Cruel intentions

We all have those standout moments in school, the kind that either make you are break you or put a carcass around your neck and toughen you up. I had so many, from first grade, right on up. Some felt like Olympic gold -- bases loaded, we're up by one, I've thrown two strikes and three balls...bam strike three; on to the tournament. Others felt like tuberculosis. They were those cruel moments where, as a kid, I couldn't breathe because of my lack of ability to handle the meanness of my peers. And they were f***ing mean. None of this anti-bullying campaign when I was growing up. It felt like kill or be killed, even in the cruddy confines of our tiny, run-down elementary school.

First, of course, were the teeth. I've always had big teeth. It's a family trait, supposedly they are charming now. But then, my god, a day didn't go by that somebody, usually the same somebody and his cronies, would make a nasty comment about my teeth. Of course, the first time it happened, I was floored. And hurt, and couldn't come up with a response. I had no idea that others found me ugly. My grandmother seemed to think I was pretty cute, my teachers never said anything about my teeth. It probably didn't help that I was taller than any other human being in class, skinny as a rail, and pretty smart.

By sixth grade, the teeth thing was nothing new. I just let it roll of my back, or worse yet, would say something more cutting. Something like "At least I can fix my teeth. There's no hope for your brain, SPED." Yeah, it was that low. The kid(s) who pricked at my confidence were the very same who were taken out of class for special help with reading and math. An eye for an eye, right? I had my tough skin now. And when the braces finally came off the first week of ninth grade, I thought for sure that I was totally fixed. That the taunting was over. I was golden, right?

Cruel illusions. Really. We had all melded into our unbroken groups by that point. I tried to mingle among the pods of "types." I had my athlete friends (I played three sports for awhile, then finally knocked it down to softball, lifting and a shitload of hiking); my theater friends (Shakespeare productions and a few high school musicals); my work friends who were older and taught me how to make a killer penne, play chess, and love good wine (and roll a joint behind the French cafe I worked at); my family friends. But no matter how many alliances there were, no matter how many bonfires and whiskey flasks surrounded us, there was always, at the most unsuspecting moments, some kind of useless cruelty that went along with the whole culture. Even my close friends, my "peeps", who had all pretty much outgrown me by a foot, called me "Shortround." I just learned to deal with it. It even made me laugh at some point. Sure, sure, Shortround. No problem. I just ploughed ahead, kept up with the grades, and the sports, and the jobs, and prayed that I'd make it out alive. Ugly, it seems, but alive.

Things went well. Sort of. Nobody minded me in college. In fact, it seemed that I drew quite a crowd (of mostly men) in my 20s. I had no idea why, what with the big teeth and all. Even after I had my daughter, there was no sudden drop off in dates and phone calls. On the eve of my wedding, I was teaching high school and the younger (like way younger) brother of a former nasty classmate of mine congratulated me.

"Yeah, I told my brother that you were getting married and he just couldn't believe it," he said, defensive on my behalf. "He couldn't believe that someone would marry YOU. I told him you were an awesome teacher," he blushed. "And really pretty."

"Thanks," I said, the wind knocked right out of my bridezilla sails.

But then I got to thinking. That mean, nasty boy. I remember him. He was a short little troll of misery that walked around berating everyone and everything, but we let him do it. A good student, sure. A star wrestler, yup. But, in the end he was a dick. And all I could think was, well, I'm glad I'm not marrying him.

I wonder if anyone every married that a**hole?

I'm not above it. None of us are. There's still a little bit of that terrified, beat up, awkward kid in me yet. It's a bitter solace I take in seeing some of the people from those days. Some of them are fat. Some of them are alone. Some have kids and jobs, some don't. Some drink, some have criminal records, some finally grew up, some didn't.

We all made it somehow, but just barely. It's an ugly business. The silver lining...success? Good looks? A solid marriage? Kids? I wish I could know for sure.

For the record, on the eve of my 36th birthday, I'm pretty thrilled about my big shiny teeth. The better to smile on my even shinier kids. Who will knock your kids right out of the water with their gorgeous brilliance.

