Then there is the Thrill of the Hunt!! The actual hunt takes brain power & perseverance. A trait learned from experience & age.......ok, you do know I pulled that out of my butt. Sounded good for a second didn't it?!

For the scavenger hunt I will take pictures of hiding places. Each place will have a little treat. Markers (permanent markers...only a teen would get permanent markers! No more washables for him! ), Gum, Nerf bullets, candy. For the candy, I went to a little candy shop downtown. I picked 6 different candies & put 13 pieces of each candy in bags. The store owner got a good chuckle of me counting out 13 tiny little balls of mini midget jaw breakers. Stupids balls kept rolling off the scoop.

I then will take pictures of hiding places. (praise to the digital camera!) My neighbors sand box, undercarriage of the van, the school garden, the library. Oh, yes, I'm going to make this kid work for his treats! Hopefully he will be able to get thought the hunt in good time, because then it's off to dinner. At the end of dinner the waitress will hand him his last clue, a picture of home. A kitchen table with his gifts resting on it, a homemade chocolate cake.

My baby is 13. A true teenager. No longer a child, not an adult...but yet...he's a little of both. He stands on the line, teetering. Dear Lord, help me to keep him upright. Help me to steady him. Let's us all enjoy his ride together.

Awwwww crap...now I'm a little weepy, sheesh!

Slob

What has happened to me? I use to have energy (ok, not really, but I did have more then I have now!) I use to care. I really don't care anymore. This picture proves it. I got a smudge of chocolate on my shirt. Didn't want it to stain. So at least I treated it..........& proceeded to leave my shirt on because I really could not be bothered by picking out a new shirt.

Brilliant

Oh, & to make matters worse, before I stained sticked it....I licked the chocolate stain. Yes, my friends...I ate something..... off....my...shirt.

Kill me now

Facts of life

"Mommy, where do dust bunnies come from?"


"Well Sweetie, dust bunnies come from a very special place. They nestle tight & safe inside a protective layer of soft downy fur. Then they wiggggggle out slowly. It gets so hot, they want to be free & float in the air just like the bunnies before them. When conditions are justtttt right, like right after I mop the floor or when your Grandparents are just about to visit, they spring joyfully from their comfy home. They float & fly. Swirling & whirling on the current of cool air conditioned breeze. For a moment they are soooo happy to be free. They flutter onto the fans, into the potato salad,to top of the fridge & into my nose. Then after all that hard work...they rest. They gently, gently droop & sway onto the awaiting floor. Some bunnies only rest for awhile. They get bored of laying around. They want to float free again. They are sad they are on the floor or stuck to the greasy oven. They get desperate. Once they get desperate...they become rabid. They cling to black dress pants, they sneak into my cosmetic basket. I find them confused & floating in the toilet. I even find them hiding in the van. Poor little things. If we don't step in to cull their numbers they will rise up & slaughter us as we sleep. Then they will take over the world & we would become their food supply...& we don't want that do we Sweetie. So then...this is hard to hear. We have to put them to rest. We must gather them together & send them Elsewhere. yes....Elsewhere. We gently suck them up with my new cool toy. The Swiffer Sweeper Vac (que music, AaahhhaaAAHHhhHHHH) The vacuum is their portal to Elsewhere. It doesn't hurt them, but they are now tired but happy to go to Hel.....Elsewhere.

Sleep well little one, Don't let the dust bunnies bite....or float up your nose, get into your brain & then suck the life juices out of you.





My dog proudly displaying her fur of death & carnage after a good brushing. Dog fur dust bunnies are of the devillllllll.

My mother would be proud?

I grew up as an only child. Raised in a barn, (built in 1850, converted into cheese factory, then house...kid you not) by 2 great parents. They taught me wonderful things. My Dad taught me how to sit reallll still & feed birds, squirrels & chipmunks out of my hands. He taught me how to hit a nail just right so it felt like it melted into wood. My Mom taught me how to stand up for myself. A lesson that wasn't mastered (well...still trying to master that one) for a few decades. She taught me how to be witty, cook & clean.

