The Nest & We Can do Hard Things

This morning in my recovery meeting, the speaker asked the question, "When we are spinning out and our minds are full of chaos, what can restore us to sanity? What are we avoiding?"

This weekend I have been spinning out. What am I avoiding?

Pedro will be returning to Seattle this summer before he heads off to Colorado State in mid-August. He graduates from his program June 4. He will have been gone for two years, which I can't even grasp. Two years. I sent my kid away for two years. That was a hard thing to do, and as Glennon Doyle says, "We can do hard things."

Other moms with kids Pedro's age are getting ready for an empty nest. I am getting ready to briefly have the bird fly back, rest and then take off again.

And he won't even be staying with me at the condo. He will be staying with his dad at the house in Ravenna. Or maybe?

Pedro's therapist mentioned to me that Pedro was looking for summer jobs all over the city--up north and downtown. "He can look anywhere and he is excited about that."

Downtown? Huh? I had spent a lot of time mentally preparing myself for and accepting that the Pedro won't be living downtown with me. Pedro thinks of the Ravenna house as his home, not the condo. He has his 75,000 piece Lego collection there, along with his bikes and trampoline. Why would he want to live with me in a one bedroom condo where he has to sleep in the landing? Now, there is the idea that Pedro might spend time downtown, which I had not entertained.

I need to adjust, both emotionally and physically.

What will that look like if the Boy lives with me? How will I react? How often will I see him if he isn't living with me? Will it be easier to have Jack deal with Pedro now? I had Pedro from 0 to 16. Surely, his dad can handle him for a few weeks at age 18. Right? Jack and Pedro can figure out how to live together without me as the intermediary. I was actually looking forward to that.

Before the kids were born, I nested. For Ada, Jack and I were living in an apartment in Chicago. I bought clothes, a crib and a few small toys. For Eleanor, I didn't do much. I was terrified that she might die like Ada did. I think there was one baby shower, but I blocked it out. Plus, I already had a majority of the stuff I needed from Ada.

When Pedro was born, I was in a different place, physically and emotionally. We lived in a three story, five bedroom house. My friend Gwen, an artist, painted Eric Carle murals on the walls. There was a lion above the crib, a giraffe and a peacock. Maybe an elephant? We ripped out the old, blue shag carpeting and cleaned up the floors. It was a great room, but we moved to Seattle a year and a half after Pedro was born.

Now I am finding myself in the same spot of nesting, carving out space in my condo for my son. I am not expecting a new baby, but my old one to come back home, and it kind of feels the same. I'll need to re-arrange the landing to make space for him. Right now, the landing is my work-from-home-office, storage space for the mattress and place where I keep my spare fabric and piano keyboard. I'll need to move my desk and my monitors to a new location so Pedro will have a place to sleep. I need to get curtains for the giant window, so the sun won't wake him up in the morning. I've cleaned out sections of my closet for him to keep his clothes so they don't have to pile up on the landing next to the bed. 

Like when I was pregnant, I feel an urgency to get this done, to have everything ready when he comes home. 

He's coming home. He's coming home.

Part of the reason I sent him away was because I didn't have the skills to take care of him, and he couldn't take care of himself. It was a no win situation. While I was gone, I did a lot of work on myself, going to  therapy and recovery group meetings. As I learned to change my own behavior, I learned a lot about the crazy and isolating environment Pedro grew up in. I started to blame myself--"If only I had started my own self-work ages ago, maybe the Pedro would have been fine."

Yesterday, I listened to Glennon Doyle's podcast, "We Can Do Hard Things." She discusses her own battle with anxiety and depression. She's been sober and in recovery for nineteen years, she goes to therapy, is in a loving and supportive relationship, she is on medication, and STILL she has panic attacks.

oh.

I guess anxiety and depression are real. Not that I ever thought it was pretend or fake -- god no! Rather, I thought that the Boy was depressed and anxious because I was somehow a shitty mom, that I didn't do enough, that I wasn't well equipped or serene or whatever, that if I had been better, the Boy wouldn't have needed to get shipped off, sent away, that he would have been happy and joyful and not suicidal.

no.

That is not the case, I am realizing one year, eleven months and one week into this progress, this journey. I knew when I shipped him off, that I couldn't take care of him, but that is different than me thinking that I am not to blame.

He is coming home. He is coming home. 

I was never truly "ready" to be a parent. I had to make it up as I went along. I did the best I could. Likewise, I will never truly be ready to have him home. I can do the best I can, where I am at today. 

And I can do hard things.

A River Runs Through It

The Boy has become a Montanan.

He has lived here for eleven months and is now a resident. 

"I don't plan on living in Seattle ever again permanently," he said. I think the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (aka CHAZ) might have been hard for him to explain to his non-Seattle friends at school. To the rest of the world, they saw CHAZ and thought "WTF?" To Seattlites, we knew this was the uber-left co-opting the Black Live Matter movement to justify taxing Amazon, not to change policing practices towards people of color.

The Boy is becoming an outdoorsman. He imagines his first car will be a pickup truck. He likes Dodge Chargers. He thinks there is nothing inherently wrong with Republicans and one day he might own a gun to hunt.

The Boy has become a Montanan.

Since the Boy can't mountain bike or hike or ski with his newly repaired knee, he has found a new sport. The Boy collects sports the way I collect books: just because I found a new book doesn't mean I don't love the ones I've already read. This sport is one that will likely never leave him: fly fishing. 

"In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing," opens Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It, a book read and re-read by the Boy. We watched the movie tonight at the Boy's request. The story takes place in Missoula, about 150 miles from the Boy's school. In Montana terms, 150 miles is considered the next town over. The scenery is breathtaking.

Norman's brother, Paul, is played by a young Brad Pitt. Paul is charming and smart and handsome and an artist when it comes to fly fishing. He also has a gambling problem and some other addictions that in the end ruin his life and break the hearts of his parents and sibling.

"Why do the people who need help the most refuse it?" Norman's girlfriend, J.C., asks. Her own brother is a very hot mess, but lacks the kindness and grace of Paul.

I was talking to a fellow boarding school mom the other day and she was moaning about the cost. Another parent a few months ago also kvetched about the cost. While I have no solid proof, my guess is that these families have some means. If they can afford this, why are they complaining? Don't they know they are lucky to be able to save their sons, cost be damned?

