Dress shopping. I'd rather give birth; naturally.

Clothes shopping; the inalienable rite of every women around the globe. If we are happy, sad, celebrating or mourning, we, as a gender, shop.

I personally hate it with a passion I used to save for my yearly visits to the gynie.

Of course, that declaration could get me kicked out of just about every women's organization I can think of.

Now, it goes without saying that I need to shop from time to time. So, when the time comes for me to retire a ten-year old shirt or purchase new pants, I choose to buy most of my clothes on line or at the one store that I am comfortable in; Fashion Bug. Suffice it to say, I am a very classy lady.

As for dress shopping; forget it. I have not worn a dress in at least 18 years. I mean really, someone might see my legs; which actually don't' look like legs at all. More like the trunks of an old oak.

Unfortunately, there comes a time in all our lives where we are faced with doing something that we don't want to do; something that rocks our last nerve and sends shivers down our spins. It appears that I needed to purchase a dress. Yup, a dress; well a gown really.

Our oldest son is getting married and my future daughter in law, as well as my husband, requested that I not wear pants. What could I say? Could I be so selfish as to put my fears in front of my husband and daughter in laws wished? Trust me, I thought about it but ultimately, I decided that this is something I could do.

I am a mature woman of 54 years, I have raised three children and have worked all my life; I think I could muster up enough courage to buy a frigin dress.

So, for months I searched the internet looking for the perfect gown to wear to my son's wedding. It didn't occur to me to go shopping in real stores. As it was I going to order the dress of my dreams in two sizes smaller than I am now.

I was sure that I could shed enough weight to achieve this. Reality and fantasy get very fuzzy in my mind sometimes. To put that much stress on myself is just stupid. Partially because the more stressed I get, the more I eat, thus the more I gain.

All my searching paid off; I found the gown that I wanted to wear. It was beautiful; off the shoulders, age appropriate and low and behold, it came in my size.

I was so excited. I was going to purchasing this dress, lose the weight and look stunning, sexy and sassy; no frump girl for me. Every day I went on line to gaze at my almost-purchased dress.

I would fantasize at how awesome I was going to look. 80 pounds less and hot and sizzly; that was going to me. NOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

I put off buying the dress because the weight never stated coming off and it didn't occur to me to order the dress in the appropriate size. That would have too easy. Well, little did I know that three to four months is required for ordering a designer dress.

That settled it, I was screwed. Not only had I blown my opportunity to lose the 300+, give or take, extra pounds that I was carrying, but now I didn't have a dress either. Shit, I was going to have to go to an actual store with real salespeople and dressing rooms and mirrors and strangers..... Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I wanted to run away and die.

Since I was not about to go alone, I enlisted my daughter in laws help. Nicole loves to shop and she is very good at it. So, on a snowy day in January we were off on a mission to buy the mama a dress.

I was nervous and excited all at the same time. I know that Nicole would never let me get anything that didn't look good, so I knew I was in good hands.

I had also approached her with the idea of a very formal pant suit. I was positive that I wouldn't find a dress that didn't make me look like the hippo in Fantasia. You remember her don't you. Dancing so delicately in a little pink tutu with the alligators.

Yup, that would be me.....a hippo in heals. But being the kind and compassionate young woman that she is, she agreed to pants IF I couldn't find a dress.

Now, with the news telling us every day that there is an epidemic of obesity in this country, you would think that I would be able to find a dress, in my size, to try on. Wrong......

We went to the mall and to all the BIG named department stores. The best I could do was find a dress, three sizes too small. Excitement doesn't describe how I felt when I was actually able to get the dress on and zipped half way.

Of course this made my breasts squish flat to my body somewhat resembling cow patties on a field on a hot summer day. But, I got the idea of the dress and I liked it. I didn't think I looked like shit in it.

I was prepared to buy the dress, in that size and take the extra pounds off in the two months left until the wedding.

Thank the lord that common sense prevailed, and Nicole, very gently told me no, I would find a dress in my size. Needless to say, I didn't get a dress that day.

Four stores and only one dress to try on. I was so upset. With me, with the stores and with me, again. What the hell was I going to do now?

I'll tell you what I was going to do, I asked my husband to go with me the following weekend. Come hell or high water I was going to get a damn dress if it killed me.

To say I was anxious is an understatement. I was a mess the morning that we were set to go. I tried in every way I could to pick a fight with Matt so we wouldn't have to go. That didn't work. I underestimated my man. He knew exactly what I was doing and wouldn't take the bait.

After discussing the choices, or lack there of, we decided on Davids Bridals. We were hoping that there would be at least a few dresses for me to try on.

What an experience. Once in the door we were in a sea of at least twenty young girls, all giddy with excitement at the prospect of finding the perfect prom dress. Not one of these girls weighed more than 100 pounds. I wanted to turn around right then and there and leave.

Good God what was I thinking.

Once we were able to wade through the teenie boppers we were met by a very pleasant woman asking me what it was I was looking for. I informed her I was the mother of the groom and needed a gown.

Back wall and to the left, that's were we were to look. Guess what, I found lots of dresses, in my size. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

With my heart lifted, Matt and I pull out three dresses for me to try on and off to the dressing rooms we went.

Since it was a weekend and very crowded, each person in need of a dressing room was assigned one by a specific salesperson.

Stephanie was very pleasant and she escorted us to room 30. It was tucked away at the back of the store away from the screaming and giddy girls. Thank the lord.

Let the fashion show begin. Matt took a seat in our little cubby and I proceeded to strip down and try on some dresses.

Fashions have changed so much over the years since I wore dresses. The first dress I tried on was pretty. It was a periwinkle blue sleeveless dress with jacket. The top was too big and the tummy area was too small but I did like it; and so did Matt.

Things were looking up. One dress on and two to go. My second choice was a champagne satin number. I loved this dress but the more I looked at it the more I realized it was just too much dress for a lady of my size. If I put a paper tab out of my head I would have resembled a Hershey kiss. The third dress that I had chosen made me look like a 50 year old woman who was trying to look 25.

Not knowing what to do, Stephanie suggested we look through the dresses again; maybe we would see something else that would peak my interest. She was right, well kind of.

The first little number that I found to try on was an electric blue strapless satin dress with a bolero jacket. Lord have mercy I looked awful. I walked out of the dressing room to show my husband and without missing a beat he said, "Jesus you look like a Vampire". He was right. I hadn't thought of that but he was right. I had thought I looked like the sheets on a king sized bed in a sleezie four-hour hotel.

The next little diddie that I tried on was just as awful. I didn't even get out of the dressing before Matt very matter of factly said, "Nope".

Now, the next choice was one that I didn't like but Stephanie assured me that it was very flattering style. Picture this; rows and rows of fabric about three inches wide each, layered over each other. When I put this little frock on I looked like a venetian blind for an enormous bay window. It was awful.

Back into my little room for the last dress of the day.

