Coat Of Many Colors

I took another sip of my wine and I opened the coat closet.

I was spending the evening gathering up blankets, shoes, and sheets to donate to a clothing drive for the victims of Hurricane Sandy.  The Girl Scout troop in our town arranged for a large truck to be at our high school in the morning and I wanted to help fill it.

I found sweaters that were still packed up from our move six years ago.  Crib sheets that were of no use to us anymore.  Winter boots that my kids had outgrown years ago.  All into the box.

The posting came on Facebook that what they really needed were jackets.  The weather was about to get quite chilly and no power means no heat.

So out came another empty box.  And to the coat closet I went.

I moved some winter jackets around and some rain coats.  The ones that still fit my kids went to one side.  The LL Bean pullover fleece that I hadn’t worn in years came out.  As did a button down Gap jacket.

And then there it was.

My dad’s old gray Black Diamond fleece coat.

It’s been hanging in one coat closet or another of mine for almost 14 years now.  One of three articles of clothing that I have of his.

I don’t wear it.  Ever.  It hasn’t been washed since he died.

It just hangs there in the closet.  No matter what season, that coat stays.

I can still see him in that coat even after all this time.  It’s that soft heather gray color with black trim around the collar.  It was an in-between season coat – not quite warm enough for a winter coat but too warm for early fall and late spring.

A “mud season” coat I guess.  Going by Vermont seasons.

He had a gray Black Diamond vest that was just like it and he wore that all the time when he was sick.  When I think back to the memories of him those last months, he’s in that vest.

I don’t know where that vest is now.

And really I never understood the vest anyway.  How does that keep you warm?  I need something that covers me…something that envelopes me.  Something I can feel secure in.  Like a big fleece hug.

The big fleece hug hung there in the closet.

It was begging me to donate it.  It makes sense, right?  After all these years it should go to someone who really needs it. To someone from the hard hit areas of Long Island where my dad grew up.  Or to someone from the city where he first taught.

And considering how much he gave to others in his life and how much he taught us to give back, shouldn’t I give up this coat so that someone else can use it? So that a father can wrap it around his daughter to keep her safe and warm?

I pushed the coat aside and pulled out a 3T sized raincoat.

I closed the coat closet door.

The memories are starting to fade after all these years.  Some days I feel him so close, other days he’s so far away.  I try to remember things but I can’t.

It’s just a coat.  But I still need it.

I take the 3T raincoat and put it on top of the box.  I slip some money into the pocket of the LL Bean pullover fleece, hoping to bring a “Hey! Found money!” smile to whomever wears it next.

Tomorrow I’ll put the boxes in the car and bring them to the high school.

I sit here now in the dark with another glass of wine.

The coat is just on the other side of the wall.

It will stay with me for a while longer.

“And oh I couldn’t understand it, for I felt I was rich
And I told them of the love my mamma sewed in every stitch
And I told them all the story, mamma told me while sewed
And how my coat of many colors, was worth more than all their clothes.

But they didn’t understand it and I tried to make them see
that one is only poor, only if they choose to be
Now I know we had no money, but I was rich as I could be
In my coat of many colors, my mamma made for me
Made just for me.” – Coat of Many Colors by Dolly Parton

Take a moment to donate what you can to relief efforts on the East Coast.  My family and my friends who are like family need your support.  If you can’t donate money, find a drop off location for coats, blankets, shoes, and non-perishable items.

Please.

 

Missing You

Tuesday evening, I asked Tim if he could have dinner with the younger boys so I could take Gerry out.

It had been a hard day for Gerry and I wasn’t sure why.  He came home in a mood and with every question he either yelled at me or started to cry.

Lots of “you don’t remember what it’s like to be in school all day” and “I just want to be left alone” and “don’t leave, I need help with my math homework” and “stop helping me!”.

So Tim sat with Howie and Lewis while they didn’t eat their hot dogs and macaroni.  I took Gerry to the diner up the street.

We sat together in a booth facing the TVs.  The evening news was on.  Normally, I don’t let him watch the news because it’s just too graphic and sensationalistic.  I didn’t have much choice here, though, since two screens were staring right at him.