Cleaning....the art of housekeeping. She taught me the shortcuts, tips of the trade & reasons to keep a clean house. Saturdays where "cleaning day." Since my Mom & Dad worked full time, Saturday was get-things-done-or-else-day. I didn't mind it too much. I enjoyed tiding up my space. As I grew, I loved cleaning my little world before my friends came over. Even as a teen, if there was some friends meeting at my house, I would spend my time cleaning every thing in sight. I blossomed in a clean house...who doesn't?! Clutter brings hostility, rage & depression. I feel it especially now as I get older. A clean house is a heavenly house.

Fast forward....2009. I am a hostile, rage filled, depressed women. I ain't 10 anymore. I hate cleaning my freak'n house! I only clean when friends threaten to come over. I do still have a faint rush in my veins "oooo, my friend is coming over, I can CLEAN!" Then I start to clean....anddd.... the wonder lust is OVER. I stuff crap in closets, tubs, ovens, cabinets. I spritz Bath & Body Works gag-me-with- apple-blossom-tree-scent to mask the fart smell wafting through my living room. I run around flushing toilets because thanks to a 5th. grade teacher, my sons don't flush toilets. "If it's yellow, let it mellow, If it's brown flush it down" (Thanks Mr. Walker...you obviously don't have kids at home!) Here's a new one kids...."if you shat in the toilet, flush it damn it!" Have you ever experience that first humid not quite hot so you don't turn on the air conditioner day? You walk into your house after a long day of running & smell....outhouse? Yeahhhhhh..... MY house...everyday!

So every spring I try to be like Mom & spring clean.

I take one look at the fan & my allergies start up. Yum, dust. How do I fix it? I flip the switch so it spins the opposite direction & watch the greasy dust balls plummet into my kids 5 hour old cereal bowls still filled w/ mushy cereal bits. Hey, that's what a garbage disposal is for! I don't wipe them down. I just make sure the fans are always on. Can't tell how dirty they are if they are spinning!

Behold the banister. That is just the first layer of dirt I wiped off. I scrapped the rest with a wool pad & a knife. I thought the wood was stained dark black/brown. Yeahhhh no.

I have some glare, but if you look past it you can see the difference of clean/dirty. Can you see it? What...in a child's chemical makeup compels them to draggggg their dirty, greasy hands along the walls? Seriously, can we not invent a drug that makes them stop that habit? I now know why our Victorian ancestors put up chair rails! I would like to market my new invention. Chair Rails encrusted w/ shards of glass. That should do the trick!

Isn't it cute? A fuzzy, wuzzy, dust worm. This little bast#$% appeared 2 days after I dust moped. TWO DAYS! Kill me now please.

Problem....dust covered....no...greasy dust covered fake flowers gracing my kitchen shelf.

Solution....greasy dust covered fake flowers gracing my garbage can.

Please mother forgive me!

The never ending road

Hi, my name is Jennifer & my crises of faith crashed into me in 1996. Thanks for having me...pass the cookies please.

In 1996 I had my first squishy, pink, widdle shnoopy baby. He was sweet & happy. I was bitter & lost. I plunged into post partum depression that didn't lift for 10 months. With the help of a lovely therapist (that I would eventually run into at a Le Leche League meetings & counsel her with breastfeeding) I clawed my way out of darkness & began my new journey down a strange, unfamiliar road.

I battled with Heavenly Father after the birth of my son. Knock down, dragged out fights. I yelled, I cursed, I spit, I stomped. I basically threw a huge adult temper tantrum...at God. Yeah, real mature! I was truly as a "little child." I arched my back, kicking & screaming as Father held me. I screamed "I hate you." Then would beg for forgiveness after the storm was over. (sounds familiar to anyone that has a 3 year old!)

Did I push Faith out the door or did she jump out the window to escape my childish antics? I'm sure a little of both. But one thing was sure...Faith was gone.

So I lived a new normal. I made my own rules. For starters...I would have babies on my own terms, in my own time. That was a huge healer for me. I didn't ask God when I should have them...I just planned them to come when I wanted (& crossed my fingers that my method of birth control/baby panning would work...& it did! I used F.A.M. for 9 years with great success!) The next 3 babies were a pleasure. I avoided PPD & actually loved my post partum experiences! (well the 4th baby gave me a run for my money, but that's a different story for another time) I was even able to enjoy some nice, happy spiritual feelings. Faith peeked her head in now & again. I must admit....most of the time I ignored her. I can hold a grudge for a very longgggg time!