I was convinced that this dress was not going to fit me because of the style. Once again I was proven wrong. Not only did it fit, but I loved it. I actually smiled. With all the other dresses, even the two that I liked, I frowned, sighed and made faces in the mirror. This time, I actually smiled my biggest smile and could actually see myself the day of the wedding in this gown.

With butterflies in my stomach, I walked out of the dressing room, turned to my husband and just beamed. Much to my relief, Matt not only loved me in this dress, but was almost speechless. He told me I looked beautiful.

Ladies, I don't care how long you are married, those words are music to a women's ears. He loved it, I loved it and it fit.

My search was over; I had a dress and I loved it. I had survived and came out unscathed. Life was good.

Jesus Lord, I have one more child to get married...... Here's hoping that he doesn't want me to wear a dress too.... I don't think I could do this again.

Me my weight and I

I have spent most of my life in a love/hate relationship with my body. The picture that I have on this blog, me at 17 in an orange bathing suit top and low slung jean shorts, is the only picture I could find with me in a pose WITHOUT my hands in front of my stomach. I thought it was huge.

If only I still had that body now....... Hmmmmm, if only what? Would my life have been different if my body mass had been smaller? Does a jiggly stomach make a person less worthy of love and affection? Would I be rich if I had breasts that didn't require steel in the under wire and a stomach flat enough to bounce a quarter on?

Sounds like the housewives of New Jersey doesn't it? Blahhhhh Those women I have no desire to be like. We need to ship them off to... well, I don't know to where but not here.

There is a place in my mind that believes that if I were thinner my problems would be smaller. As if problems and body size went hand in hand. I know it doesn't work that way, but still.....

Why do we all put so much stock in our weight? I realize health is a big issue; but it is so much more than that.

Society does it's part for sure. Watch any show, any commercial and any ad. Thin women sell cars, jewelery and perfume. Heavy women sell garbage bags and diarrhea medicine.

Calista Flockhart is too think but Audry Hepburn was perfect. I don't see the difference in their bodies. And what's more, who cares.

Jessica Simpson is a beautiful woman who happens to be curvy but she is labeled fat. What the hell are we doing?

I really don't give a rats ass that Kirsty Alley is fat again and still as vulgar as always. Can I get a show every time I loose and gain weight? If that's what it takes, show me the money. I am a pro, a champ at yo-yo weight and dieting.

Big men on the red carpet are described as classy and sexy while a woman weighing in at over 110 is "putting on weight" and "looking puffy and hefty". It makes me crazy.

I believe that Kelly Osbourne said it best. I'll paraphrase. “People were more upset with my weight then my drug abuse. They spit on me, called me names and hated me for the weight but not the drugs.”

And ladies and gentlemen, I must buy right into it at some level because I put the same pressure on myself.

I see men, big men, feeling all sexy and hot with their beer bellies hanging over their bathing trunks, all the while drooling over sexy women on the beach. hmmmmm yup, they want you dude.

I guarantee you these same men are complaining that their wives have "let themselves go".

It's the double standard my friends and I do it too. Men can be over weight but not me. The world puts that shit on all women, I only put it on myself. I personally believe women can and are beautiful regardless of size; just not me.

I came into this world at a whopping 5lbs. You would never know it now to look at me. It's like i hit the air and expanded. You know those wafer's you can eat with a glass of water to make you full. Yup, I puffed up like the Stay Puff Marshmallow man.

I wasn't always heavy. When I was in high school I had a nice body and didn't know it.

My mind said that if you aren't thin, which I wasn't, you must be fat; which I wasn't. I was curvy. For me there wasn't anything in between. Fat or thin, those were the options.

I couldn't understand why guys wanted to sleep with me? Apparently they liked my tunas. Yup, breasts were called tunas when I was in high school, among other things, of course.

Tunas, tits and tatas. What's with the T's??

It was during my marriage to Gary that my weight ballooned to numbers that I never thought I would see. The 200's.

Now I'm just lumpy.

I have always tried to live my life treating people the way I would like to be treated. I have been complimented on my personality and kindness to people all my life. I am very proud of that, but on a superficial level, I would love to be told that I was the most beautiful, sexy woman to ever live. Screw the personality... hehehehe not really.

I wonder if I could bribe someone to say that. I have always wanted to be called sexy. Alas, most people call me mama or mom now.

My yearbook actually has several comments written in there about what a great personality I have and not to ever change. You would think that I would have taken that as a compliment. Nope, I took it as you are a nice person with a dog ugly face and a blubber butt.

I tell you I am certifiable.

What is it that just the thought of having more flesh then someone else is enough to put us over the edge. We are ridiculed, stared at and mocked; all because of the amount of skin we have. If nothing else, we are all those things in our own minds if no one elses.

For me, my lack of confidence in my face has led me to live my life believing that I am less worthy of other women solely due to my weight. Ugly face, fat body equals not worthy.

That's bullshit but it still creeps into my mind.

If I see people from my school days, especially guys, my first thought is to turn and run the other way. Well, maybe not run; that would trigger an earthquake that would put the 1960 quake in Chile to shame.

I'm older and fatter than I was in school. Wait a minute, aren't the guys I went to school with older and heavier also? Did everyone from the class of 1974 stop aging but me? Did I miss the meeting where everyone got into a time machine.

Of course they didn't.

I actually saw two guys I graduated with over this past summer one of them being the man I was madly in love with in the seventh grade. I went out of my way for 20 minutes not to make eye contact; my God I might actually have to talk to them. My heart was pounding in my chest; they might notice that I had aged, gotten heavier, had wrinkles.

As it turned out, I did speak to them and they never laughed or asked me why I was so huge. It was a nice 20 minute exchange.

And come to think of it, why would they care if I did get fat? My mind is a strange place.

I amaze myself sometimes with my mindset.

Of course I had aged, so had they. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS. In all honesty it wasn't that I had aged, it was because I had gotten fat.

The pressure that I/we put on ourselves is nothing less than self destructive.

My mind tells me that it is ok for men to get heavier but not for women.

Take my husband for example. I got heavier, he got heavier. Although he would like to loose weight for health reasons, he doesn't feel that his weight defines him. I, on the other hand, feel it defines me. I am not

I don't love Matt any less due to his weight but I fear that he will love me less due to mine. I forget that we have a life together that was built on laughter, tears and enough ups and downs to entitle us an award for not giving up.

Where the hell is the logic there?

People change as they grow older. Marriages aren't just about what they were when the relationship started.

To grow old together means change; and for many of us, weight gain.

The breasts that I thought defined me as a teen are no longer the delightful melons that they once were. Gravity has taken over and they now resemble partially deflated balloons; put that together with my stomach that I have to tuck into my pants and there you have me.

Saggy, lumpy and droopy.

Shit, that sounds like three of the dwarfs.

Thus my life has consisted of one diet or another.

The scale. I will live and die by that damn thing.

When I succeed on a diet and can see my feet past my stomach I'm elated

Look I actually have toes.

Another good sign when I'm dieting is when my boobs stick out farther than my belly.