Luckily the news was fairly benign that night.  Stories about the missed call at the Packers/Seattle football game, a quick blurb about a close mid-air collision at a Chicago airport, and clips from the presidential candidates on the campaign trail.

Gerry’s not much of a talker when we go out.  But this time the questions didn’t stop.  He asked about the football game which led to a discussion of unions and strikes and their impact, especially for students and teachers in Chicago.  We talked about the safety of airline travel, and he shared his knowledge of planes and how they fly (clearly learned from his father and his iPad flight simulator).

And we talked about the election.  He asked if he could stay up and watch the speeches and debates this year.

“Because the last time I voted in first grade I wasn’t very informed.  I just picked a name.  This time when I vote I want to know the issues.”

Every once in a while, he would stop talking to take a bite of his maple syrup soaked pancake.  And then he’d stare back up at the TV screen and ask another question.

Looking at him, I let my mind transport back to the dinner table when I was his age.  We had a small black and white TV on the counter near the table and we’d watch the evening news while we ate. We’d talk about the stories and discuss their implications and what it meant for us and the world.  And as we cleared the table, Jeopardy would come on and we’d yell out our answers in the form of a question to see who would get the higher score.

As I tuned back into the conversation at the diner, that strange feeling of came over me for the one millionth time.

I am happy that I am able to continue this connection with my own child and so thrilled with his thirst for knowledge and desire to learn more about his world.

I am sad that my dad isn’t here to see his grandson love the same things that he did.

I am angry that he left this earth way before his time.  I want him here at that booth with Gerry telling him about the world and giving me that gentle hug around the shoulders that said he was proud of me without the need for words.

Just when I think the sadness and pain and emptiness has faded, a moment like this in the diner comes along and I am right back there again.

I am grateful for his legacy carrying on in the grandsons he never met.

Spitting image

But I am missing him terribly today.

“And there’s a heart that’s breaking down this long-distance line tonight
I ain’t missing you at all
Since you’ve been gone away.
I ain’t missing you
No matter what I might say.” – Missing You by John Waite

 

Light In Your Eyes

“Today I saw dad over the small flat square at our house in the sky telling me we are all going to be okay…you will always be his child… forever we are his special people.” – my sister after a trip out to the the house where we grew up.

From time to time, people will ask me to pray for them.  Or their child.  Or a loved one.

I always say that I will.

And I do.

But I pray to something – someone – different than most people do.

When I ask for help, or guidance, or good thoughts…I talk to my dad.

Growing up, we weren’t very religious.  We were raised Jewish but never belonged to a temple.  My father and my aunt were our religious teachers, holding family Hebrew school classes in our backyard or around the dining room table.  My father thought it was important that all three of his kids have a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, but he was the one to preside over them, not a rabbi.  We read sections from the Torah as well as portions of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have A Dream” speech.  He practiced with us in the evenings and while we played outside.  He was very sick with pancreatic cancer when my sister turned thirteen, yet he still insisted on not only going forward with her Bat Mitzvah but presiding over it.  We set up a tent in the backyard, invited  family and friends, and celebrated her special moment.

The concept of God came up quite a bit while growing up, of course.  I believed there was a higher power because I loved the idea of it all. My father was clearly agnostic.  We would have constant debates about the subject, as I would say there was no way for him to know there wasn’t one and he would reply with “How do you know the frog in the pond doesn’t control the universe?”  The conversation never had an end, of course, but it spoke to the very core of his views on religion.  He loved the history and traditions and family connections of Judaism yet was skeptical of the idea of God and blind faith.

I believed in faith and fate and the beauty of the idea that someone was guiding my hand.

I still do.

But now I believe that the someone guiding my hand is my dad.

His light comes to me in amazing places. as my sister said, the warmth that comes during a time of severe pain, and I know that he is there.

And now, when I am at a loss as to how to help my boys, I look out the window and talk to him.

It is my father that I ask to give me the strength to get through the moments that leave me on the sobbing on the floor of the shower.

And when we make it through those moments, it is him that I thank for helping me through.

