Category: Stories

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I Don’t Talk About It Much

Suzanne and I spent the late 80’s and the whole 90’s many states away from each other, taking a time-out. Suffice it to say, the split was all my fault. But the longer we were apart, the clearer it became to both of us that we were meant to be together.

That time apart also brought kids into our separate lives. Suzanne had Rowan late in our time-out, but I had walked immediately into a life with a two-year-old named Devon (and his bio mom). For the next dozen years, I was Devon’s MomHelen. For most of those years I was his primary parent, because my graduate school and teaching schedules were flexible. I loved that boy, and the three of us had a mostly successful run as a family unit.

But I was falling apart. I had been running from the fact that I was bipolar, so I wasn’t getting help in that regard. My job teaching middle school in Baltimore had left me literally bruised almost daily, and bloody all too often—resulting in me developing an unpleasant case of PTSD which kept me from sleeping for years. I was beginning to over-like my beer too.

I was an outward success, but I was a mess at taking care of me. My collapse was coming. When Devon was 15, I had a bigly decision to make, and it would be the most difficult decision of my entire life. What could I do to be the parent he needed me to be, before I completely imploded? The answer was easy to figure out. The answer was also nearly impossible for me to actually do. I had to go. I had to leave him in his mother’s capable hands. He didn’t need me crashing into smithereens in the house, or even anywhere in the same zip code.

Such a tough thing. The beginning of reclaiming my sanity required me to walk away from everything I had and everything I was. I had to let go of ego and pride, and simply do the right thing for Devon. The best parenting move I could make for Devon at that time was to leave him in a situation that improved the second my bipolarity and I walked out of it. I did the right, hard thing for him, and It broke my heart.

I left Maryland and came back to Utah in 2000, where the endless sky helped heal me. I found the right bipolar medications. I re-found Suzanne. I quit drinking. I learned how to manage my PTSD. And today, April 16, 2020, the No Tie o’ the Day Devon turns 35. (Merry birthday, my man!) He graduated from Texas A&M. He’s a high-end landscape architect. As an adult, he has lived and worked in Texas, Italy, and Iowa. He shares his life with someone he loves. I’m so sweetly proud of him from afar.

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Pandemic, On Parade

The Saturday before Pandemic Easter, I was feeling like we should at least be in the vicinity of children celebrating the holiday. I texted Suzanne’s niece, asking if she thought her boys would get a kick out of us doing a one-float, drive-by parade on Easter afternoon. She was certain they would. In fact, when I crawled out of bed Easter morning, I got a text from her before I had both eyes open. Her text said, “First words out of Liam’s mouth today, ‘I’m so excited for my parade today!'” The pressure was on!

Skitter wore her pink halter top and her patriotic Tie o’ the Day, as well as her trademark cowboy hat. I wore my Tyvek duds and a Bow Tie o’ the Day, so I could be the Pandemic Easter Bunny. I broke out a dozen packages of marshmallow Peeps I bought on clearance last Easter, which I’ve been saving—cuz last year a brilliant idea came over me to decorate a vehicle with said Peeps for Easter weekend, just for the heck of it.

Suzanne and I attached the Peeps to our parade “float” as well as we could. It turns out that the old Peeps had dried out too much, and fresh Peeps are too gooey to cut. We had to practically rip open the Peeps to make them stickable. This was my first try at Peep-ing a vehicle, and I will admit that by the time we could get the Peeps to stay stuck on the car, they didn’t even resemble the Peeps they really were. The multitude of colors was purty, though. We had a parade to produce, so we went with what we had.

It was beautiful, but cold outside, so we didn’t stay at the boys’ yard long. The boys seemed to enjoy our confusing tiny parade. They got an Easter basket from Skitter, and their parents got an Easter egg filled with toilet paper. We got to see their family, but without hugs. Mission accomplished, but without hugs.

I’ll certainly do more Peep experimenting between now and next year, so I can improve the final “parade float” look. I will make my idea work. I am proud to report that most of the dismembered Peeps stuck to the car all the way home on I-15. Some of the Peep parts even stuck through two different car washes.

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Skitter’s Weird Easter Fear

Add plastic Easter eggs to Skitter’s List o’ Fears. The Pandemic Easter Bunny put two bigly eggs in one of Skitter’s beds, and The Skit was sore afraid. She immediately voted to social distance the eggs from her bed, although she was a bit more able to enjoy them once it was clear The Pandemic Easter Bunny had filled the eggs with rolls of toilet paper. (That’s what the Pandemic Bunny brought Suzanne.) Skitter relaxed just enough to put on her spring-y, plaid Easter Tie o’ the Day, as she nervously wondered exactly when I was going to finally remove the eggs—with this year’s coveted toilet paper treasure—from her personal space. When I extracted the plastic eggs from her little nest, she then got excited for the Easter parade we were scheduled to create later in the day. Yeah, that Easter story is next up.