Na, na, na--meanies.

The Problem With Power Booty

First, let me reassure you that I know that there are people all over the world who are starving. And that this may, on first glance, seem like a frivolous commentary on our equally frivolous culture (we can warm our asses on our car seats for godssake), but somewhere in here is a bigger issue. A grander scale that needs investigating. I should preface this by saying I don't have all the answers. If I did, this blog would be history.

The Halftime Show. Yes, I'll start there. I promised my darling, yet brutally over-tired children that they could watch Beyonce perform before they brushed their teeth and hit the sheets. I sat down with them, but not too close because Lucian's breath smelled oddly of hot dogs, although he doesn't even like/eat hot dogs. It's one of those mysteries I have no desire to solve. Anyway, back to halftime. There is the bodacious Beyonce with her long Rapunzel-esque locks, surrounded by leather bedecked dancers and a ring of actual flame (from propane tanks, as Lucian noted). We watched her sing and swing and widen her eyes so big I thought, for a moment, that I was watching some kind of vaudeville throw back and not a decadant American diva. Actually, to be honest, there wasn't much singing. More booty-shaking and hip grinding than anything else. My son left the room, saying the dance was "disgusting" and he didn't want to watch a bunch of women "in bathing suits, doing that weird dance." My more pop-savvy daughter stared on in disbelief.

"I'm really going to have to rethink how I feel about Beyonce," was her hesitant response.

It sounds like a scene from the Flanders' household. You know, the Evangelical neighbors of the debauched Simpsons? But, sadly, we are not the Flanders. And this halftime show was no joke. I am not a conservative woman, not by any stretch of any leotard or bustier. Basically, I follow the French (as in 1920s French, not the current terrifying conservative, racist, anti-immigration French government) line of thinking. Topless beach, no problem. Sex orgies, sure if that's your thing, girl power, black power -- yes, yes, yes -- all cool. But I couldn't shake the feeling, as I was watching all that leather and, well, lace, bopping around, that we (and Beyonce) have hit a strange low in our collective culture. She really didn't sing that much, and the real flames didn't fool me. And the set list, utterly confusing (at least the five minutes she did sing). My daughter and I felt a little glimmer of hope when she started singing "Independent Woman (or is it Women?)." That's a song we got. She sang the refrain, we rocked out for about five seconds, high on the empowerment (The shoes on my feet, I bought 'em, the rock I'm rockin'...yeah, that's right). But not two minutes later, she sings, while bouncing (everything) in a Playboy meets Tron unitard, "If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it..."

But wait a minute...I thought you were independent and you could buy your own ring. No problem, right?

Anna turned to me, her brows knitted together. "I don't get it," she said, and left the room. A little disappointed it seems.

Me neither, babe. I don't get it anymore. Why weren't the Rolling Stones half-naked (blech!) when they performed the halftime? Or at least wearing jock straps or some ridiculous outfit? Because people would've gone ballistic at how weird and disgusting and pandering it was. But yet Madonna sports a friggin' Cuban bathing suit, Beyonce wears lingerie (mind you, this is the same woman who was the epitome of class at the presidential inauguration, the same woman who rocked the national anthem dressed to the nines) and all of us are standing around scratching our heads.

My conclusion, the message is simple: Be what they want you to be when they want you to be it. More bang for the buck.

The problem, we don't know what any of our leaders and role models and celebrities stand for anymore. It's a minute by minute, candle in the wind, fake it 'til you make it (or make money) kinda thing. Very few people seem to start solid and stay solid. I can't imagine not knowing where Nina Simone stood on segregation. Or wondering what George Carlin thought about the human race as a whole. Ha. It all seems so impermanent.

And frankly, unsexy. Yeah, you heard me. I know sexy can sell anything. And there's nothing sexier than Aretha Franklin singing "Ave Maria" in a blood red ball gown, every word weighted and every note beautiful. And let's not forget a few of those words, about the Virgin herself, "Tis thou canst save amid despair."