I asked for his guidance when marrying Tim.

The rainbow that appeared during a snow flurry at my wedding showed me he was there.

The rainbow appeared just after this…right above the sheep…

I watch the relationships grow between Tim and our boys.  I watch him teach our kids about politics and car engines and life.

Robots with Dad

It is a scene so familiar and so lovingly honest and true.  My boys adore their dad and rely on him to feed their love of learning and life.

I pray every night for my family.  I pray that we will stay healthy and strong and continue to love one another in the best way that we can.

I still believe in God.  But I turn to my dad when I pray.

I am so very grateful to have someone I know answering my prayers.

Happy Father’s Day to my husband who every day does more than 30% times three.

And Happy Father’s Day to my dad who I still miss very much…thirteen Father’s Days later.

“You gotta talk to the one who loves you
Talk to the one who understands
Talk to the one who gave you
All the light in your eyes
All the light in your eyes

Yeah, thank you, thank you
Yeah, everything great and small
Yeah, thank you, thank you
For the light in your eyes” – Light In Your Eyes by Sheryl Crow

 

The Rose

The flame on the memorial candle is starting to flicker.

I lit it last night in memory of my dad.  The candle burns for 24 hours.  This is the 12th time I’ve lit it, remembering the day he died 13 years ago.

My house is quiet.  Everyone is asleep.

This is the first time I’ve watched it burn out alone.

The wax is all but gone.  Just the wick remains.

There was never really any time to grieve, even from the beginning.  Just days after he died, I was making the decision to step into his seat in the Vermont House of Representatives.  My first answer was no, I can’t fill those shoes.  A day later, I couldn’t think of anyone else who could.  The Governor called a few days after that, appointing me to the seat.  I was twenty-six and my days were filled with getting up to speed on legislation and buying fancy clothes.

Each anniversary from there was just…busy.  I lit the candle but had my hands full.  I went from the State House to marriage to full time parenthood in just a few years.  There was never any time to reflect.  Or grieve.

The flame gives one last flicker.  Then it’s gone.

I am so angry at what the cancer took from all of us.  The years that my sister missed with him.  She was just 13 when he died.

He called her “his gal”.  I was “curly top”.

My heroic mother took it upon herself to be our rock, even though she had never had the time to grieve the passing of her own mother just a year before.

He missed my brother’s graduation from graduate school.  His wedding.  My wedding. 

He missed knowing the three most precious boys who all have names after him.  He missed watching his grandson pitch his first game. Their first steps, their first amazing words.

My boys want to know him.  Gerry asks about his political career and talks about the injustices in the world.  Howie told me “It’s too bad your dad is dead.  He can’t make Hot Wheels tracks with you.”  I know my dad would see the humor and love in that.

I am filled with such anger at the stupid cancer that took him from us.  Pancreatic cancer is the same killer it was 13 years ago.  A survival rate of just 5%. I’m angry at all cancers.  Too many members of my family have been in a battle against this indiscriminate disease: my mother, my mother-in-law, aunts, uncles and cousins.  It’s not fair.  I hate you, cancer.  You rip the innocence right out from underneath us all.

I stare at the candle.  I never know what to do with it once it’s out.  It seems weird to throw it away, but just as weird to keep it.

I still have dreams about him some nights, thirteen years later.  Sometimes I’m talking to him.  Sometimes it feels so real that when I wake up, I wonder if the whole thing is just a dream.  There is still so much unfinished business between us.  So many things I still need to know.  So many stories that I need to hear again.  I’m starting to forget the little memories and I want to pass them on to my own boys.  There is a piece of him in each one of them.  I want them to know their history and it’s getting harder for me to remember it all.

I pick up the candle.  It’s still very warm.

My dad had these big giant work boots that we used to walk around in when we were kids, like most kids do.  In the Legislature, I never felt like I fit those boots.  It never felt like it was mine.  More like I was there to close a chapter for him, rather than start my own.

Those boots have always been so hard to fill.  I think of all the things he was in his short life: a child, a spouse, a teacher, a counselor, a community leader, a first responder, an advocate for children. 