Why do I think this? I am the queen of investing and saving money. Shouldn't I be evaluating the cost-benefit analysis of this spending? Why am I so okay with shelling out an obscene amount of cash when people who I am guessing have way more money than me are complaining?

My brother was Paul Maclean, minus the fly fishing.

I couldn't save my brother, but perhaps I can save my son. If I lose him to Montana, I am okay with that, as long as he finds himself.

The Lead Story

Normally, I keep the anonymity of my family pretty tight. It is not their choosing to be main characters in my blog. Today is an exception as my family put themselves in the spotlight.

This week, Jack wrote a story about the Boy's mental health challenges on his workplace's website. Mental health problems are now the leading cause of admission at Seattle Children's. The leading cause of admission used to be asthma, but suicide ideation, self-harm, and generalized anxiety and depression are now taking the lead. Take that, respiratory issues! And this change isn't because there is a new miracle cure for asthma. Are kids more depressed than they were a few years ago, or are we breaking down stigma so parents feel comfortable seeking help? Is the world with people connecting on a screen and not in person taking kids down? Has FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) caused depression? I have no idea, but clearly something is afoot.

When Seattle Children's saw their main cause of admissions changing, they made mental health treatment a priority. When one of the division chief's kids was a PBMU patient, the kid becomes the lead story for the newsletter, beating out Seattle Children's CEO's COVID-19 story.

Here is the full story, for those who are curious. 

Jack and the Boy were both very brave to be in this article which is fine and awesome. 

I have one problem with it, though.

The unwritten story: inequity. 

My family is fortunate enough to afford the treatment for the problem. After having a front row seat with my brother's mental health crisis for decades, I had the will to get it done. 

The poorest of the poor can get the best care at the world class Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Want to send your kid to Wilderness Therapy for twelve weeks or a therapeutic boarding school (TBS) so they don't kill themselves and then hopefully rejoin to the world as a functioning human? Here is how you pay for it:

• Do you have a good job with great health insurance? Doesn't matter. Insurance won't pay for it.
• Are you rich? If yes, write a check and fly your kid to Utah, Colorado or Montana on a private jet. Maybe take it out of Billy's trust fund. If your kid has a trust fund big enough to cover the cost of all of this, it is likely mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, step-dad, etc. have enough funds to cover this without poaching the child's savings.
• Are you upper middle class? Dig into that money you were saving to send your kid to college. At the rate your kid is going now, they aren't going to college. "Retrench" and adjust how you spend your monthly income. Take that bonus and instead of getting a new Audi or Tesla, you have now paid for six months of boarding school. Italy or Thailand for vacation? Nope. Hello, Durgango, Colorado! (Which is actually lovely.) In the long run, this is going to be cheaper than the cost of having your grown-ass adult child live on your couch for thirty years.
• Even for families with means, sending kids back to the motherland is an option. Maybe you have a kind and gentle grandparent or aunt who lives out of state or out of the country who would be willing to love your kid back into recovery. I have friends whose cousins and siblings were shipped back to rural Michigan, Taiwan and India when their mental illness flared. 
• If you are not in the previous groups, feel free to mortgage your house or empty your retirement account.
• Don't own a house that can be remortgaged or have a retirement account? No extended family that is willing to help? Good luck.
• Are you a person of color? Pray to god your kid doesn't flip out when the cops are around. At best, your kid will be locked up in juvie. At worst...I think we all know what the worst is.

Add on top of the tuition extensive travel costs. I spent twenty-five days out of town between June 1 and December 31, 2019 for the Boy's treatment. Think: airfare, hotels, rental cars and restaurants.

If your kid in inpatient treatment, you had better get your own butt to therapy, so add that to your monthly expenses. Kids don't get to the "sleeping-on-the-couch-all-day" stage of life all by themselves. While I didn't necessarily cause the Boy's problems, our family contributed to them. 

Then there is the spiritual cost. I am in the process of rebuilding my psyche and soul as a result of this emotional trauma, and there isn't a price tag for that. 

"Bitch, Please!"

I was talking to the Boy about COVID. He told me he had seen something on the internet about people bemoaning that they hadn't seen their friends for two and a half months.

"Bitch, please!" he said. "I haven't seen my friends for eleven and a half months and I can't contact them by text or phone or anything."

Yeah.

COVID is my Wilderness

Last summer, the Boy spent three months in the wilderness. He and a group of ten boys had to cook all of their meals over a fire they started. There were no haircuts. No showers except maybe a dip in a pond, stream or river. They lost track of time as they had no clocks and no calendars. No porcelain. A vast majority of them abruptly left home and did not get a chance to say goodbye to their friends.

In the wilderness, the Boy learned to build a fire from sticks. He learned to make a backpack out of a tarp and nylon rope. He learned to cook.

He learned to feel his feelings and speak up and meditate and listen.

COVID is my wilderness.

I haven't seen my friends in months. I have had to cook all of my meals. My hair is long. I've lost track of time.

I have learned to feel my feelings and speak up and meditate and listen.

I have learned to be comfortable with my own thoughts. I have learned to pause, to be a better listener. I've learned to stop spinning and getting worked up. I have learned when I get frustrated to let go instead of squeezing tight. I have learned to let go instead of giving up, instead of staying "Screw it" or "I don't care."

I am feeling a quietness inside that I haven't felt in a very long time, perhaps ever. I asked a friend "What is the difference between peaceful and numb?" I couldn't tell where I was at because I have never felt this way before. Was it peace or was I numb?

"Numb is when you avoid or ignore your feelings. Peace is when you have feelings but they don't control you."

The Boy called me on Mother's Day.

He was calm and quiet. "I really don't have much to say," he said.

For my family, not needing to talk is a miracle. His mind wasn't racing, he wasn't on edge. He just was. He seemed peaceful, not numb.

It was good.

Mamas Don't Sleep While their Babies are Sick

Moms don't sleep while their babies are sick.

They don't shower, they forget to eat, they don't call their moms on her birthday.

Most of all, moms don't sleep. Or if they do sleep, it is a crappy, miserable sleep where they are up every time there is a peep. They can't sleep until their kid comes out on the other side, when it is clear and apparent that their kid will be fine.

I doesn't matter the illness. The first flu or cold, cancer, or mental health crisis. Their primary focus is on the kid getting better. Some moms might continue to work because they need health insurance. (Some moms are horrible and abandon their ailing children at the hospital, but that is not most moms.)