The thought of me sashaying across the bedroom in a teddy is frightening. Matt would have to look at my knees to see my tatas. How romantic.

One of my friends said to me years ago that she would like to loose enough weight so she could straddle a man and not get leg cramps. Hey, that works for me.

I am a pro at dieting. I have lost and gained more weight than the national debt if it were calculated in pounds. I can tell you the point value of any food, the fat content and the sodium levels of ever item in a grocery store.

What I can't seem to do is stop eating. I eat to sooth hurt feelings, celebrate an accomplishment or just because; well because I can.

Besides my absolute love for food, I am what you call an emotional eater. If I am upset, sad, lonely or any other emotion you can think of; I eat. When I am in one of my lows I can out eat ny sumo wrestler you put me up against. I kid you not.

Keep the sweets and give me the food; although I do love ice cream.

My love for sandwiches is historical. Growing up my mom would make our lunch for us, always wrapped in wax paper and always with butter on them. Every sandwich, regardless of what kind, had butter. I still make them that way; is there any other way?

Spiced ham and butter on home made white bread. God I'm in heaven. No wonder I am still fighting my weight.

I loose 80 pounds only to gain back 85. It seems like a never-ending battle for me.
As I have said repeatedly, I need to embrace who I am; fat or thin, old or young.

It is how I define myself that will show others how to perceive me.

I know that, I just need to embrace it and do it.

I am my own worst enemy.

Ahhhhh, to be a kid again, just for a day.

I'm 54 years old, fat and not so happy with myself this week. Soooooo I have decided to revisit my youth.

I had such a good life growing up. I need to go back there and hide for a while.

I am the youngest of three girls born and raised in Point Pleasant, NJ. We didn’t have tons of money, but as children, we never noticed.

Nobody had much money then anyway. If I was deprived of anything or unhappy, I don’t recall that at all. The many happy memories that I do have, I owe to my parents, Dick and Ruth.

They always went out of their way to make our years growing up special. It’s amazing how they did that with limited resources. Jesus Christ, today if you don’t’ have tons of cash, and exotic locations to take your family for vacations you are considered a failure.

When I was five years old, my parents took us to Maine for a week during the summer months. I can still see that little cabin tucked away in the woods not 25 feet from a beautiful, sparkling lake. The cabin was small, with drapes dividing the rooms; two bedrooms and a large kitchen. It was great.

Well all except the outhouse. There was nothing on heaven and earth that would get my sisters and me into that smelly, dark box. My father, always with the answer, would bring in a bucket for his little girls to use, then go and deposit its contents into that dark void; the outhouse.

The lake was magnificent. My sisters and I were allowed to sit in the row boat, with it tied to the dock and pretend to explore. This is also the vacation that I learned how to swim. I would wade out about five feet from shore, lie down on the sandy bottom and with my hands flat on the stones, push up making my body come off the sand and there you have it, I could swim. I could kick my little legs as fast as they would go and not go anywhere. It was perfect.

Besides my dad having to be in charge of the potty patrol every day and night, he was also responsible for calming us down every evening when the raccoons would come a call’ in.

When you are in the middle of the woods, you are in their territory, and if they want to bang against the cabin door all night long, that’s exactly what they are going to do. I thought for sure we were going to be eaten alive by a pack of killer black bears. My imagination had not matured yet to the level that it is now. If it had, I would have been convinced of nothing less then Big Foot or the Jersey Devil, (because he would have known that I was in Maine).

That vacation was one of my best memories. No dinners out, no amusement parks, just my parents and sisters and me.

The simple life.

We didn’t take things for granted. We were clothed and fed; held responsible for our actions and we were happy. Not every day. No one is happy every single day, but as a whole, we had nothing to complain about. I felt safe at home and I had a very healthy fear of my parents.

Things that might seem mundane or just silly today are the very things that we looked forward to with such anticipation and excitement.

Take for example our birthday, we got to pick the dinner. That was a huge deal back then. As I said, there was little, if any, extra money. What your mom put on the table was it. You either ate it or you didn’t; end of story. You starved until the next morning. Can you imagine doing that to a child today? Good Lord, DYFS would haul you off in handcuffs for abusing your child. This is of course, after your own child called to report you!

Shit, I have been known to cook three different meals just so everyone would be happy, all with a smile on my face.

Oh the mistakes that I've made, but I digress.

But, for our birthday to be able to pick, that was special. Our choices were typical for kids of that time; macaroni and cheese, steak, spaghetti and meatballs, whatever it was, we got it. I think one of the reasons that we looked so forward to that was because it was truly our day and our parents made sure that we felt very special that day.

One year for my birthday we even got to go out to dinner as my mom was away on convention. My mom and dad belonged to the Eastern Star and the Masons, respectively. Every year my mother would go to Atlantic City with the Eastern Star on convention. This is the first time it coincided with my birthday. I was devastated. You would have thought that my mom was leaving us for the milk man the way I carried on.

Hey, my mom could have been plotting to run off, we did actually have a milk man. (Speaking of the milk man, do you remember going out to get the milk on a cold winter day to find that the milk had frozen and cream had risen to the top, pushing the aluminum cap off, letting the frozen cream spill over? God I miss that.)

So, my dad decided to take me and my sisters out to eat at Mom’s Kitchen. Now, Mom’s Kitchen is in Neptune, NJ. We had been there before as a family. They have great food, and it has the best salad dressing I had ever had. It was orange and I loved it. Can you imagine being a ten-year old and looking forward to going to a restaurant because of the salad dressing? Well I did.

We loved that place as kids. By taking us out to eat, my dad thought that it would take my mind off my mother not being there and that way there wouldn’t be an empty seat at the table where my mom should have been. I haven’t eaten at Mom’s Kitchen in over 25 years. I think I’m going to have to make it a point to go there again, if for nothing else, to see if the salad dressing is still orange.

Back then, families ate together. Moms were usually home at night with the family. So not having her home for dinner, especially on your birthday, was an unusual and for me, sad thing. Looking back on that day, I think I might have laid the guilt on rather thick, without even knowing it.

So off we went to dinner, all dressed up like the little ladies that we were, with our dad who made it so easy for us to feel like his special girls.
It was a great night. When we were done eating, the waitress brought a tortoni to me with a sparkler in it. I was a very happy little girl that night; embarrassed at the attention but loving every minute of it. I don’t think I could have asked for a better gift.

Entertaining on a shoe string

My parents would always find ways to entertain us that didn’t require much money. One of my favorite things was to walk on the jetty. It was like you were in another world, the sea spray coming up over the rocks, the smell of the ocean and seaweed, it was great. It was scary and exciting all at the same time. I was always afraid I was going to fall in the ocean, get eaten by sharks and never seen again, but I loved it anyway. That‘s me though, forever waiting for a bomb to drop, but all the while being optimistic. Go figure.