The candle stays warm in my hands.  But I am shaking.

I realize that I am all of those things now, in my own house.  I am still my mother’s child.  Tim’s wife.  A teacher, counselor and first responder for my own children.  And as I find my voice in advocating for my own children, I am helping others in my community speak for their children too.

I have become my father’s daughter.  I have found my place.

I am alone with the candle.  I can finally grieve.

And now, perhaps, move on.

“When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter

far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed
that with the sun’s love
in the spring
becomes the rose” – The Rose by Bette Midler

 

Color Him Father

I really really needed something good this week.

Who knew it would come in the form of homework?

Howie’s first homework assignment was a family project.  “The turkey needs a disguise so he doesn’t get caught for Thanksgiving!  Return the disguised turkey by Monday, November 14th. “

Knowing that we had a hectic week coming up, I figured we should get this done sooner rather than later.  And by “we” I meant my husband Tim and Howie.

I figured that the vegan in the family would enjoy keeping the turkey from becoming table food.  In reality, he’s much better at all-things-crafty.  And all things cooking, cleaning, folding, etc.

Tim took one look at the turkey and said “I bet Howie wants to disguise him as a racecar driver.”

Sure enough, that was the plan.

The two of them sat down at the table and planned out their turkey costume.  Tim looked up pictures of racecar drivers on the internet and together they picked which one to copy.  A red helmet.  Checkerboard shirt.  Green pants (Howie’s favorite color).  And black boots.

They went to work.

Cutting out the shirt

Here was a kid who until just recently couldn’t sit down to do…much at all.  A kid who couldn’t cut along a line without getting frustrated.  A kid who couldn’t even hold a pencil the right way, let alone scissors.

The turkey gets "dressed"

I sat at the table with them, biting my tongue and fighting back tears.  They were working so well together, like a finely tuned car.  Tim was anticipating Howie’s every stumble and would head it off at the pass.  Howie reminded Tim of all that he could do and wanted to do by himself.

"You don't need to draw lines for me to cut the squares. I know where to cut"

Back and forth they chatted about the project, working as a team to decide where the next piece should go and why.

Now smash that glue!

Finally, the turkey was properly disguised.

Hey...where did the turkey go? Just a racecar driver here...move along...

That smile says it all.  Actually, both their smiles say it all.

Howie loved doing homework so much, that he asked to do more work at his work table before bed.  Could we say no?

Happy Veteran's Day!

It wasn’t that long ago that I thought he’d never write his name, color a paper, or cut with scissors.  And I know that it isn’t long before homework becomes a fight and a struggle, and not a joy.

But for right now, homework is a pretty cool thing in our house.  Inspired by a dad who knew how to make it fun, and not a hardship.  A “father and son thing”.  Pure cutting, pasting and coloring joy.  In my book, that’s all sorts of awesome.

I’ll take that today.

“There’s a man at my house he’s so big and strong
He goes to work each day, stays all day long
He comes home each night looking tired and beat
He sits down at the dinner table and has a bite to eat
Never a frown always a smile
When he says to me how’s my child
I’ve been studying hard all day in school
Tryin’ to understand the golden rule
Think I’ll color this man father
I think I’ll color him love
Said I’m gonna color him father
I think I’ll color the man love, yes I will” – Color Him Father by The Winstons

 

I’ll Have To Say I Love You In A Song

Sometimes, words do speak louder than actions.

Last month, my husband was away on his annual business trip.  I know that we’re lucky that he doesn’t travel that often, but when he does, it takes its toll quickly.  On me and the boys.

It was Tuesday evening – the third night into his trip.  It had been a long difficult day up to this point.  I was clearly at the end of my rope with the boys, and them with me.  The “good night” phone call was hastily arranged across two time zones, with an attempt to fit it in between bedtime for the kids and dinner time for Tim.

Howie got on the phone first and I put it on speakerphone.  His ability to communicate on the phone is a relatively new phenomenon, but he was excited to talk to Daddy that night.

They chatted a bit about Howie’s day at school (a tough one) and then the conversation turned to Hot Wheels, or more specifically, my inability to create a decent Hot Wheels track.