I was in a writing class about feminine archetypes where we studied women represented in mythology. Demeter was Persephone's mother, Diana was the Hunter. "Virgins" like Diana had focused attention and were goal oriented. Mothers--like Demeter--were known for having diffuse attention where they would pay attention to lots of little things at the same time. Think cooking dinner while the laundry is in the washing machine and the kids are playing in the backyard. A guy once compared a woman's mind to a computer with lots of apps open at the same time. The cooking app may be running in the foreground, but the kids outside and the laundry are running in the background.

When mother's child is sick or suffering, that laser like focus of the virgin goddesses comes back into play. That sick child is in the foreground, and everything else is in the back. The sick child is a memory hog, using up a lot of RAM.

The Boy has turned a corner where he is seriously thinking about his future, looking ahead. Last Monday, the Boy was talking about his SAT scores, where he wanted to go to college, and what he wants to study.

"I thinking of math," said the Boy. "Something like Mathematical Methods in the Social Sciences." I nearly leapt with joy for so many reasons. First, MMSS was my own major. We have to acknowledge that. Math is an awesome major in college because it is not like you are going to pick it up on the job or learn it on the fly. I suppose people can learn math online through Khan Academy, but that is a tool for people who want to study math more.

It is super cool that he is considering math, but most important is that he is considering anything. Before, he didn't see a future for himself, which made him more depressed. Now, he is looking forward, which is good.

I am happy for him.

And now I can sleep. I can restore. I can find myself and again and get back to everything else I left running in the background, unattended.

Pre-Crying

The Boy is going in for an MRI today to see if he tore his ACL. As you may know from my many blog posts, I tore my ACL in 2015 while I was skiing. I wouldn't wish a torn ACL on my worst enemy let alone on the Boy.

A torn ACL means he can't ski for a year. Last year, skiing was what kept him alive. It was the only thing that got him out of bed. It will take months to relearn to walk and run. He can't play soccer, either.

Last night I cried. I think it was pre-crying, crying before the bad news so when the bad news comes we've already processed it. I remember when the Boy was in 8th grade, he applied to Aviation High School. Admissions were by lottery, and there was a low acceptance rate. The night before the lottery, he cried for forty-five minutes. Jack and I couldn't figure out why he was crying at the time, and then when I saw he didn't get in, I understood.

Good Things, Part 2

My daughter Claire-Adele used to be an avid reader of my blog (mainly to see if I was writing about her) but she stopped reading it because she said it was too "angsty." This is coming from a teenager. My dictionary's definition of angst has adolescent angst as an example. If teenager thinks my blog is angsty, it must be off the charts. But then, Claire-Adele isn't on the Facebook group of parents whose kids are in treatment for anxiety and depression where every single person's kid is either currently in crisis or has just gotten out of the woods of a crisis. You know how social media gets a bad rap for people showing all of the superficial, happy crap in their lives? This group is the opposite as it is full of raw, honest emotions, from the agonizing pain of child who is lost to the joyous relief of seeing that lost kid find their way back to civilization.

So my blog has been a little angsty, I agree, but the angsty-ness reflects the state of my life in general.

In the middle of all of this chaos mess, there are a few good things.

• I am reading a really good book: Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owen. It is about a young girl who is abandoned first by her mother then my her alcoholic father and is left to fend for herself in the marsh is North Carolina. I read this article about it in the New York Times and decided to read it. 

• In addition to reading popular literature, I also found a high brow show* (not) on Netflix from reading the New York Times. Schitt's Creek stars Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara (who I swear I saw walking in my neighborhood a few weeks ago.) I've seen the name of the show on airplanes, but I never watched an episode until last night. It was so good to laugh so hard. This is The Beverly Hillbillies in reverse where a vacuous, wealthy family loses its fortune and moves to the middle of nowhere. All they left from their former lives are their clothes. Eugene Levy's character has the best dress shirts. I wish the Boy were here to watch it with me.

• Ferries at night are good things. I love watching them crawl along the Sound like a glowing snail. My friend Laura had suggested we take a ride on the ferry in the evening in the winter where we can see the city lights. It is so hard to get a good picture of the ferry with my phone at night. It doesn't do justice to how wonderful I think they are.

* My friend Laura recommended Chernobyl. I think I'll take a pass. I couldn't get through the trailer.

Blessings and Abundance

I talked to the Boy Friday morning and he seems to be doing much better, which is a giant relief. His voice sounds strong and hopeful, more hopeful than I've heard in ages. Last week, he wrote us a long and detailed letter. His interest in aerospace is back, which is fantastic. In middle school, one of his favorite activities was rocketry, where the kids would build rockets and compete in a national contest. He is grades are up due to his improved time management and ability to manage is anxiety in the face of a pile of work.

As he gets stabilizes, so do I. The week before last was almost blissful. I was peaceful, in a good mood and carried with me an open heart. I was present, not preoccupied for the first time in a long time. At the same time I am relieved, I now have the emotional space to focus on my personal life. I have to attend to a bunch of situations that have been ignored for months. My marriage, my friendships, and other family relationships have all been neglected while I worked to get the Boy into treatment. My marriage was a disaster, but I couldn't address those issues at the time for fear of losing focus on the Boy.

One of the major issues I have been struggling with since the Boy has gone to Wilderness and boarding school is finding peace and reasons to be happy in spite of the miserableness my son struggling with. The week before last was fine, but how can I keep that up even when times are low? How can I make it part of my long-term view?

I think I may have figured part of it out. Today, I went to an Al-Anon meeting to help me find some sanity and healing with Jack's workaholism. I went years ago, but Jack told me it made him feel bad that I was going so I stopped, which was a mistake. The purpose of these meetings (or so I am figuring out) it to help the person who lives or loves with someone (partner, parent, child) with an addiction reclaim their identity, which is what I am trying to do. Often the person who is in a relationship with someone with an addiction can lose themselves in the process trying to help/fix/save the other person who may not want to be saved.

Today's topic at Al-Anon about our prayer or mediation process. I really don't have one, yet. I used to have a more spiritual life, but somewhere along the way, it got lost. As I was writing my thoughts in the meeting, I stopped to mediate for a few minutes to see what would come up. This little thought popped into my head.

You will be given blessings and abundance for saving the Boy's life.

The same thought came into my head three or four times. I don't even use words like "blessing" or "abundance," but there they were. I don't even know what those blessings will be, or what abundance means, but I'll take it on faith that things will be okay.