You could find star fish in the little tidal pools of water that would settle between the rocks, and if you were lucky, a frogman would come up out of the ocean and climb up on the jetty, or just wave and go back beneath the waves. Those moments always reminded me of Diver Dan. God I loved that show. Absolutely no one my age remembers that show except my sisters and I. Were we hallucinating? Certainly not, it ran from 1960 to 1962 and it was the best. We never saw Diver Dan at the inlet but we did see our share of frogmen.

If you don’t know what a frogman is you are probably thinking that I was doing drugs, even then. So, do you know what a frogman is? That’s what scuba divers were called in the early sixties. They wore flat-black wet suits with a tank strapped on the back. Nothing like the technical garb you see on scuba divers today.
The calm after the storm was an even better treat for us. When you live down the Shore, you know that anytime there is a storm, the beach the following day is a treasure trove just waiting to be pillaged.

The shells that wash up after heavy seas are just beautiful. Sea glass just waiting to be found and driftwood in the most amazing shapes you could imagine. All of this was free for the taking. Just bring a bucket down with you and you are set to go. Just make sure you remember to take the bucket out of your dad’s car lest he gets in it on Monday morning and it smells like low tide. NANCYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!

It was on days like that, spent at the beach for hours on end, or walking home in the brisk autumn air after a rousing football game that we hoped would lead us to one of our favorite treats. Walking in the front door, anticipating the most comfortable smell you could possibly imagine on such a day; home made donuts.

If you have never had a home-made donut, you don’t know what you are missing. Golden brown and warm; it was just the best. God it is so great; especially when you are allowed to shake the confectioner’s sugar on them when they come out of the hot oil. You know, it wasn’t even so much the taste of our treats, it was the simple act of my dad going that extra mile to make the day memorable. The smell of the hot oil, the flour on the counter, and the look on my face and that of my sisters, that’s what it was all about. God I want to go back.

My mom had her favorites to make for us too. When it was time to make snicker doodles, we all ran to the kitchen because we knew that my mom would take the leftover dough, flatten it out and put a pat of butter and cinnamon in the center. She would then roll it up like a crescent roll, bake it and oh my God, when that came out of the oven it was crispy on the outside and warm and buttery on the inside. That was my mom’s famous “rollie”. Hmmmm, I wonder why I am fat today?

Take out, NOT!

Mornings found us at the breakfast table. No stopping at a convenience store for a quick bite for us. Not only because they hadn’t yet arrived in our area, but because meals were meant to be eaten at home. There was no money to do otherwise, nor reason not to. You never saw anyone driving to work with a coffee cup in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other.

Our morning meal always consisted of a fruit, always, either fresh or juice and then cereal, hot cereal, or eggs, depending on the day. My favorite fruit was stewed rhubarb. Hell, if I put that in front of one of my sons today, they would fall off the chair and die. “What’s that?” “It looks funny”. “Are you trying to kill me or what?” It drove me crazy when I was kid, but looking back, it seems my parents knew what they were doing. Hey, who knew?

When Anthony was 19 year's old he would start his day with a Red Bull and a cigarette. I still don't understand why I never received mother of the year.

My mom was always there to greet us when my sisters and I got home from school. If she worked at all during our years in elementary school, it was in the school cafeteria. I don’t recall ever going home to an empty house. The word latchkey kid was nonexistent then, and I didn’t know anyone who didn’t have a mother at home when they got off the bus from school.

Anyway, we played outside, watched the one TV in the house, as opposed to the multitudes of electronics in today’s world. We actually had to entertain ourselves. Tag, Hide and Seek; if it was a game outside, we played it. It is my understanding that these games are now banned from schools. Someone might not win and get their feelings hurt. Good God, what are we doing to our children? Alas, that is for another time.

Evenings were a time to reacquaint yourselves with your family and go over the events of the day. This usually happened at dinner. At least my sisters, my mother and I ate together. My dad worked a lot, but when he was home, he ate with us. Can you imagine, a family eating together every night; and a home-made meal for that matter?

Not in today's world, that's for sure.

The only time we really ever had something other than real food for dinner was when my dad was out of town. My mother would take my sisters and me to the grocery store and we were all allowed to pick out our own TV dinner. You remember those don’t you? They were in aluminum and you had to pull the top cover of foil off to cook certain parts of the dinner. Together with my mother, my sisters and I would eat our TV dinners in the living room watching television. One of our favorite shows, THE OUTER LIMITS.

Susan and I shared a room up until we moved to Illinois.

One perk that we were able to acquire during our days rooming together was a teen phone.

This was a luxury that few children enjoyed. Most homes had a single dial phone, mounted on the wall of the kitchen. My dad worked for New Jersey Bell at the time, so maybe it was easier for him to get us one. Regardless of the cost, I think that my parents would have done almost anything to get Susan and me that phone. As young teenagers, we saw being on the phone as a necessity, not a luxury. Once we got home from school, we would get on the phone to talk to the people we had just left, and that we were going to see again in an hour. That would be repeated once we got home that evening also. Our parents had no choice.

The phone that Susan and I got was a turquoise princess phone with push button. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I loved it. We were on our way; I’m not sure to where, but we were certainly on our way.

I guess my dad got tired of trying to get in touch with my mom and having the phone busy all the time. No cell phones back then. It was a land line or nothing.
Barbara, being the oldest, always had her own room.

Life was so much easier back then. You hear that time and time again, but it’s true. We lived on a dead end street and it was great. We played with black super balls, jumped rope,stick ball in the street, and rode our bikes behind the mosquito truck in the summer (and it didn’t kill us) and just enjoyed life.

Once again I feel the need to clarify something from way back in the early sixties. Mosquito trucks drove down all the roads in town, spewing toxic white smoke into the air to kill off the mosquito population. We would ride our bikes right behind the truck, thus pretending to be in some sort of magical fog. Shit, if we were in the back yard and didn’t hear the truck, my mother would yell to us to let us know that the truck was coming and to get our bikes so we wouldn’t miss it.

We didn’t worry about what our clothes looked like, what brand of sneakers we had or how our hair was styled. We listened to our parents, played hard and didn’t worry about drugs, getting kidnapped, or anything other than what games you would play that day.

Kids played and adults worked, it was that simple.

We had a wooded area at the end our street and the only thing that I worried about while playing in them was the Jersey Devil. This is where we spent most of our time playing. We called these woods the trolley tracks because the old trolley line used to run there (remember what a trolley was?). It was just woods, not very big, but when you are 10 years old it might as well have been a forest. We used to build forts; pretend we were in the military and at war, cowboys and Indians, all that kind of stuff.

We could build the best underground forts you have ever seen, without our parents afraid that we were going to die from a cave in. A huge hole in the ground with a board laid on top, covered with leaves so no one would see it, or so we thought. It just didn’t get any better than that. We went home every night smelly, dirty and tired. Life was good. How do I get back there and when can we leave? That’s the question I want answered.