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Teaching Basic Life Skills

In our little home school for quarantined neckwear, Skitter is my aide for all instruction. She is also our school’s mascot. The Skit wears many hats around here—literally and figuratively. Today, we’re learning about the bigly clock on the wall and how to tell time. Telling time is one of Skitter’s finely honed skills. Sort of. She knows 11 AM and 7 PM. She can tell those two times without even looking at the clock, because those are her chewy treat times. She knows those two times deep in her skinny bones, as well as her tummy. However, once when Skitter was helping me teach a lesson, I had to caution her about not flaunting her vast knowledge with our younger ties who do not yet know as many facts— nor as much about the ways of the world— as her mature canine brain does. Intimidating the young neckwear with her intellect would make Skitter a bully, and I will not allow bullies to run rampant on my watch. Skitter wasn’t aware she was being a meanie until I explained the concepts of pride and humility to her. She immediately shaped up, having no desire to be haughty and snotty to her lesser-educated tie pals. Seriously, I cannot abide liars or cheats or thieves, but there is an extra dank and craggy place in Hell for bullies—in my version of Hell, anyway.

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Edyoocayshun Iz Importunt

Multi-color splotchy, skinny Tie o’ the Day is getting some much needed home-schooling on the subject of William Wordsworth’s poetry. You can tell Tie is excited about Wordsworth’s lofty work by all the notes Tie’s scribbling for itself in the margins.

Added bonus: Tie o’ the Day can act as its own bookmark when it’s done with today’s lesson.

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Got Book?

I am glad to be literate. I could not survive the pandemic if I couldn’t read. To be honest, I couldn’t survive anything If I couldn’t read.

The Ties o’ the Day woke up restless. I could feel their mutiny coming on. But I know a thing or two about the power of words, so I headed ’em off at the pass with the calming question, “Do you neckties want me to read to you?” They were quiet and on my lap immediately. The lure of being read to quashed the tie mutiny before it even began. Trust me, reading calms everybody.

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An Excursion To Farmington

I needed to make a break for it. I had to escape the house for a little while. I took Skitter, camo wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, and my chapped lips and we drove west through Farmington—toward the Great Salt Lake, and away from human breathers. We discovered a place whose existence we had never known about before today: The George S. And Dolores Dore Eccles Wildlife Education Center at Farmington Bay. I’d like to say that it’s a groovy place. And I’d like to say Skitter and I found some fetching waterfowl to gaze upon. But I can’t say those things, cuz a bunch o’ other people were out there doing what we were trying to do, so I decided it was prudent to practice my social distancing. We will visit the actual center another time. Skitter and I had a splendid time prowling farmland on the outskirts of the center, where we were alone. We stretched our legs and breathed the lake air, and my lips got more chapped in the sun and wind. I and my chappier lips felt refreshed by our foray afield, after two weeks of staying close to home.

I felt guilty about our adventure the whole time we were on it. I kept thinking: What if I got in a wreck, and the cops and EMT’s and doctors and nurses had to waste their time attending to me just because I got a little stir crazy in the house and went on a completely unnecessary outing which ended up in an accident, while the people with COVID-19 have to wait for their important care behind my selfish self?

I know I’ll go out-and-about again, but you can rest assured I’ll feel properly guilty about it.

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And I Alone Am Escaped To Tell Thee

Buckin’ bronco Tie o’ the Day and I managed to dodge the army of quarantined zombie bow ties, to slip undetected into the ladies’ reading room. I knew the hooligans would find me eventually. They always do. Every parent with a house full of children or bow ties knows this feeling: “I just need five minutes to myself. Please—just five uninterrupted minutes. I will sell my soul to the first power which will grant me five quiet minutes.”

But we parents also know we never get the whole five minutes. No, we get about thirty seconds before the first knock at the bathroom door, which is followed by childish attempts to turn the doorknob long after it’s clear the door is locked. We begin to grumble in our heads. We grumble quietly out loud. We wonder who had all these kids. We wonder why they can’t survive for such a short amount of time without us. We wonder a lot of stuff. Briefly, we wonder.

And then we get the teeny fingers under the door—clawing in our direction. That’s the nail in the coffin of our solitude. Our defeat is inevitable. We know there’s no going back now. We must surrender our sanity to the herd. We put down our unread books; we gird up our frazzled loins; and we head back into the loud chaos of those small beasts who love us as much as we love them.

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And The Housework Doesn’t Get Done

So far, the quarantined neckties, ascots, cravats, and bolos have minded their tie business. The home-stuck bow ties, however, have taken over the house. This afternoon, I went to throw in a load of laundry, and I discovered four Bow Ties o’ the Day had already commandeered the washing machine. The Bow Ties tell me it’s their pretend lake. They say they want a ski boat. Oh, the swimming and diving I’ve seen the little bows doing! They are skinny-dipping as they water-frolic, as well! I can’t blame them. I did the exact same things when I was a kid— just not in anybody’s washing machine.

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They’re On The Move

It’s the Zombie Bow Ties o’ the Apocalypse! I turn to the west, and there they are. I turn to the east, and there they are. It matters not if I go upstairs or downstairs—they’re following me. Everywhere. Their pointy little bow tie schools are closed for the duration of the pandemic, and all they have now is yours truly, 24/7. The dapper critters do not even allow me a moment of privacy. I fear my brain is becoming altered by the constant mass presence of the Zombie Bow Ties o’ the Apocalypse. I fear I am becoming one of them. 😱