My friend Ellen said she and her daughter were better off because of her daughter's problems. I had a hard time reconciling this. How could she be glad her daughter was a recovering alcoholic? I think what Ellen is happy about is the recovering part. Her daughter had these issues and she overcame them. Viktor Frankl would agree. Overcoming challenges can give our lives meaning. I suppose I need to stop looking at these problems as if I have a choice about them because I don't. I don't have a choice that my son has anxiety and depression. How am I different from a goose? I am not in the sense that I cannot prevent tragedy from befalling me, but in the case of the Boy, I can be supportive and see that he gets the help he needs.

His engaging letters, his hopeful voice, those are my blessings, my abundance.

Sixty Percent, Drama Queens, Sister Mamas & Because it is Hard

Last week when I got back from Montana, I went to lunch with my friend who has anxiety and depression. Sometimes he is quiet, sometimes not. Last week, he was talkative.

We went to lunch on Monday, and I was still recovering emotionally from seeing the Boy and physically from the drive and lack of sleep. I still struggle with how to be happy while I am coping with the Boy's depression and anxiety. Watching the Boy struggle with all of his emotional challenges is heartbreaking. He is making progress, but that progress means uncovering a lot of challenging thoughts. I was still pretty raw from the trip when we were at lunch.

My friend's anxiety has had physical ramifications. He used to be very athletic. Now, not so much.

"I am sixty percent of where I used to be," he said. "I could be sad about the forty percent that I lost, or I could be happy where I am at. What would be the point of looking back at where I was?"

It took me several days to absorb these thoughts. Part of that time I was recovering from seeing the Boy. Still, my friend is right. I need to find a way to be happy in spite of these challenges.

Ironically, one thing that has made it possible to even think about being happy is digging into my sorrow. My path to happiness hasn't been to go around the Boy's problems, but to go through. Before I acknowledged how much I was worried about the Boy committing suicide and checking out from life, I was a Drama Queen inside my own head and to my closest friends. I'd spin and spin about tangentially related issues. When I spoke about my fears in the group therapy session, the drama almost came to a complete stop. Without the constant mental distractions, it is much easier to think about being happy.

When my son was at Wilderness therapy, I met other parents in the program at the program's family wellness weekend. There, I met many sane and normal people who had kids with major challenges. Maybe some of these parents were a little on edge or crazy or sad or whatever (myself included) because they had a kid who went off the rails who was then put in the middle of the southwestern United States to sleep on the ground under a tarp for three months.

Since the parents weekend, I've kept in touch with three other moms. One of the moms calls us Sister Mamas. As I wrote before, I bought them each a journal.

Here is the letter I included with the journal.

Dear Sister Mamas,

Last week, I was driving back from Montana after visiting the Boy when I stopped in a gift shop in St. Regis. It was a long and exhausting visit where I got to witness the Boy having a panic attack and then watch him for the first time articulate what he was feeling. He was so open with his emotions which was great but it was difficult to hear all of the fear and shame he was holding. I had no idea what to do. I felt glad he was in boarding school because his sadness was so deep and his anxiety so strong. There was no way I have the skill set to take care of him.

When I walked into the gift shop, I saw this journal that said on the cover “I think I’ll just be happy today.” I thought what a load of crap. There is no way that can ever be me with all that I have gone through, am going through and will go through. The book is full of platitudes that I would have liked in middle school. Ugh.

And then I thought holy cow how did I become so cynical? Maybe I could try to be happy in spite all of this. Maybe the platitudes apply. Maybe I need a flowery journal with a cute little bird on the cover. Maybe I need a dose of that blind and sunny optimism I had in 7^thgrade that I found in a small town in Montana. Maybe I need to find some hope and happiness so my son can find hope and happiness for himself.

Then I was grateful for Montana—the entire state--that the houses residential treatment programs for kids with issues. I was glad for the kind (and super intense) parents at the boarding school. I was grateful for the self-aware kids at the Boy’s school. And of course, I am grateful for all of you and sharing the experience of wilderness.

Instead of one journal, I bought four. To paraphrase John F. Kennedy, I am asking you to be happy, not because it is easy, but because it is hard. 

·     Life doesn’t need to be perfect to be wonderful.

·     You are amazing. Remember that.

·     Every journey begins with a single step.

·     Some days you have to create your own sunshine.

·     Mistakes are proof that you are trying.

·     Always remember you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

All of this is easy to think when life is going well, but harder to believe when life is dark and seems impossible.

Thank you so much for all of your inspiration, vulnerability and honesty.

Lauren

Purple Mountain Majesty & Strike That

Yesterday, I drove home from Montana. The drive from Kalispell to St. Regis is the most beautiful drive I have ever taken in my life, and I have been to New Zealand which is amazing. The scenery was breathtaking. I now know where "purple mountain majesty" comes from. I didn't take any pictures because I was driving, but here is a map of my route, in case you want to know. The drive goes along Flathead Lake, through plains and then along a river in the valley between mountains.

My manager had been teasing me that these trips to see the Boy are vacation.

"No, this was not a vacation," I'd say, thinking of the hours of therapy I'd been through.

"You just said you took the most beautiful ride ever! How is that not vacation?"

He has a point.

How do I reconcile the beauty and the pain of this trip, hold both in my hands and heart at the same time? That the Boy is doing better even though he has a long way to go before he is functional? That I love him even though Saturday he ignored me which pissed me off and made me feel like I was an inadequate parent? Today, I sent a message to my friends I met at the parents weeks for the Boy's Wilderness Camp. One of the women calls us "Sister Mamas" which I love. I wrote a note to them saying "I am glad he is getting help." I was going to add "but I wish he didn't need it." I struck that from the note to these women. I've decided to not add this caveat to every conversation.

I am trying to incorporate the Boy's mental health struggle into my day-to-day and still maintain my sanity. When I was in St. Regis, there is a gift shop. I found a journal that looked like something I would have bought in seventh grade, but it spoke to me. I bought four: one for me and three for the other Sister Mamas.

Three weeks ago, I would have thought this cheerful little bird was full of shit. Now after starting to read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning and learning at Wilderness that negative emotions only last thirty seconds to three minutes if you just sit with them, I might learn to find happiness while the Boy is away.