When school was out during the summer, all the kids on the street went outside after breakfast, came in for lunch, then back out again, but we were always home, in the house before dark. We didn’t have to be in until dinner time; and then because the evenings were so long we could go out again. I can’t remember ever being as happy as I was then. I didn’t have a care in the world. All summer that was how it was.

Rainy days were not something that we cared about too much. Even though you weren’t allowed to sit in front of the TV all day, my sister Susan and I would nonetheless keep occupied all day long. Now, there wasn’t that much on television that you could watch anyway. Daytime TV back then comprised of game shows and soap operas, and we were forbidden to watch the soaps.

For me and my sister Susan, playing with our Barbie dolls was an all-day affair. We never got bored. We couldn’t afford doll houses or toy cars but it didn’t matter. We made houses out of books and clothes out of tissues, toilet paper and rubber bands. Imagination, that was the key to an exciting childhood back then. You had yourself to depend on for fun that was it.

Sometimes on rainy days our mom would let us paint with watercolors on the window panes of the back door. We could paint for hours. We would be happy and our mom would catch a break from three girls cooped up in the house all day. It was the simple things, like painting on the glass, that I remember the most.

On warm summer evenings, when the honeysuckle hung so heavy in the air you could almost taste it, it was a real treat for us to put on a new pair of baby-doll pajamas right after our bath; then out to the front yard to catch fireflies. I can’t think of anything that could have topped that.

We were all so busy playing we just didn’t have time to get into trouble, not serious trouble anyway.

I wish I was that young girl again; so innocent and happy. And then what happens, you get your period, develop breasts and you become psycho. You just can’t help yourself.

Lunches were taken to school from home. My mom baked her own bread and it was a treat for us, especially when we had tuna. There is nothing better than tuna fish on home-made bread, with butter. You must have butter on all your sandwiches. Could it possibly be that is why I am the size I am today? Hey butter is better.
Dinners were also eaten at home. It was a rare treat to go out to a restaurant. It did happen from time to time.

My sisters and I knew it was going to be an extra special dinner out when the waitress would seat us, and my dad would say, “Ok girls, order anything you would like”. That meant appetizers, lobster, whatever. It was then that my dad would order himself an extra dry Beefeater martini on the rocks with a twist. It was a rare, but when it did happen, we would get so excited; and the look on my dad’s face when he would make that announcement was worth the price of admission. We never went overboard, but knowing that you could have what you wanted and not worry about the cost was very cool.

Shopping anyone

I have never been fond of clothes shopping. But, as young girls one of the things that I looked forward to more than anything while preparing for the start of school each September was our trip to Asbury Park.

Asbury Park used to be a great city. There was a Steinbach store there, sitting so regal on the corner in the center of this once beautiful city. It wasn’t a square building, but rather a triangle. It was amazing, and if I recall it was six stories tall and just magnificent.

We would get dressed up and our parents would take us there for school clothes. After we finished our shopping we would get a real treat. Lunch in the restaurant located in the store. This was a very classy place. What I can remember vividly was that it was dark, and it had a velvet rope that kept patrons back until their table was ready. Now, that’s what I call living.

I have no idea what my dad made working for New Jersey Bell, but I know we weren’t rich. I also know that my dad worked jobs on the weekends when he could to bring in extra money for the family. I wonder how much overtime my father had to work so we could have this special treat; not only new clothes for the start of a new school year, but also lunch out, in a restaurant.

We had boundaries, and there were consequences if we crossed those
boundaries. We weren’t beaten or horse whipped, but we were punished. What was even worse than that was the look of disappointment on our parent’s faces. That was the worst.

Food was a focal point in our lives. My dad had a way of taking ordinary food and making it special. Since we couldn’t afford veal, my dad would make pork parmesan. God is that good. Any meat with cheese on it is a go in my book.
Have I mentioned that I am over weight?

It didn’t matter what the occasion, we celebrated with food. Creamy, buttery and delicious was the name of the game. Family and food, how can you go wrong with a combination like that? Food is how I still reward and punish myself. I'm surprised I don’t weight 300 pounds, yet.

There are only a handful of foods that I don’t either butter or salt, or both. I should look like the Michelin Man by now. I will go to my grave saying, “I swear, tomorrow I’ll start my diet”.

The bottom line of my years growing up is that I was loved and cared for without having a lot of material things. I had parents that went out of their way to make sure my sisters and I had a good life and never went without the essentials. I have memories that will last me till the day that I die. I was very lucky.

I know that not everyone has a childhood that they can look back on with such reverence.

Life was good.

Wouldn't it be great if we could go back, even for just a day. Just to relive those innocent times; the carefree days of our childhood.

That's not to be though, even in my mind I know it isn't possible.

I guess the next best thing to do is to make myself a sandwich......

Anthony, my youngest and most intense child

When Matt and I got married, we knew we wanted four children, total. So, when I got pregnant about a year later, we were thrilled. As fate would have it our excitement was short lived. I miscarried at three months.

It took two years of trying and then finally giving up before I conceived my third child.

On October 15, 1988 our son was born. The name Anthony, by definition means Priceless; which he was and still is.

It was Anthony who cemented the family. He was the bond that we needed to strengthen our little family.

As a child, he was sweet, kind and fun. He charmed everyone that he came into contact with.

On a cruise when he was about five years old, one of the cabin stewards told Matt and I that Anthony had been kissed by an angel. I have to agree.

He was popular with all the groups at school, didn’t care to be a follower, always followed what his heart told him was right:.

I’m not saying he never got into trouble, he did, but it was because he chose to do something, not someone making him do it.

One of Anthony’s finest qualities and the thing that I admired most about his was his refusal to let anyone be bullied.

Always ready to defend those who could not defend themselves. Sometimes he did it a bit out of the mainstream though. Matt and I were called in to see the Vice Principal and the guidance counselor in Ant’s senior year. It seems that a kid was really picking on a smaller boy in class and the teacher wasn’t doing anything about it. So, instead of Anthony going to the teacher and informing her that someone was being brow-beaten in the class right in front of her, he went up to the bully, poked him in the shoulder and told him if he didn’t stop picking on the boy, he would break his “fucking face”.

Not the way the school likes things done. It scared the teacher, but the bully left the kid alone, case closed.

Ant was called down to the office and told not to handle situations that way any more. When Matt and I got home, we told him what the Vice Principal had said and that maybe he was a bit intense, but that we could not be happier that he detested bullies and would stand up for anyone needing his help. I love that about him.

Being our youngest, Anthony was subjected to various forms of torture at the hands of his older brother growing up. While Shayne thought he was being funny, Anthony took it as bullying.

It would be a long time

This child hated school like no one I have ever known. Not like Shayne did, more so. He pretty much saw it as a waste of his time. His teachers either loved him or hated him. There was no in between there. This is where Anthony sometimes refused to take responsibility for actions and decisions that he made. It was the teacher’s fault, almost always. I could not seem to break through that feeling that he had. Maybe deep down he knew, but if he did, he never let on.