Thou. Amid despair. No need for fishnets or flamethrowers. Thou. A poverty-stricken, pregnant, unmarried mother. That's as real as it gets. I'm not saying you should go out and start preaching the gospel, but for us, for us women especially, it's essential to make the message clear, strong, and pretty goddamn eternal for all those little eyes that are looking up and wondering when someone else is gonna put a ring on their finger and make them worth something.

The mean mommy

Awhile back, maybe two years ago, Amy Chua published a book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. The main premise of the book was to defend the tough parenting style that many Chinese mothers exact on their children. For instance, any grade lower than an A is unacceptable. Sleepovers and playdates are not an option. Period. Never compliment your child in public. Always take the side of teachers and coaches. You get the point. Of course, her book "sparked controversy" (I hate this media phrase, but it's the only one I could come up with, you know, since I am a journalist), especially here in the States. You can imagine why. Our Western sensibilities and sensitivities couldn't handle the seemingly harsh treatment of the most precious, most innocent of our population: The Children.

Well, I loved the idea. Still love it and I'm sure many of you will groan in horror at my loving it. I think Ms Chua has her sights set on the ever-threatening horizon of adulthood that her children must face, especially in this country. She knows that it is her job to make sure her children not just "get by" but excel in life, in whatever they pursue. I'm all for it. In fact, the older my children get, the stricter I become, to their natural dismay.

"Lucian, you are not leaving this room until every sock and every Lego is put away."
"But I haven't even had breakfast yet! I'm hungry."
"That's good. It'll give you some motivation."
"You're mean."
"I know. But you can have water. I'll give you that."

And just to drive the point home, while he is cleaning his room, pancakes are fluffing out on a skillet in the kitchen, fillng the house with a delicious breakfast aroma.

These same conversations about cleanliness happen with my tween daughter. Usually, they are more heated, until I pull the "food, shelter, drive" card. And just end the conversation with, "Just do what I tell you to do. I'm not doing this for my health, but for your benefit." And right before the door slams, I put my foot in the door jam and say, icily, "Better think about it." Then she quietly shuts her door and commences the relentless clean-up project. That should be in all CAPS: CLEAN-UP PROJECT.

It's exhausting. Truly. And some days, I don't even want to personally uphhold the standards that I have drawn in stone for my kids. And I am nowhere even close to Chinese mother status, but when I look around me...yeah, swimming against the tide.

"Hey, Mom, I got an A- on that geography test!" Anna is all smiles as she puts the test on the fridge. I immediately remove it and comb through the answers to see what she got wrong, then quiz her on the wrong answers.

"Are you going to put it back on the fridge now," she asks, disgusted.
"Of course, it's a good test. Next time, though, honey, you need to pay more attention to what the question says. This could have been an A."

Total dumbfounded silence. And her brother is not safe from this scrutiny either. He is often forced to help me make meals in the kitchen, from scratch, or to rewrite his entire homework sheet because his handwriting is not up to snuff.

"But I got every answer right," he complains. "See? Check plus plus."
"It's good practice," I say, watching him from the doorway, coffee in hand.

I have been scrutinized and criticized for years about this kind of parenting. About how I keep them from social events if there is even the slightest hint of illness, or how I don't allow them to stay up late, not even on the weekends, how I floss and brush my son's teeth still...

Thankfully, I don't care. My eyes are set towards the future in which I will not be able to afford to pay for college for two children, so scholarships are a must. And school comes first, screw your dreams, you're only gonna get there if you have an education, kid. Fact. As for happiness, well, that's up to them. They aren't going to be happy being mediocre and not knowing how to take care of themselves, so...false praise will not a better human make.

So what if you're kid can write an essay, can he write an amazing essay? So what if she does her own laundry, she's supposed to, she's 12! So what if he plays the piano, does he play it well? Does he practice? Better be. Oh fifth place, that's good I guess. If you had started your project earlier you would've won first place.

We're not helping them by patting their backs because they ate their apple at lunch. Or because they are helping with the dishes.