“Dad!”, he said with pain in his voice.  “Dad!  When are you coming home?  I just really really miss you!”

My eyes welled up with tears.  There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.  Across 2000 miles, Tim and I were processing the same thing at the same time.  This was the first unprompted expression of affection for his dad.  Ever.

I’m the one who is usually on the receiving end of what’s perceived as affection : the hugs, the desperate searches through the house when I’m in the shower, the person he demands in the middle of the night.

But his dad is the one who connects with him on the “important” things.  The one who lets him help fix the broken shower pipe and takes him on a tour of the basement to follow the path of the water.  The one who hands him the screwdriver as they replace the burnt out bulb in the brake light of my van.  The one who works with him to create the most elaborate and most awesome of Hot Wheels tracks.

But until this point, he had never been able to verbalize it.

Tim and I talked about it later that night.  We were both still a little shell shocked.

“I guess absence makes the heart grow fonder?” Tim said.

Something like that.

**********

They say that women tend to marry their fathers.  On paper, it would look like the complete opposite for me.  However, I married a man who puts his family first above all else.  A guy who understands what it means to be a dad, whether it’s playing ball in the yard or reading a bedtime story or…crawling around on the floor racing Hot Wheels cars.  That was my dad too.  Exactly.

Happy Father’s Day to my amazing husband and to all the fathers out there who go above and beyond for their kids.

Happy Father’s Day to the fathers-to-be…and the fathers-that-should-be.  You deserve to feel the joy of watching your children grow before your eyes.

And Happy Father’s Day to my dad, who I miss more with every passing day.  Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

“Well I know it’s kind of late
I hope I didn’t wake you
But what I got to say can’t wait
I know you’d understand
Every time I tried to tell you
the words just came out wrong
So I’ll have to say I love you in a song” – I’ll Have to Say I Love You In A Song by Jim Croce

 

I Wonder What Would Happen To This World

Pictures, like songs, have the ability to bring out memories that are buried down deep.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately – those memories hidden away – after reading MOM-NOS’ great post about ASD (autism spectrum disorder) and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).  If you haven’t read it yet, you should.  It’s here.  And here.  And probably about 800 other places at this point.  It’s that good.

While thinking about that post, I wondered about my own moment of trauma.  The one I live over and over again, but have never shared.

This isn’t a B Side post, because while it’s a memory, it’s not a good one.  It’s not entirely an autism post either.  I guess it’s more of a “me” post.  And since I use my blog as free therapy for me, I suppose I’m entitled to a “me” post every once in a while.

note:  I know members of my family read this blog.  I’m giving you warning now that you might not want to read this, and if you do, I won’t want to talk about it later.  Because I’m writing about it here instead.

Last week of August, 1997: I’m with my family at the annual summer fair in Vermont.  Going to the fair together has been a tradition since I was little, and we always had our family “portrait” taken there.  This year, I resisted going.  It wasn’t because I was ashamed to be seen with my family – I was 25 years old and past all that.  But I was busy. I was working in college admissions and we were getting ready for the new school year to start.  I had things to do. But my parents were insisting that I go.  Begging, really.  So here we are at Scotty’s photo booth.  And we take our picture:

It’s our last one.

This will be one of the last times I go to the fair.  I’ve been a handful of times since this day, and never since I’ve had kids.

August 31, 1997: It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting in my apartment in my bed watching the news.  They are reporting that Princess Diana has died in a car crash.  The phone rings and it’s one of my best friends from college.  She’s calling to talk about the breaking news of the day and share the conspiracy theories already swirling all over the world.

I share with her my breaking news.  That afternoon, my parents sat me down to tell me that my father had cancer.  Pancreatic cancer.  I was awake watching the news because I was afraid to go to sleep.  My friend, in her first year of medical school, fell silent on the other end of the phone.  She knew what that meant.  A five percent survival rate.  Months of chemotherapy and other experimental drugs on the horizon.  A life changing moment.  We hung up and I stayed awake for hours.

I still cannot watch footage of Princess Diana’s car crash without thinking of that night.  For months after, I would leave SportsCenter on while I fell asleep so I wouldn’t have to be alone with my thoughts.