Gratitude helps, too. I am grateful for Jason, one of the Boy's supervisors. I am grateful for the entire state of Montana, for hosting a place like this boarding school, and people who dedicate their lives to helping kids like the Boy find their way.

"Be Honest"

This is the most bullshit advice ever given.

Seriously.

I am in a bunch of crazy personal dilemmas and I asked a friend what I should do.

"Be honest," he said.

Seriously? What planet is he living on? Not earth because usually when I try being honest that is when things go sideways. Being honest means exposing myself to heartbreak or hurting someone else. I suppose being honest could lead to joy and happiness, but let's table that thought for now.

Let me dig way back into my past. I had a high school boyfriend who was a little crazy (a theme here with the male characters in my life, I know.) I told this boyfriend who was a little crazy that perhaps he should get some help, like see a therapist or a shrink, to help him deal with this legitimately difficult problem in his family life.

What do you think this eighteen year old boy said in response?

a) I am so glad you are looking out for me and have such deep concern about my personal wellbeing. You aren't trying to fix me, but nevertheless you are worried. Thank you! You are amazing.

or

b) I don't think we should see each other anymore.

Yeah. Honesty didn't work out well then, and it hasn't gotten much better. Honesty hurts, and who likes pain? I was honest with my high school boyfriend, he was hurt, and then he dumped me, which then hurt me. That was a lose-lose situation.

So now I am "an adult" and everyone else around me is "an adult," so it should all be good, right?

Nope. I told Jack he needed a therapist. While the Boy is in treatment, the parents are required to be in therapy, too. When I nudged Jack that he needed a therapist, he was resistant at first, second and third. After a while, I became a deranged lunatic, which is not my favorite state of being. That didn't work. Finally, "If you aren't going to see a therapist for me or yourself, see one for the Boy." That worked, but both Jack and I were traumatized by the experience. Jack and I were revisiting this later.

"It is as if we both are massively burned and we both need a hug, but it hurts too much to be touched," I said.

As my friend Betty would tell me, I need to switch the narrative. I need to rewrite the story so that honesty becomes a strong and positive thing in my life, even if in the short-term in causes me pain.

The problem is I don't know what I want. I am in a state of flux, so how can I magically expect everyone else in the world to be honest with me?

Time of Conflict

At this point of my life, I am getting sick of myself and my own company. I am wondering why anyone wants to even talk to me as I continually complain and bitch about the same things over and over and over.

Oh my god. I am horrible.

"You are making progress," said my friend Karen. "Three months ago the Boy just started treatment and you were exhausted. Look at all of the progress both of you and the Boy have made!"

Yes, I have made progress, but I still feel like an emotional mess. My heart is pulling me in forty different directions and my brain is like "Seriously woman. All of these feelings are so conflicted and then throw in an anxiety attack. Give me something consistent to work with here and I'll try to help you sort things out."

I walked around Green Lake with a friend today, who is kind and patient, like all of my friends. I am waiting for one of them to say, "For god sake's woman, pull yourself together!"

But no.

"I want to have peace," I told my friend Jessica walking around Green Lake today. "I don't want to be in this chaos anymore. I want to be calm and fun and carefree, like I used to be. I am tired of reading self-help books and books on how to parent a troubled teen. I want to read a novel. Anything."

"You can't skip to peace," said Jessica, a two-time cancer survivor. "You are in a time of conflict. There won't be peace during a time of conflict. You are trying to sort things out. Peace is a nice long-term goal, but you need to go through this. You can't cut around it." She said this as she pointed to a tree. Behind the tree were the giant fields where dozens of little girls played soccer while parents watched. The youth soccer pitch--the Promised Land of Parenting. For some parents, the Promised Land might be a swimming pool or a stage or a concert hall. Let me tell you: it isn't Wilderness or therapeutic boarding school. And yet, I am lucky that I can send the Boy to a place where he can get the care and support he needs to make it to adulthood.

Jessica has a son who is in his senior year of high school. Having been through that with Claire-Adele, I know that is a very difficult time. Toddlers are more rational and open to suggestion compared to a NE Seattle teen who feels their existence depends on whether or not they get into their top choice university.

"I made the mistake of watching videos of them when they were little," she said. "They were so full of joy. Will they ever get that back?"

I hope so. I am equally guilty of looking back at pictures and videos of the Boy when he was a tot. But that is not a bad thing. Seeing the sweet boy he once was gives me more reason to make sure he is getting the help he needs.

My manager often says to me he wants me to be happy, and the subtext there is that I am not. He has known me for a few years, and has seen me at my worst and my best at work. He recalls that I have a sense of humor and fun, but hasn't seen it in a while as it has been hidden behind my worry about the Boy.

Like my manager wants me to be happy, I want the Boy to be carefree and fun, too. I miss his sense of humor. I miss the joie de vivre he had a kid, like in the video above when he was crashing his plastic lawn chairs with the wheelbarrow. I remember when the Boy was little and Claire-Adele was in pre-school, I would dance with the Boy on my hip in the kitchen. I'd put him on my hip and spin around and he'd laugh and laugh. Obviously, that isn't going to happen, but I remember in recent times when he'd have good stories to tell about school, his friends and skiing. I remember dinners at Santorini with the kids when Jack was working, and they'd bombard me with tales of the crazy things they had done.

I miss that, but I am hoping sometime the Boy and I will both return to not necessarily our past selves, but better, future selves that enjoys the ups in life and can safely weather and navigate the rainy days. I hope Wilderness and boarding school will give him the rain coat, the umbrella, the rubber boots he will need to keep him warm and dry during those inevitably rough times. I used to wish--as I am sure most mothers do--that the Boy would never face hard times, that his life would be sunshine and rainbows. I have had enough tragedy in my life I should know better, and yet I still wish him a peaceful life.

But I can't. There are hard parts of life, the times of conflict that we cannot avoid or go around. We need to go through, as I was so gently reminded by Jessica. Unlike rain, we can't just sit and wait until it stops. We need to work through, or else the conflict will wait.

The leaning stack of books next to my bed.

Persistence

Years ago when I was living in Lincoln Park in Chicago, I saw a petunia growing in the concrete where the sidewalk met a wall. It was a bright pink petunia, if I recall correctly. I wish I had had camera back then because I would have taken a picture of it, framed it on my wall, and called it "Persistence."