The only thing I will say about holding back on praise, is, in this house, we never hold back on saying, "I love you." Even at the height of frustration at the rules and the strict atmosphere and the high standards, never will I not say to my children 'I love you," before they go to bed and when I drop them off at school or drop them off anywhere. No matter the fight about the saxophone practice, the bad handwriting, the plethora of chores, I will always say it.

"I love you, no matter what."

Will set you free...

Years ago, when I was young lass of 18 (we're talking nearly 20 years back if you must know), I journeyed across the pond to Ireland, making sure, of course, to bring a fair amount of cigarettes because I was told that cigarettes were twice as expensive in Europe, which is true. But, alas, I ran out of my precious addiction feeders less than half-way through the trip. There were lots of opportunities to smoke in Ireland -- sitting on a wet curb waiting for the bus, hustling young men out of their Friday earnings in a billiards game (which would pay for my train fare to Galway), a scorching cup of tea sitting on the steps of a crumbling castle/youth hostel barraged by the frozen sea. Plenty of opportunity, even for this poor American student. What I didn't spend on Guiness and whiskey I spent on cigarettes and coffee. I bought my first 10-pack of Winston-Salems at a bodega right before we boarded a ferry to Black Rock. The pack was slimmer than its 20-count American brother, but what struck me most was the warning label. It stopped me dead in my tracks.

Two words: Smoking kills.

Indeed, it does, I thought while the ferry was tossed like a soggy muffin in the churning Irish sea. So it does, but do they have to be so blunt about it?

I shacked up with an Australian fellow for most of the trip. He was a pilot for Quantus and more than ten years my senior. Very nice, but like that pack of cigarettes, or fags, very honest.

"It is such a shame that you smoke," he said, his hand on my knee. "You're so pretty. And with such blue eyes. It will be sad to see your beauty destroyed in 20 years, if you're not dead from cancer." He tsked and shook his head again. Such a shame he kept mumbling.

Of course, I was insulted and ashamed. But the honesty of it kept me from even trying to pretend that what he said wasn't true. Or what the warning said wasn't true. Smoking does kill.

I look to that time now, and wonder, where is that kind of honesty? What a relief it would be to not turn heads in parking lots when I tell my son that if he doesn't pay attention to the cars, he's going to get hit, and possibly die. It's a plain fact, but I hear other parents with the same concerns, presenting the information gently as an 80-year-old woman in an S.U.V. nearly backs into a first-grader while

his mother gently tugs on his arm.

"Be careful, honey," she says mildly, "You don't want to get hurt by the cars."

Hurt?! Don't you mean 'hit and dead'?! 'Cause that's a real possibility here. The same goes for cruel behavior. Many a time, my voice has gone from zero to holler in three seconds or less because either child has done something so remarkable stupid, and dangerous, that I cannot shield my amazement and fear.

"Don't ever run off like that again!" I remember screaming at my daughter in a dead panic. She had hidden UNDER the food table after church and I spent the whole of ten minutes looking frantically for her while she crouched and giggled and chewed her way through several cookies. Some other concerned parents heard my panic and were calling her name as well. When we finally found her, they relaxed and patted her shoulder.

"You gave your mommy a scare," one nice mother said, smiling.

"Gave me a scare," I screamed. "I thought somebody took you. I thought you were dead! Have you lost your whole mind, girl?! Do you know what people do when they take children. They kill them. They hurt them first and then they kill them."

By that point, the entire congregation was staring at me, horrified. I grabbed my daughter's hand, crumbling the cookie that was in it, and went straight to the car, still yelling about the horrors of kidnappers.

Was it overkill? Not to me. Because it was true. Very, solidly, terrifyingly true. And she never did it again.

Just as it was true when a student of mine didn't do an ounce of homework for an entire semester and despite several reports home, and calls, his parents wanted to know why he failed.

"He's a great kid," I said. "But lazy as the day is long."

That went over like a ton of bricks. But it was true.

Or when a colleague of mine was bemoaning her weight while cramming her third cookie into her mouth. I said the cookies weren't helping, and she didn't speak to me for three days.