His teachers told him that he should consider a profession as a lawyer, and they meant it. Anthony can argue almost any topic, and win. He has a wit and dry sense of humor, along with a very analytical mind. He has a good mind and a very different way of looking at things.

He is, at times, way too deep for his own good.

After 9/11 Anthony changed. He was 13 at the time. A tough age to be anyway, and then for that to happen, it just really had an impact on him that would change the way he looked at the world and the people around him.

Anthony was my news watcher long before 9/11. He could have a very intelligent conversation about world events with any adult; he knew what was going on and he had facts; and opinions.

When our entire nation was rocked to its foundation, no one knowing what the hell was happening to us as a country and his brother in Japan at the time made if very stressful for him.

Besides watching almost as much news as Matt and I to try to figure out what was going on, he spent a great deal of his time trying to come up with ways of defeating Al Qaeda. One of the plans that he had was to airlift hungry bears into the hills of Afghanistan. The bears would infiltrate the caves and eat the Al Qaeda that were hiding there.

He was dead serious about this and convinced it would have solved the problem of finding all the hiding places that the terrorists had.

He asked me to write a letter to President Bush (which I did) to let him know of this idea. Hey, you never know, it might have worked.

Ant tried to cope as well as he could. His fear for our country and his wanting to go after and punish all those responsible, along with the anxiety of not knowing what was going to happen to his brother; if he would be shipped to Afghanistan or what, was almost more than he could handle.

It turned out that Shayne did not go to Afghanistan, he was ordered to go Kuwait for the 45 day waiting period before we went into Iraq. That waiting was almost as bad as when he finally went in during Shock and Awe.

As I said before, Anthony was at a bad age for this to happen, and with his brother now in harms way,it was tough. True to form, he handled it like he handled everything. He kept it all inside; never letting on how distressed he was. The family knew, and we tried to do what could for him, but he just does not share feelings easily, he still doesn’t.

Ant’s guidance counselor was great. She realized how stressed Anthony was, and at school, there was no one that could relate with him on what he was feeling. He was the only one with a brother or sister over there. So, she gave him a pass to use to go to her office if he ever felt the need to just vent.

Anthony was sure he would never use that pass, but kept it in with him to please me. Well, everyone has a breaking point. Anthony is no different. He just lost it one day. All the fears that he had just came flowing out. Would his brother survive, would we be attached again, if so, from where? It was constant. He used that pass and I am so grateful that he did. He was able to get it out, without getting into trouble or being told to calm down. He felt better when it was over. Still fearful, but that bottled up tension was released and he could breath normally once again; at least for a short while anyway.

A year after the attacks Matt approached Anthony and asked if he wanted to go into the city for the car show. Anthony, Matt and Shayne had done that before and Matt thought that it might take his mind off his worries. Anthony’s response to that was he didn’t want to be in a glass building when a plane crashed into it.
It would be years before Anthony went into the city again.

Anthony can be a very determined young man. About six or seven years ago you couldn’t get him off his computer, and I'm sorry to say that with the problems that Matt and I were going through, Ant fell through the cracks.

We were so wrapped up in our problems that we didn't insist he get off the computer, or interact with him as we should have. That's one more thing I don't think I can forgive myself for.

Determined as he can be, one day he looked in the mirror, decided he was gaining too much weight from just sitting in front of that damned computer and decided that wouldn’t do. He got off the computer, put himself on a diet, and has lost over fifty pounds.

That weight came off in less than a year.

Antsant, as his friends call him, got into BMX biking. So when Ant wasn't working, he was on his bike. Sometimes riding where he didn't belong, but riding all over the place. If he and his friend could find walls, stairs or anything that they could jump, ride or whatever it is that they do, they were there.

It is bike riding that got him back into New York. It seems that there are some great places to go where you don’t get in trouble by the police for being there with your bike.

Is there a party tonight or what? This was my party child. Although he is a loner by nature, he has come to realize that parties can be fun. He loves to drink and he loves the girls. What a wonderful combination. I do admire him in that if he doesn’t want to be around anyone, he doesn’t care what is going on. He doesn’t need to be at the party to be happy; only if he wants to be there.

You can’t force Ant to do anything he doesn’t want to do. He is the definition of stubborn. Again, I say, he is his father in every sense of the word.

God help us all.

This child hates authority like no one I have ever seen, so when he made the decision to enlist in the Marines, we were very excited but somewhat surprised.

We had always known that a part of Anthony wanted to follow in his brother's footsteps but it wasn't until he himself wanted it, just for him, that he enlisted.
Anthony, now a Corporal in his third year with the Corp is looking to his future and what he wants to do with the rest of his life is finding

When Anthony was deployed to Afghanistan for eight months, it was awful; almost worse then when Shayne was in Iraq. The reason being that when the war started, it was on every channel. That is not the case now. You get little to no reporting. I just don't know what was worse.

As I had said before, Anthony keeps his feelings and thoughts within him, so when he opens up and starts to talk, I shut up and listen.

It was on his leave home before his deployment that one of these talks took place. Standing in our kitchen making dinner, Ant came out and proceeded to tell me what his wishes were if he didn't make it home.

By far, that was the most difficult conversation I have ever had with any of my children. To stay quiet and listen as my youngest explained to me in detail how his remains were to be handled and so forth.

Needless to say, when he left the room, I broke down.

As difficult as that was; I was overwhelmed with awe at his sense of calm while discussing such a sad and taboo subject; one's own mortality.

The chip that my youngest child carries around is what he calls the Santa Lucia curse. We have had some very bad luck, some of it random and some of it brought on by mistakes or bad choices that we have made. Trying to tell him that there are people who have it so much worse than us is useless, for now anyway. That will change with age I hope.

He can make me laugh so hard when he knows I am down. And when I think that he doesn’t care, he comes out with a comment or statement that has me in tears because it was so sensitive and caring, and just not what I had expected to come out of that mouth of his.

On the other hand, he can be as short and curt as anyone I know. He can be, by far, the most in-your-face, intense person that I know. That is another thing that I hope changes for his own good. His fuse is short and his patience is even shorter.

Not a good combination.

Life is what you make it and bad things happen to people, to everyone, not just us. I wish he could see the despair and heartache that some people have, without any family or friends to be there for them.

With all that said, he is going to make it in life, regardless of what he thinks. For that I am sure. He has what it takes.

With Anthony being ten years younger than Shayne and Brittany, it hasn't always been easy for him. Especially with all that my family has been through; but Anthony has come through it a little beaten up, a little cynical but whole.

Anthony is a fierce friend, strong defender of the family and a lover of his country.

His relationship with Shayne and Brittany is strong and the years that seperate them seems to be getting smaller and smaller; as it always seems to do.

He will do well in whatever the future holds for him; his determination and strong competitive nature won't allow for anything else.

If only he could see that his glass is half full instead of half empty...

Brittany, my beautiful middle child and only daughter

Where do I start with Brittany?

Brittany is one of those rare human beings that defies all the odds. She has survived when so many said that she would not; doctors, teachers and friends.