November 12, 1998: I’m sitting in my parents’ bedroom with my father.  We know he doesn’t have much time left.  We’ve given up on hospital stays and he’s come home to be surrounded by family.  The spreadsheet that I created to track his medications has long been pushed aside since we’re only focused on pain management now.  A week prior, he had won re-election to his third time in the Vermont Legislature.  I wrote all his campaign material and answered all the candidate surveys.  My whole family is at the house.  My brother had come home from graduate school to celebrate an early Chanukah, since none of us knew if my dad would be around in December.  He had started the journey back to school on this day, but turned around when my sister’s guinea pig “Ham” died in the afternoon.  He came back to help bury it in the pet burial ground we had on our property.  And now, my brother sat downstairs with my mother and sister having dinner, while I stayed upstairs with my dad.

I am eating Macaroni and Cheese.  We’re watching “Must See TV”.  “Friends” is on.  My dad is sitting across the room from me in his green recliner.  It’s where he chose to be during the times when he could no longer stand being in bed.

“I’m sorry (your sister’s) guinea pig died.”

The voice came from the chair.  Strong and clear.  The first coherent sentence I had heard from him in a long time.

“I know, Dad.  I’ll tell her.”

Then, a few moments later, the seizures start.

I yell “Dad!  DAD!”, and then “MOM!!  MOM!!”.  I didn’t need to call her name.  The baby monitor that my mom had on was already sharing what was happening.

I yell to her to call my uncle who lives next door.  I dial 911.

I forget in this moment that 911 had not come to our rural part of the state yet.   The time it takes for the operator to connect me to our local dispatch seems like hours.

I don’t need to give them our address.  Just our name.  My father had been on our town’s rescue squad for many years.  They knew where we were.

My mom and uncle usher me out of the room.  The ambulance arrives, knocking down the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs that was there to keep the dogs from getting up to my dad.  They take him away.  My mom, brother and uncle follow.  I stay home with my sister.

The call came from the hospital a couple of hours later.  My dad was gone.  “ER” was still on the TV upstairs.

It’s a year before I can watch “Friends” or “ER” again.

The green recliner is now at my house, and is my middle son’s special chair.  When the demons of his autism rise up, this is where he retreats.  He rocks there.  He curls up in the seat of the chair and feels safe.  It is his “green chair”.

I go over those last moments over and over again for the next 12 years.  Was there something I could have done differently?  Why I was the one in the room with him at that moment?  What else could have have said to him before I lost the chance to say anything more?

February 17, 2011: A giant package arrives in the mail addressed to me.  I open it and find about 50 pictures inside, sent to me by my cousin.  She was helping my 89-year-old Grandma move into a smaller place and thought I’d be a good “manager” of these photos.  I’m waiting for the kids to get home from school, so I have a moment to look through the pictures.  The first one I pull out is this one:

And all the memories come rushing back.

This day would have been my father’s 64th birthday.

February 27, 2011: I start this blog post and the healing process.  For the first time, I can write about these memories, although I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about them yet.  When I look at that photo I see uncertainty in some faces and blissful ignorance in others.  My parents know life is about to change.  I do not.

That picture made me think about the family I have now and the life-changing event of my son’s autism diagnosis.  I wondered if there was a photo of us before our world changed forever.  I searched and searched and found this:

It was our holiday card for 2009.  This was taken three months before our son’s diagnosis.  As parents, we knew something was going on.  Our kids had no clue.

Two life altering events for me.  And the photos that trigger the memories.

———————————————————————————————————————

I chose the Harry Chapin song “I Wonder What Would Happen To This World” for a reason.  Harry Chapin was one of my father’s favorite singer/songwriters.  In July 1981 we were overseas on vacation when he read the news of Harry Chapin’s death.  I was young, so the memory is fuzzy, but I remember thinking this was one of the first times I had seen my father sad.  The lyrics below from this song are on Harry Chapin’s headstone.  I often think how different life would be for me now had the two events above not happened – if my father was still alive and if my son did not have autism.  While writing this post, I have realized that it’s useless to think that way.  What’s most important is how we take what is given to us and use it to change our corner of the world.  To let go of the past trauma and stay in the present.  And with that, I hope I can finally move on.