Are we so afraid to tell the truth? Is it so offensive these days that instead of getting to the heart of the matter, we tip-toe and dance pointlessly around the very thing that holds the promise of progress, and healing, and maybe, dare I say it, a better life?

My father told me years ago that I was too critical of people, especially people who had done me wrong. He was right.

"Let it go," he'd said. "Let it go. You're getting backed up in the details. You're very detailed in your criticisms. It's too time-consuming."

It has never been easy to tell the truth. And even harder to hear the truth. But we have so much to gain and so much to lose. And if we're not telling the truth to other people, then I assume we aren't telling the truth to ourselves. Even harder to deal with, yes, but imagine if we did.

Smoking does kill you. You can die in the grocery store parking lot. Butter makes you fat. War is never the answer. Love is trumped up. You're too attached to your dog. Having a baby doesn't make you a good mother. Getting laid improves your mood. Drinking in excess and screwing the people who love you most means you're an alcoholic. Not paying child support makes you a loser. Writers never make money. Bottled water is an evil enterprise. Slim Fast is a scam. Even nice people are racists...

The list goes on and on. But just think, what a sharp breath of air, if just once, the truth was told. Sorry Emily D., but we've been telling it slant for too long.

The past...is history

The cold weather makes everyone raw. On edge. A little bit meaner than usual. Or, the optimist in me sees the potential for sharpening one's mental skills when the slag of heat can't trudge through a mind that is burned by the sun and foggy with squinting. Winter truly brings out the sharp corners, at least in this house it does. Lucian reads more and asks more scientific questions. Anna understands the workings of middle school drama and usually (not always) tries to avoid getting caught up in the hormone cyclone that is sixth grade.

I just turn into a bossy bitch. With a bend towards philosophy and nihilism. It's fun for me, scary for my "house mates."

On the way to school this morning, Anna informed me that her grade would be watching a movie in the auditorium tomorrow, and that she would bring a permission slip home today. Her watching the film is contigent upon my signature, naturally. I asked her straight up if it was going to be another Civil Rights film. They watched "Ghosts of Mississippi" last year, so I just needed a head's up as to what kind of turmoil would be visiting our house this year in the form of preteen racial confusion and sadness at the abominable history of the treatment of African-Americans in this country. It may just be a movie to you, but to us, in this house, these films rip open new wounds that take lots of explanation and soothing and "fake-it-'til-you-make-it" optimism provided by yours truly.

I could already feel the tension rising in the truck as we pulled into the parking lot.
"So, um, what's the name of the film," I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I'm not sure, Ma. It'll say it on the permission slip."
"Is it about slavery and/or segregation again this year."
"Most likely."
"Fabulous."

I wanted that to be the end of the conversation. Keep it light, you know. But I parked the truck and sat there for a moment.

"Mom, we're going to be late," Lucian piped up from the back, his voice muffled by his "face hat" as we call it.

"Ya know what chaps my ass," I started then, and Anna sat back, readying herself for the impromptu litany. "I totally understand that you need to learn history, especially that history," I said. "But I think the curriculum misses the boat a little. That was 50 freakin' years ago. What about TODAY?! The only images you and your classmates have of black folks in America is freakin' slave stories, church bombings, and MLK getting his damn head blown off by some crazy-ass white assassin. Where are the positive representations?! Where are the modern day heroes in all communities who you should be learning about, too? What the hell? Why do you think I throw those damn book orders away the moment you bring them home? All the characters are one color. And if there are black characters, it's because the book is about friggin' slavery."

"Or baseball, don't forget baseball," Lucian said. Apparently, he was listening intently.

"Yeah, and baseball," I said, softening ever so slightly.

"I did notice that about the book orders," Anna nodded. It killed her to agree with me.
"But can I still watch the movie tomorrow?"

"It depends on what it is," I said, thinking 'My god what if they try and show them A Time to Kill or some other equally horrifying film with a simplified, outdated message of hate.

"I will find out today," was Anna's response. We all shivered in silence in the parking lot. Anna cocked her head to one side in a moment of small revelation.

"There's not a lot of positive, modern lessons about women either," she said.