When the Boy was in a gifted program back in elementary school, I would say that the mothers of these very bright girls thought of their kids as precious petunias, which is ironic because petunias are hardy perennials flower that are easy to grow. The Boy, on the other hand, is an orchid. He needs precise living conditions in order to thrive.

I digress. Today when I let Fox on the condo patio to pee, I saw a little plant growing in a crack in the concrete between the patio and the wall. I immediately snatched the little sapling before I could think. As soon as I picked out, I was immediately reminded of the petunia on the sidewalk in Chicago.

It is interesting to see this plant has nothing but one skinny little root that found its way to some soil buried underneath my sidewalk.

I was going to compost this weed--a plant that nobody wants--until I saw my pot with a matching plant in it. I decided to replant this fragile yet hardy little guy in the soil with another snapdragon. Will this plant be better off in the concrete or in the dirt? We will never know because we can't compare the two paths, the one we took and the one we didn't.

Clean All the THINGS!!! and Retro

I talked to my friend Ellen today. I sent her a text.

LM: Call me when you get a chance. I'm cleaning.

I am hosting a work gathering at the condo tomorrow. My new manager has been in his role for about two months and we all deserve a nice celebration for all of the progress we've made since he's been here. Yay! Go team! Which meant tonight I got to navigate the GIANT Metropolitan Market on Queen Anne to buy food for the party. And dinner. And other cool stuff like frozen cioppino base and ice cream that was on sale. Oh...now I get it. MetMarket sells awesome cioppino, so they are selling just their own magical soup base and I get to add the seafood. Sweet.

I told Ellen I was cleaning for this party.

"I don't know why I feel the need to dust under the bed for this party or sweep under my desk," I said.

"When my daughter went to wilderness, I cleaned everything, like stuff that hadn't been cleaned in years," she said.

"You mean like how last week when I cleaned the grease trap on the fume hood above the stove?"

"Exactly!"

It is good to know I am not alone in my manic cleaning while the Boy is in wilderness. It reminded me of Allie Brosh's brilliant blog, Hyperbole and a Half, where she writes about why she will never become an adult. You are welcome for me introducing you to Hyperbole and a Half. "The Party" is my favorite post of hers, followed by "The God of Cake". You just have to promise that you will come back to reading my blog after reading hers. It is like introducing a boyfriend to a much hotter, smarter, and funnier friend, but he is not allowed to hit on her, capiche? You can still like Allie's blog, but don't abandon me.

Now for a funny story, which have seriously been missing from my blog lately. (I really should be reconciling my Visa bill instead of writing, but hey #selfcare.) When I go out to dinner--either with friends or alone--I have lately been using the "Restaurants Near Me" feature on Google Maps on my phone. Last night, I tried The Retro Restaurant and Lounge, a dive bar on Stewart, with heavy emphasis on bar. The Yelp reviews said they have great hamburgers, and on their website it says they get their meat from Don and Joe's butcher shop in Pike Place Market. I've been to Don and Joe's. The bacon is awesome and the guys there are super sweet. Don called me "Doll," which if I were younger, would offend me but now meh. Anyhow, I wanted a good burger because Seattle has a paucity, nay, a dearth of good burgers.

The place is empty except for a tourist couple at a table and three guys at the bar drinking Coors Light. The background music was so bad it was offensive. It was "retro," but like whatever retro was in 1982. When has Yelp ever been wrong? So what if my kids would write brazenly horrific reviews for places on Yelp when they were twelve?

The bartender came to the table to take my order.

"What would you like to drink?" the bartender asked.

"An iced tea with lemon," I said.

"We don't have iced tea, just soda from the soda gun," he said. "Those are the only non-alcoholic drinks we have."

Oy.

He started to list the high fructose corn syrup selections when I cut him off.

This was a real bar. Nothing but booze. I'd rather drink beer than pop, though.

"I'll have a Manny's," I said and ordered my burger. Manny's from Georgetown brewery in Seattle is my favorite beer.

The burger arrived.

It was the best hamburger I've had in Seattle. It rivaled a burger from John Barleycorn, which had the best burgers in Chicago.

It might even be better than Barleycorn, but maybe the Manny's helped pushed it over the edge from awesome to sublime.

Unsubscribe & Grief

This was possibly the worst day of my life.

But first...

A difficult part about the Boy going to Wilderness is untangling me from the administrivia of his previous life. What is so hard about removing the reminder from my google calendar that I don't need to write a check to his bassoon teacher on Tuesday for his Wednesday lesson, or deleting his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist? On the surface, it seems like that wouldn't be as big of an emotional deal as it but it is death by a thousand cuts. Part of me didn't want to do that until he was officially off, because--you know--mental health miracles occur every day.

And then it was unsubscribing from email lists for track, cross country and the high school in general. Thank goodness school ends Thursday so I won't get anymore voicemails from the high school telling me my son was not in school today, which I stopped listening to after the second one.

The Boy has played for the same club soccer team since 5th grade. Days after the Boy started wilderness, Jack wrote the Boy's soccer coach saying he wasn't going to be playing this summer and next fall due to mental health issues. Yesterday, I finally emailed a handful of moms asking them to find a new team treasurer. These are women I've spend years on the sidelines with, laughing and cheering on our sons. I am losing that group.

Now I have a new group, I am a member of a new club--mom's of kids who are in Wilderness. Sure there is a Facebook page exclusively for parents with kids in the Boy's wilderness program, but I am part of an email circle with four other moms where I wrote today "I cried for two hours." Which was them upped to probably three to four hours by the end of the night. And it is still early! Only 1:30 a.m. here in Seattle!

Fuck. I hate my life.

Grief snuck in on panther feet today, grabbing me by the jugular, shaking me around until I was a limp rag. A good friend of mine who is Indian took me to lunch today, but little did I know he had an agenda. The Indian part is important, because as he mentioned to me once before, where he grew up people considered it part of their responsibility to tell people directly how they are screwing up their lives. And I thought I knew how to have an agenda for a meeting, but he wins.

The agenda: The Fourth of July.

"Laaaauren, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

"Nothing..."

"What are your plans?"

"Eh..."

"You need to make plans," he said. "When I lived alone, I would spend the holidays by myself then Monday would come around and it would be awful. You need to leave town. You need a plan. That is your assignment. You could visit your dad."

I suppose my dad would be happy about that, but no. Spending a few days with my mom would make me more depressed, not better.