“Now if a man tried
To take his time on Earth
And prove before he died
What one man’s life could be worth
Well I wonder what would happen to this world” – I Wonder What Would Happen To This World by Harry Chapin

 

Parents Are People at Hopeful Parents

It’s the 17th of the month again (that went by fast!) and I’m writing at Hopeful Parents.  Today’s it’s about the moment when I knew my husband really got it.

Click Here for Parents Are People

 

The B Side – Life is a Highway

It’s time for another break here.  Time for another “B Side” post.

I started these posts back in October when I decided I needed to write about something else besides “all things autism”.  My B Sides are going to be stories about my favorite memories, ones that have had a lasting impact on my life.  I was  going to try to write a “B Side” at least once a month but November skipped past without one.  Today’s Special Needs Blog Hop about random thoughts reminded me it was time for another one.  So for today’s “B Side” post – Life is a Highway.

The year was 1987.  I was 15 years old and just passed my learner’s permit test.  Barely passed.  Back then it was a paper test and you couldn’t get more than four answers wrong or you failed.  I got four answers wrong.  But I ran out of there with that yellow paper waving in my hand like they do now on American Idol.  The beginning of teenage freedom.

I begged my father to take me out right away for a drive.  He agreed and we climbed into our Jeep Cherokee.  It was January in Vermont and the roads were covered in snow and ice.  My father, ever the cautious one, was reminding me to take it slow.  Very slow.  Very very slow.  Too slow for this 15 year old.

We got about 3 miles from the house driving along the back roads in our small rural town.  I made it through my first stop sign.  My father started breathing again.  Until he started screaming:

“You’re too far right!!  You’re too far right!!”

And into the ditch we went.

(several years later when  my dad was sick, we joked about his “too far right” comment – he said he was really talking about my politics.  Considering how left of center my dad was politically, it wasn’t hard to be too far to the right from him.  But I digress…)

We were sideways in the Jeep in the ditch.  Because of all the snow, I couldn’t see the side of the road and in we went.  We climbed out of the car and trudged to a nearby house to call my uncle for help (no cell phones back then of course).  And for the 30 minutes it took for them to pull the Jeep out of the ditch, I avoided my father’s glare.

After checking the car to make sure there was no damage, my father handed the keys back to me.

“You’re driving home.”

I remember my shock and fear like it was yesterday.  I had come inches away from totaling the car.  Yet here he was, handing the keys back to me, not taking no for an answer.  So very slowly, very very slowly, I drove us back home.

I think back on this moment as a mother with three kids of my own and now I get it.  My father knew that if he drove home, my confidence would be shot and I would be terrified to get back in the car.  And I was.  I was a nervous wreck.  A few months later I was involved as a passenger in a different accident (not my fault this time) and it took a long time for me to get behind the wheel again.  But at that moment my father had to show me that he believed in me.  He wasn’t going to let one mistake change that.  If he got mad or yelled or kept me from driving for a while, my anxiety would win and I’d end up a very nervous and unsafe driver.  My father chose the path of trust.  And several extra hours of practice before I was allowed to test for my license.

I still hear his voice in my head when I drive sometimes – when I’m changing lanes on the highway or reminding my kids to buckle up for safety.  In eight short years, my oldest will get his learner’s permit.  And I hope that I can show my son that I have the same confidence and trust in him that my dad had in me.

Or I might just make my husband teach him.

Me, my brother, and my dad. Before our driving turned him gray.

“There’s no load I can’t hold
Road so rough this I know
I’ll be there when the light comes in
Tell ‘em we’re survivors

Life is a highway
I want to ride it all night long” – Life Is A Highway by Tom Cochrane

 

Oh Very Young – at Hopeful Parents

It’s the 17th, so I’m writing at Hopeful Parents today.  I learned some valuable lessons about parenting from my dad, and I thought I’d share them this morning.

Click Here for Oh Very Young