I am sorry to say, that I had moments in which I didn’t think she would either.
She is the woman that I wish I was. Brittany is the embodiment of what I think a human being should be. She is strong and independent, yet vulnerable and sensitive. She has her priorities straight and is absolutely her own person. Dread locks, tattoos and all.

When I got pregnant with Brittany I was on birth control. We could by no means afford another child, hell we could barely afford Shayne at that point, but the thought of having an abortion at that point in my life was not something that I could even consider.

So, there we were with Shayne nine months old and me pregnant. Gary’s family was not happy. In fact, when I told them that I was pregnant, they didn’t respond; literally. We were at the dinner table and after I made my announcement, the dinner conversation got quiet for about ten seconds and then it was conversation as usual. Nothing, I was embarrassed and hurt.

We had not planned on the pregnancy, and it was going to be tight with two small children and Gary and me not making much money; but to just ignore it was, in my opinion, cruel. It wasn’t until a week or so later that I heard from Gary’s side of the family. Gary’s sister apologized and wished us well.

This is a family that planned everything.

Although my family was concerned about the financial part of it, they were happy for me. They felt that life was a miracle and when there was family to lean on, all was right with the world.


Brittany was born on December 7, 1979. Her life started out as most babies do. She was cute, happy and loved.

The bliss did not continue.

Gary was growing more and more agitated at home. He shook Brittany’s bassinet once so hard I thought for sure she would be harmed. Thank God, she wasn’t; just very scared. This should have registered in my brain as very serious and I should have left right then and there.

I didn’t leave.

Because of her age, I think that Brittany escaped most of the immediate effects of my staying with Gary. What she could not escape were the residual effects; her brother’s anger, my tension and fear and everything that went with that.

Brittany was a very happy but sensitive child. She was a home body. So when she was invited to a party when she was in the second grade, I persuaded her to go. As it turned out, the girls in her class were not very nice. The birthday girl told Brittany that she was invited so that the other girls could laugh at her. My heart was broken, but I never said a word to that child’s mother. I brought Brittany home and told her that people like that weren’t worth our time.

If that happened today, with me the way I am now, I would have taken Brittany home, and gone back when all the children had gone and l would have laid into that woman something fierce.

Shame on me.

As the years rolled by, Brittany was your typical adolescent girl who had friends, a nice little social life, and a beautiful smile.

That all changed almost over night when she was in the seventh grade. My sweet daughter went from a smiley, blonde, happy girl, to a very sad and angry teen whose hair literally changed coler almost over night. Blonde to dark blonde; very noticeable change. It's scary what the body can do to you.

It is hard to comprehend how this could have come on so fast.

Eighth grade was difficult. Brittany was getting more and more violent and erratic. Her outbursts at school were becoming more frequent and her teachers were beginning to fear for her and themselves.

It took a call from the school, a trip to the emergency room and then the worst day of my life, when I committed my daughter to a hospital because we were afraid she was becoming suicidal. She was hospitalized for 19 days and it was one of the worst times that we have ever gone through.

You cannot imagine the anguish that comes with leaving your child in a place like that, especially when you are the one that signed the papers to have her committed. Those words resonate in my mind even today. I had my daughter committed. Did I save her or make it worse? Time would tell.

Brittany must have been so frightened and angry with me. Well, three weeks later Brittany was back home, and misdiagnosed. We were told that Brittany suffered from clinical depression. Not the case. Her psychiatrist prescribed Paxil. Within a month or two, while at an appointment with her psychologist, Dr. Sokolor, Brittany asked me to leave the room.

What she needed to confide to the Dr. was that she was having feelings of suicide and it scared her. She felt she needed to be re-committed to the hospital to find out what was going on. My daughter did not want to die and she didn’t think she had the strength to stop it.

I thank God often for her strength.

Back to Fair Oaks we go. This trip was not nearly as traumatic. Although it was very sad, it was also hopeful. This was Brittany’s decision, and she was confident that she had made the right one.

My husband and Shayne did not want her to go back. But, this was her decision, and although they were frightened for her, they knew that she had to go, for her own safety, sanity, and a chance for a life without depression.

This stay was so much easier. Brittany wanted to be ok again and knew that this was the way to find out what was going on in her mind.

So, after three weeks it comes to light that Brittany is bipolar.

The new psychiatrist that we took Brittany to is the one that told us all about the dangers of losing Brittany to drugs, alcohol, and violence and just about anything you could think of.

As it turns out, it appeared that these things were going to, eventually, claim my child.

The medications that she was put on made her sick, gave her tremors, and at times did nothing to keep the depression from striking. The manic side was frightening also, partly because you knew what was coming when she crashed; binge drinking, self mutilation and violence directed towards me.

It was a constant fear of ours that we were not going to be able to help Brittany deal with this. The doctor had told us that the age that this hit Brittany, 12, was the worst. As a teen it is so difficult when your body and mind are on the straight and narrow. But when a teenager is hit with a chemical imbalance, it is just almost too much.

When Brittany’s drinking started and I knew that some drugs were involved, I did what I did best. I kept it to myself and tried to help her without involving even her father. Matt and I talk about that sometimes now, when we allow our minds to go back to those days and wish that we had been different people then.

In the tenth grade Brittany left the high school, and went to a school for kids with problems; Sea Breeze.

Sea Breeze was good for her. It was very small and they were trained to deal with kids who had issues whether it be bipolar, depression or any other serious issue you could think of.

This is where Brittany met the future father of our granddaughter.

Brittany responded to the medication over time and being in Sea Breeze was making a difference in her. Brittany was accepted for who she was. The kids in the regular high school did not.

Children can be very cruel; and when someone is suffering from any type of emotional or chemical imbalance it can have disastrous results. Brittany was struggling every day to get by and when one of the beautiful people, you know, the cheerleader, the jock, the popular club, felt that they wanted to make your life miserable, they would. Never getting caught and always loving it.

I realize not all of the popular cliques are like that, I really do. It is just very frustrating when it is your child that is being tortured and there is little or no recourse.

Schools like normal. Little molds of the same student but with different hair and clothes. Stepford students I like to call them. One of the things that I love about Brittany today is her uniqueness. She doesn’t follow the crowd and has her own sense of style. Very refreshing.

Her first year at Sea Breeze was eventful, if nothing else. Highs and lows; new friends and new fears for her. The drinking and drug use were escalating and she was still very excitable and prone to violent outbursts with me.

I went through a period when my shins were black and blue for weeks at a time. She would grab my arms, with her Doc Martins on her feet and just kick at me. I would hold on to her as long as she held on to me and just let her kick. Let her get it out on me, not on someone else. You know your children. This was not a mean or nasty child - this was a young woman who was so hurting inside that she needed a release.

I let her use me.

When Brittany was seventeen years old she met Joshua. Joshua was a James Taylor look-a-like. Brittany fell hard for him and they soon became a couple. The problem was that Brittany was very insecure and easily controlled; in a relationship with a boy that is, and Joshua had a very confident and controlling personality.