This conversation was making me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I called Ellen and then my dad and I cried. The grief of the Boy being gone hit. I wouldn't need plans for the Fourth of July if he were here--he probably has a soccer tournament. (I should probably delete "Team Snap" while I am uncluttering electronic reminders about the Boy's past life.) I wouldn't need to make plans if the rest of my life were in order.

I have been reading a book called The Parallel Process about having a kid in wilderness therapy. My main way of coping with getting the Boy treatment was to be stoic. I was practical and organized and I had an agenda.

And now, I have fallen apart. When Ada died, I learned that grief waits. With the Boy, I had kept grief waiting at the door, and now she has arrived, to sit with me for a while. I have no choice but to let her in, and keep me company.

Between the tears and the anguish, I got out my laptop and booked a trip to see Claire-Adele in Maryland. Grief can sit with me on the plane, but she can have a break when I hangout with my daughter.

Crying in the Morning, Maryland, and The Broken Bowl

This blog post is slightly disjointed, as that is how I am feeling right now.

Thursday morning before work, I cried about the Boy. I was listening to Spotify and the song Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel came on and I lost it when I heard the lyrics which I never heard before even though I've heard the song dozens of times:

"Son," he said, "Grab your things I've come to take you home."

Hopefully, there will be a day when the Boy comes home. He writes us a letter once a week and we have gotten pictures. It will be interesting to see how he progresses, and how we here in Seattle progress, too.

When I was feeling blue, I put on my Maryland t-shirt and baseball hat I got last year when I dropped Claire-Adele off at college. I need to remember that she is a good place, thriving.

For my birthday, I got a broken bowl in the Japanese style of kintsugi. (This one isn't really broken, just made to look that way.) The idea of kintsugi is to take the cracks and repairs as part of the object's history. The cracks are filled with gold or brass and lacquer, making what could render the bowl useless and instead make it beautiful. And it is true. This would have been a boring, dark gray bowl, but now it is unique.

My life right now feels like one of these broken bowls, still waiting for the brass and gold to fix it up. I could give each of the cracks a name. While I appreciate the beauty, at times I wish my life had a few less blemishes.

Practice Day 1: Animal and Son v Husband

Yesterday, Jack and I dropped the Boy off at the airport to go to Ski Camp before he leaves for his few months at wilderness therapy. The night before, Jack made pasta for dinner with bread sticks. I brought arugula from Pike Place Market. Jack made a lemon dressing for the salad.

"Arugula is the best word," said the Boy. It is and it is part of the best line from the otherwise indistinguishable movie, My Blue Heaven.

For his second to last home cooked meal for weeks, the Boy chose pasta, our default meal dinner during the week when we don't have energy to cook something else or go out to eat. I thought it was an exceptionally uninspired choice when we could have had steak or gone to Frank's for dinner. I suppose the Boy will miss the most what he eats the most.

After dinner, Jack and I went to Met Market and bought him a slice of tiramisu for dessert. "Tiramisu is the only dessert," the Boy has said before. The Boy was sluggish coming downstairs after dinner, too busy looking at his phone. When he did come down, he and I sat down while he has dessert, one bite at a time. When the last bite was left, he stuck his head down on the plate and covered his mouth over the chocolate, coffee and cream filled dessert. I laughed.

"I was planning to that for the whole time I was eating," he said, "but I wanted to wait until the piece was small enough to fit in my mouth."

I think this was his going away present to me, making me laugh.

When I went to say good-bye to him Saturday night before I left for the condo, his teased me.

"Don't cry."

"I am not crying."

"Yes you are."

I took off my glasses and showed him my face.

"This isn't me really going. I am just going to Ski Camp. Next week, you can cry. It will still be annoying, but it will be more appropriate."

The next day, the Boy drove to the airport. His father hates it when the Boy drives too fast, so he kept the needle at 55, even though he was passed by every car on the highway. At the airport, The Boy carried his equipment to the baggage check and dealt with the agent. It was hard to believe that this polite, independent and sensible kid could be so down that he sat around for months playing video games and watching Breaking Bad in his underwear and didn't get out of bed except to ski and go to Driver's Ed.

For the first time in nearly nineteen years, I have no kids. There was one vacation/work trip Jack and I took to Paris for five days when my parents watched the kids, and there were two summers where they were both at camp at the same time.

This is different. This is Day 1.

(Okay, that was dramatic. This Practice Day 1 because the Boy will be back in a week and then we ship him out. And it is not like he is leaving the solar system. He is only going to the moon.)

So far, I've walked the dog and watched the Seattle Fire Department's Heavy Rescue team climb up the old viaduct for I don't know what purpose. It was the first time I've seen a hook and ladder in action. When the Boy was a toddler, he had a giant Tonka hook and ladder from his grandmother. He loved that truck so much.

Not the hook and ladder, but the Boy with a different truck.

Anyway, Jack and I were talking last night after he read yesterday's blog post. Over the course of the past several months, I have felt Jack and I have been more adversaries than partners in getting the Boy into treatment. Jack seemed to think that I was relying on my friends too much for advice and suggestions, that I valued their opinions more that I valued his.

After he read the blog post, he had an insight that I didn't have myself.

"You were the only person who was going to guarantee that the Boy was going to get help. A teacher or counselor or grandparent wasn't going to advocate for him the way you would. If you didn't help him, no one else would."

The first rule of hiking in the wilderness is don't get between a momma bear and her cub. The same applies to moms in Northeast Seattle. I wasn't acting as a civilized, rational human being. I was reverting to instinct that goes so far back in my DNA that it links me back to the earliest mammals. (Interesting. I never noticed that the first five letters of mammals are "mamma.") In short, don't fuck with my kid or I'll tear you apart.

I might be a little bit more shrewd than ripping someone from limb to limb like a grizzly bear, but the idea is the same.

My friend Betty said to me years ago when her first son was born that she loved her kid more than her husband. I thought it was a crock: how could she love a newborn that couldn't speak and kept her awake for hours more than the sane, rational man she chose to marry? Now when I think about that, I think about the thousands of different loves there are in the world: the love for friends, the love we have for our parents, the love we have for places and pets.

The love for kids is something altogether different. It is a love to see them gone and out of the house exploring the world and kicking ass (like Claire-Adele), and then also a fierce protective love that kicks in when one of them in vulnerable or in danger.

That fierce protective love overrides everything. Love of husband, love of country, love of friends.