"That is true...maybe it's time you demand an education that goes beyond the Civil War," I said.

"I think that part's gonna be up to you, as usual." She gave me a hug and they jetted off. Brother and sister, who share blood, a home, a family, the same slippers sometimes, but never in the history books will their paths ever cross peacefully. It is a confusing lesson, if it's even a lesson at all.

Magic cookies

I've been letting the words gel and form and slide down into my belly, churn, come back, sort of like a mother wolf feeds her young. It has to be digestable, otherwise there is no nourishment, and that is exactly how I feel about the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. Oh, goddamnit, Nichole, why'd you have to bring that up...? Perhaps, that's what you're thinking. I mean, it did happen before the holidays, so it's old news, the world has moved on to the fiscal cliff and more Syria. Right?

Nope, not this mama. I felt the same anxiety when I dropped my clever, beautiful, completely innocent children off at school this morning. I felt like an unwilling farmer, taking my lambs to the slaughterhouse. The panic lingers after they disappear into the building, and only subsides when the afternoon finally comes, and the bus will soon arrive, and they will emerge smiling, scuffing their shoes, and complaining about how much homework they have. I play it cool, give them a quick hug and tell them to hop in the truck. My arms have been empty all day, and sometimes, I think of how those mothers and fathers must feel, how the ache of that emptiness doesn't leave them, even when they are sleeping. Surely, somewhere, they have turned to stone, their arms locked in a permament cold embrace around a child that is no longer there.

I don't know how they stand it. Most of us don't know how they stand it.

I told my daughter about the tragedy, and her face revealed an expression that was better suited to a 40-year-old woman than to an 11-year-old sixth grader.

"He shot them?" she asked, pulling milk from the fridge for her tea. "How old were they? It must've been in a high school..."

"They were in first grade, babe. Younger than Lucian."

She set the milk on the counter and crinkled her eyes at a picture stuck to the fridge door, one taken years ago when she still had a roundness to her face that belied childhood abandon. She is with her little brother, whose eyes engulf a good portion of his head and whose teeth are on the verge of spontaneous extraction. He is wearing Spiderman pajamas and they are both giddy with the excitement of Christmas.

Her gaze is broken then by tears. Silent tears and a cracked expression. I tell her it's OK and hold her until her fearful sobs die down. We are both crying, and, I think, for the same reason. She knows, she sees the innocence in that picture. She sees the trust, and then, like me, she imagines the fear that such a face must have exhibited. The very last expression, not a smile, not even a pout, just fear.

She has stopped asking every morning if I think she and her brother will be safe at school that day. Perhaps she has forgotten, or, perhaps she knows me too well, and knows that I won't be able to lie to her, not even this time. It's too awful some days. On those days, I wake up early and pack their lunches -- their favorite things; granola bars, apples and peanut butter, a banana with "I LUV U" carved into the peel, and even a treat, which I emplore them to hide from the lunch authorities. Once I put three little cookies in a bag. When my son saw me packing this contraband he thought, truly, that I had gone off the deep end.

"Did you just put a cookie in my lunchbox?! I mean, a couple of cookies?!"

"Yes. Do you not like cookies? Would you like me to take them out?"

"No way! It's just that, you have NEVER packed cookies. Never ever, ever, ever..."

"I get it. Well, a little treat now and then never hurt anyone. It helps get through a long day, if you have something to look forward to."

"Even if it's a cookie."

"Yup. Even if it's just a cookie."

I think about them opening up their lunchboxes and finding the cookies and it warms me just a little. I think about how they will get on the bus, loaded down with their backpacks and the burden of the day, with cookies in their belly. From me, with love. Maybe they will never know the extent, or rather, the extreme, to which I love them. It might be too scary, maybe they are too young to know. Maybe all children are too young to know that their mothers love them like wild animals. And that grief and happiness grow from the same tree, and that we sometime cannot sleep for worry over them. We cannot eat, we cannot get warm because we still think that by some magic they are here, and we are only human, and therefore, our magic won't keep them here, not long enough.