The good side of this was that in the beginning at least, Brittany actually smiled again sometimes.

As it turned out, with all the ups and downs that we might have expected, Brittany graduated high school. She even found the courage to walk with the graduating class of the high school in our town where the other kids had been so cruel to her. She was scared to death but walked with her head held high. With her tiara on, clutching her purse, Brittany marched up to the podium and received her diploma.

For Matt and I, that was one of our proudest moments.

After that Brittany got a job and things seemed to be turning around for her, or so we thought. There were bad days, of course. Brittany would describe her down days as being in a dark hole with no way out, suffocating her.

As her life started to spiral again, it seemed only a matter of time before something awful would happen to our child. It was during this time that she shaved most of her hair off making her look even more intimidating than she had before.

The severe ups and downs of bipolar are unimaginable to those who have not been touched by it.

It got so bad that I found myself sleeping on the couch every night. I just never knew how she was going to come home, or when. Just try to keep your child in the house when she doesn’t want to stay. My failure, not hers. But since she had up days as well as down ones, I always hoped that when she went out on a good day, she would remain in one.

Sadly, it doesn't work that way.

On more occasions than I would like to remember, when Brittany came home after drinking more than I can even imagine, she would decide she needed to shower. Those evenings were the worst. Those evenings always went the same way. Brittany would get in the shower, after my pleading with her not to, and after fifteen or twenty minutes, I would knock on the door to see if she was ok. She would tell me she was and to leave her alone. After thirty minutes I would unlock the door and try to talk her out of the water.

Very angry by now and telling me to get the fuck out the bathroom and leave her alone. By this time I was not only worried about Brittany I was scared to death that Matt would wake up. As wonderful as he can be, he had a bad temper and little patience, I didn’t think I could handle him yelling and not at all helping the situation and Brittany going off in a rage and possibly leaving the house.

Once out, I would get her in bed, and she would usually sleep through. It was after one of these events that I told Brittany that she would have to leave if she continued to behave in such a way and drink constantly.

I couldn't handle her when she was at her lowest and I didn't think I could watch her slowly kill herself; which I am convinced was her plan whether she knew it or not.

It is hard to understand the rage and anger my child had. The medication didn’t seem to be working again and the Dr. was constantly changing her prescription and dosage to try to find the right combination. It was a very long process.

On one occasion Brittany and I were in our back yard. We had a beautiful built in pool. We had just purchased a metal and glass patio table and chairs. I don’t know what got Brittany so angry but she proceeded to throw two of the chairs in the pool. Begging her to stop, I jumped into the pool to get the chairs out before they ripped the liner. Much to my surprise, Brittany threw the remaining four chairs into the pool, at me.

I had absolutely no control. This was not done in a rage, but a very calm anger.

Very scary.

Our life was a roller coaster ride with Brittany’s emotions,with waves of false senses of calm only to then again rise up and strike.

It was on Brittany’s 20th birthday that all of the parties, drugs and booze would come to a screeching halt. Brittany was going to have a baby. At midnight on her birthday she came out of her room and very calmly told me that she was pregnant. Matt was asleep so I decided that I would tell him in the morning, without Brittany present.

Matt had a way of exploding before the calm of reason set in. I did not want him saying anything off the cuff that he didn’t mean, in front of Brittany. There was no time for that shit. She needed to know that we were there for her, period.
Not one person in my family let her down. It was wonderful.

Who knew that when Brittany got pregnant it would be the turning point that she needed to turn her life around and become the woman that she is now. Motherhood isn’t for everyone, but it is very clear that it is for Brittany. She was a natural.
It was known from the beginning that Brittany and her boyfriend would not be getting married, and that she would be living at home with the baby.

July 31, 2000, Madison was born. She was perfect. From day one Brittany handled her responsibility with a determination that made the entire family proud.

It was a very difficult transition for Brittany and Joshua in the beginning. But, over time and many disagreements, they have come to what I consider a very healthy and mutual understanding as to what is best for Madison.

Madison has family on both sides that love her and want only the best for her.

Madison is 10 now and she is a polite, happy, smart and interesting little girl.

All that Madison is today is because of her mother.

Teachers go out of their way to let Brittany know what a wonderful job she is doing. Family friends sit back at parties and watch how Brittany and Madison interact with each other, how Brittany can be patient and stern at the same time, always doing what is best for Madison. Always being her mother, not her friend.

I am so jealous.

Growing up, Brittany didn’t show any of the anger that Shayne had for Gary, but had decided early on that he was not someone that she wanted to know. About a year ago, Brittany wrote him a letter. She has not mailed it yet, but she plans to eventually. She decided that if I could come to terms with who he was and what he did, and not hate him, then she could too.

When Madison was four years old, Brittany and Madison moved out of our home and into a house with Brittany’s fiance, Jason. Jason is a great guy who loves my daughter and Madison. He is a rarity in the fact that he loves Madison, takes care of her and treats her like his own, but has never tried to be a father to her. Madison has a father that is in her life and she loves him very much.

It is so refreshing to see Jason with her. He doesn’t need to act like her father to be an important person in her life.

Brittany and Madison love to go places together; the beach, boardwalk, one of the parks that we have in town. They love their outings together.

One day when Madison was about five, Brittany took her to the local park to play on the swings and such. Once they got to the play equipment, Madison went up to a little girl and asked if she wanted to play. Her mother and the other mothers looked at Brittany with her tattoos and dreadlocks, took their children and left.

My beautiful daughter cried while her five year old consoled her. My granddaughter told her mother not to let those mommies upset her, they weren’t worth it. To this day Madison asks me why some people are so mean. I don’t have an answer for her. All I can tell her is to feel sorry for people that are so closed-minded.

One look at my daughter's smile tells it all. Kind, sincere and humble with sparkling eyes that show no sign of malice or threat.

I really do hate people some times.

Brittany now runs the small cleaning company that Matt and I started with her when Madison was about a year old. She has gone from not being able to make a phone call to running it entirely by herself. Her clients, most of them older, adore. They look at her soul, not her dreadlocks or tattoos. They know that Brittany is there, not only to clean for them, but to watch out for them, care for them and she is very sweet company for them.

Brittany also sews. She is now making hand-made bags and selling them almost faster than she can make them.

Who knew that this troubled little girl would turn out to be a business owner, wife and mother.

On my 51 birthday Brittany wrote me a poem.

I read this and just could not control my emotions. What better gift could a mother ever get from her child?

Mama

Happy Birthday Mama, today you’re 51,
Perhaps I should say thank you for all that you have done
Like the times you always helped me when I couldn’t stand alone,
And for telling me how proud you are at how much I have grown.
I apologize for everything that made you fear for me,
And for hurting you in many ways because I failed to see
That the only thing I needed was my mama next to me.

There are no words to describe how I feel inside about my daughter. I have a love and respect for her that knows no bounds.

She is my strength when I truly don’t think I can go on anymore.

I am humbled to be her mother.