I took a women's mythology writing class where we learned about the direct and steady focus of Diana, the hunter, the single, unattached young warrior woman versus the diffuse focus of Demeter, mother of Persephone.

Like the mother grizzly, my attention is both diffuse and focused. All of my alarms are on high notice. I notice everything and I am single minded in getting my kid help.

And now I need to rest and recover, come back in and get ready for the next battle.

New Shoes, New Wallet and the Taj Mahal; and His Story v Mine

The Boy hasn't been to school since January. He has spent days and days in bed, sleeping and looking at his phone or computer. He might get up on the weekends to ski, but that is about it. He is also taking Driver's Ed.

This is anxiety and depression.

We are seeking residential treatment for him, starting very soon we hope.

And I think he hopes so, too.

Since depression hit, the Boy has become nocturnal, sleeping til after noon and knocking around the house at night. One night, he got up and read the packet about the options for residential treatment. He got out a pen and annotated it. He signed all of the forms that said "Student Signature" and he checked off the states where he would consider moving: Colorado, Montana, Utah. Anyplace with mountains where he can ski.

Since we've started talking about treatment, the Boy got his haircut. I gave him money and he took the bus to the mall to shop on his own. He bought new tennis shoes and a new wallet.

This weekend, he has friends over. The boys bounced on the trampoline, walked to Burgermaster for lunch, and nearly finished the 5,923 piece Lego Taj Mahal that the Boy got for Christmas. In the past, it would take the Boy days--not weeks or months--to finish a Lego set of this size. His friends came over and they worked on it together. The last thing left is the dome.

I know this is his story to tell, but it is mine, too. I've watched him suffer for too long. He is one kind of pain, and I am in another watching him. Pain is a useful and confusing feeling at times. It can tells us to stop and rest and stay where we are, or it can motivate us to make a change. Depending on the situation, sometimes both can be right.

Fixing one pain can cause another. While I am happy to get him the help he needs, I will miss him. This is the bargain of being a parent, the price of being the primary witness to someone's life, the love and pain combined.

Swearing, Part 2

I like to swear and I swear a lot. I can't drive without swearing at other drivers. Is swearing a problem? At times, it can be unprofessional when used inappropriately at work. It can be hurtful when swearing at someone else. Otherwise, I am fine with it. It is like chewing gum, another vice of mine. It is kind of gross but meh.

Apparently, the US Youth Soccer League thinks swearing is bad all of the time. They have a new rule where any player who swears on the field will get a red card for three games.

Seriously.

One of the best and most fiery boys on my son's soccer team was jacked for three games because he dropped an f-bomb on the field. Their coach was subsequently jacked from three games for saying the call was bullshit. I am not sure how many people if anyone knew that was a rule besides this ref. Trying to get a group of physically aggressive teenage boys from not swearing would be one mean feat.

Today at my son's soccer game, I ran into the mom of the boy who got the red card for swearing. I told I thought her son's ejection from the game was ridiculous.

"I don't think I could go a week without swearing," I said to the mom.

"I don't think I could, either," she said.

I had to leave the game early to wait for the cable guy at the condo. As I was driving downtown, someone cut me off while they were making a right turn on red while I had a green.

"Douchebag," I said to the man in the Denali/Suburban/Mt. Everest size truck who tried to cut me off. Drivers who make a right on red directly in front of oncoming traffic with a green light should be deported. I don't care if their ancestors came over on the Mayflower. In that case, they should be deported back to England or wherever. I suppose Native Americans can stay since they were here first, but I'll still swear at them.

Okay, where was I? I dropped the thread. Swearing. I also flip people off while I drive, but I hold my low enough so they don't see it. Seattle is so polite I don't want to offend anyone, but I sure feel better knowing that I am giving them the bird while they can't see it. Also, when I swear, other drivers usually can't tell I'm swearing. When make a rude hand gesture, they know I am trying to communicate with them. Not only is Seattle polite, but it is small. I am afraid that if I flip another driver off, it might be someone I know. It has happened before and it is very embarrassing.

And so my goal of not swearing for a week didn't make it past a five mile drive. I am going to try again, starting at 11:00 p.m. before I go to bed. I likely don't swear in my sleep so I'll have a nice eight hour cushion to start the week.

I get to the condo to wait for the cable guy, whose visit was a disaster. (Insert worst story of cable guy visit, which ties with more than half of all cable guy visits on the planet.) Then I get a text from Jack:

"The Boy got a yellow card for dropping an f-bomb."

My first thought was I am glad it wasn't a red card. And then I thought I was to blame. Now I am not one of those parents who racks up tons of guilt for all of the crap their kids do. In this case, however, I think I have the right to feel a little guilt. Perhaps if I wasn't such a potty mouth, maybe my son would swear less.

When I got back home, Jack told me the story of rough play, an opposing team player down on the ground, and the parents of the other team calling for the head of one of the Boy's teammates to be served to them on a platter. Refs and coaches were called to discuss, while the parents on the other team boil to a froth.

"Shut the fuck up," said the Boy yelled to the parents on the other team, particularly one very loud and hostile parent in an orange poncho suggesting to the ref that someone on the Boy's team be kicked out of the game.

This is not the first time the Boy has said this to parents on the opposing team. Last time this happened, the other team's parents actually did shut up. Being called out for boorish behavior by a fifteen year old can have that effect.

After the game, I asked the Boy what happened. "One of the parents was heckling our team, I heckled him back, and then he shut up."

"The guy in the orange poncho was being a total jerk. Action needed to be taken," he said. "After I yelled, the guy was ashamed and he went off and hid at the end of the field by some trees, although it is hard to hide in an orange poncho. I won that argument. What a pussy."

While I don't exactly condone my son's behavior, he did stand up to what he thought was bad behavior, albeit with bad language. The two people I feel most sorry for here are the ref and the son of the guy in the orange poncho. I would imagine the worst part of being a ref for youth sports is being harassed by parents. One ref once thanked the parents on the Boy's team for being civilized. But we are. Our kids are fired up enough. We don't need to add fuel.

And the boy of the orange poncho. Sometimes mild mannered people lose their shit when their kids play sports. Sometimes assholes have kids who play youth sports and use the soccer pitch as a venue for sharing with the world their true nature.

While in this case, swearing was unfortunately effectively, sometimes we are not so lucky. I should know better. I am going to try to go a whole week without swearing. I'll keep you posted.