And so, we have cookies.

What we lost in the fire...

A few weeks ago, right around the second week of the month, I had this grand plan to write a blog in honor of Thanksgiving. You know, something slightly cheesy but heartfelt about the people in my life that I think about and am thankful for. Like the elderly woman who worked at the daycare my daughter attended, who made her beautiful dresses and did her hair, like she was one of her own. Or to my first editor who made me cry but also taught me to be a writing Jedi.

That's how the blog was going to go. But then, on Saturday, November 10, while I was snapping risque photos of burlesque performers and the kids were at home with my gentleman friend (most likely full on corn dogs), there was a raging fire just down the road. It only took an hour for the flames to engulf the entire house and everything in it, every piece of clothing, every precious painting, every bed, everything. Not so long ago, I lived in that house. That was the house that me and my then-husband decided to raise our children in. That was the house where we struggled as a young family, made strides, took steps back, and ultimately, it was the house that I fled, taking very few of my things, so that the kids wouldn't feel the sting of the imminent divorce. Everything, their whole childhood, right down to the little figurines lining my daughter's bedroom walls, burned up in an instant.

My ex called me from the road, he had been visiting his father in New Hampshire, when he learned that his (our, the kids') house was a giant bonfire on a quiet road.

"The house is on fire," he screamed. "Our house is on fire."

We only chatted for a moment and thanked god that the kids were with me that weekend, in our little rental in farm country. There was no sleep to be had that night, wondering how we were going to tell the kids that the house had burned. How their toys were just melted plastic and ash. How their winter coats, the new ones, were blackened and stank of smoke and flame.

That was a Saturday night. On Sunday, as luck would have it, we had planned a small birthday party for my son (at the rental). That morning, looking at the kids' faces, I felt so guilty not telling them the news. But me and their father agreed that, best to tell them after the party. We didn't want to ruin their day. As if...

I went to the house before the party, under the guise that I needed to go to the store and get balloons. I could smell the smoke and char from the road as I parked the car. The police were there, fire men, my ex-husband, his girl friend. But I didn't really see any of them when I got out the car. All I saw, all I saw, and it will haunt me truly forever, was the charred remains of my daughter's bed in the driveway. Tossed, flaming, out of the second floor window. A whole had been cut in the side of the house where her bedroom was, and that was as black as the bed. All of the windows were broken and glass crunched under my shoes. Everything, everything was gone. Of course, I had the mother moment, I went there in my head. What if the kids had been there? It made me sick inside, to think that the story, through one turn of events or another, could have been quite a different one, one that no one would be able to write.

We told the kids after the party. Anna cried, Lucian said nothing. It wasn't until we took them to the house, a week later, when Anna's room had been cleared from the driveway, that the reality set in, for all of us. We knew, between the sobs and the thankful praises, that we were looking at a coffin. The coffin of our lives, laid bare and burned to dust.

Now, all that remains is a burned out shell of the house. The baby pictures, the foot print cards, the locks of hair, the videos of their innocent first steps, the oil paintings I did of Anna's first ballet lesson, the wedding albums, the amazing school art projects, the custom-sewn dresses from Anna's sister in Africa, all are gone with the house. Buried in a violent pile of ash and peeling paint.

It's been a few weeks now, the house will be rebuilt, my ex has found an apartment that the kids will call "home" for at least half the time. But the air is heavy here. Still. Nightmares plague me every time I try to sleep. Anna cries anew whenever she realizes that yet another treasured thing is lost. Lucian kicks the dirt a lot and shows little interest in the trampoline. At one point, at dinner, Anna spoke out of nowhere.

"Oh no, Ma, my flower girl dress from your wedding..." Her voice trails off.
"It's OK, baby," I say, trying to keep my composure. "It's OK, because we still have the flower girl."

When I am old, and the children are grown, there will be no albums to look back on to remind me of their faces when they were young. There will be no videos to show my grandchildren of their devilish parents and their first steps.

I keep those memories that much closer now, filling in details so that I won't forget a single thing. It's a bittersweet inventory.