The year is now 2009. 12 years after my crises. I have come out the other end different. I am less paranoid "Gods watchinggggggg". Less superstitious. "If I don't pray, something bad will happen to me." Less holier then thou "well if she only did what the Lord wanted, then she would not have this trial." (yeah, I'm an idiot....but we've ALL pulled that crap!) Less to trust people in authority "If Brother Cool said it, then it MUST be true!" These are all good things. I wish I would have worked these issues out in a different, less painful way, but what is done is done. And in the end, I am grateful.

So what about Faith? Religion? I am on a never ending road. I can't hop off of it. I will go where it leads me. I will take detours. I will do my darnedest to enjoy the freak'n journey! I will explore the scenery, the people, the ideas. & experience. I will never say never (never thought I would end up here!) I will get hurt. I will feel pain. I will be disappointed. I will question. I will have fun. I will feel love. I will love.

I don't have the answers...never had. And for once in my life, that's fine with me! I'm just put'n one foot in front of another. Religion is a crutch for weak people. And I am weak. Not ashamed to admit that some days I would like to beat The Religion with the damn crutch because I am so frustrated with it. I have a love/hate relationship w/ The Religion. But we are like a dysfunctional couple who can't live with, can't live without each other. One day that might change, but for now its all I got.

A scripture I always loved was "Faith is a hope in things that are not seen, which are true."

I will steal part of it for my new mantra FAITH IS A HOPE.

Beginning of Broken Faith

Once...I asked myself.."self, how does one know when one is (or should be)done pooping out kids?" This question comes up a lot with women my age. More so I believe, with women my age & faith. Women of faith have that Sword of Damocles precariously swing over their head "multiply & replenish...oh yeah, God is watchinggg youuuuuu.!" Women without strong sense of faith...well...they don't. I have friends on both sides of the fence. My friends without strong faith have a pretty healthy attitude of when they should & shouldn't get pregnant. They get pregnant when they want too, not because they feel they have to (God is watchingggg) I'm not saying they have a better life. I am saying they don't freak themselves out about Big Guy in the sky watching them.


My first baby was a "leap of faith" baby. I waited a year (much to the chagrin of my fellow church mates..."you're not pregnant YET?" Every...damn...Sunday...I was asked! ) before I even thought about getting knocked up. My year was up & then I had to really think about it. One Sunday I looked at all the cute babies in church & said "I think I could do this...I don't want to but it has been a year & I have been told I should start pop'n these kiddos out if I want to be a good girl." I thought God would help me out. I was not in it alone. He would help me. So, full of fear & excitement...I tossed my BC pill in the garbage.


1/2 hour later.... I dug it out of the garbage & swallowed it.


Next day...again with great prayer & faith I popped that pill out of its little hole & symbolically dropped it in the toilet. No going back now! Time to work on baby making.
I stood over the toilet & thought "Oh HELL No! I am so not ready or wanting to do this!" Next thing I knew I was on my knees plunging my hand into the (clean;)) toilet water. Scooping up my little pill...I watched it dissolve in my hand. I considered slurping up the pill water that was pooled in my hand...but then I though how disgusted Big Guy in the sky would be. So, on my knees I let my little pill water go...& I cried.


I had faith. He would take care of me. I was doing the right thing. So for 9 months becoming pregnant became my obsession. I cried when the test come up negative. I looked forward every month to the thought of "this could be it!" I had faith...such great convert faith. 9 months after trying, I become pregnant.


I was never the same after that. For better & unfortunately for much worse. I had my leap of faith baby. He was tiny & sweet. I had my baby & I have never known such darkness. I felt God leave me. I truly was alone. Faith left. It has never returned to the vigor I had before. I did everything I thought God wanted me to do..& faith left. It just snuck out some time between me screaming my baby out. It just left me. It didn't even say goodbye.

Me, fresh from the oven Wee One & my fake smile that would improve with time, but still be fake.