#notokay

*inspired by the other women who have shared their stories over the past week*

*posted with great hesitation and anxiety*

I am 9.  My multi-age group private school class is at a park.  They are both 12.  They tell me the big dumpster is full of nothing but books, so I go over there with them.  When we are there, both boys start laughing and grabbing at me and tell me they are going to pull my shorts down.  They hold me back when I try to run away.  They pull my shorts down and leave big scratches down my hips and thighs.  When they are done looking and grabbing at me, they run away still laughing.  I curl on the ground, crying, and pull my pants back up.  The teacher wants to know why I'm crying.  She tells me I'm just trying to get attention.  I show her the scratches.  Both she and my parents demand to know why I thought it was a good idea to go somewhere that the adults couldn't see.  The boys say it was a game.  They go unpunished.  I am teased by adults and children because I cry.  I learn that I should not have been upset, and that the mistakes were mine, and that I am responsible for getting myself hurt.

I am 10.  I hate wearing pants.  The boys in my 5th grade class like to flip up skirts to see panties.  They chase us on the playground and the monitors think we are laughing when really, we are afraid.  They tell us "Oh, he likes you!"  and that when boys like you, they do things to hurt or scare you because that's the only way they know how to tell you that you're pretty.  When we complain to the teacher, the teacher and principal...both women...tell us that if we wore shorts under our skirts and dresses then the boys wouldn't do this to us.  They are wrong.  I learn that boys have a right to my body, and that I am responsible for what boys do to me.

I am 13.  I am walking home from school.  I think the man waving from a passing truck is someone I know, so I wave back.  I realize he's a stranger, so I stop waving and keep walking.  Several minutes later, after I have turned the corner down my street, his truck pulls up next to me.  He tries to talk to me and I ignore him.  He gets louder and wants to know my name.  He tells me to get in the truck and he will drive me home.  I turn away and walk into the house in front of me, a neighbor's house.  She calls my parents and the police.  Everyone is angry that I didn't memorize the business name and phone number painted on his truck door.  They tell me this is what happens when pretty girls wave at men they do not know.  I learn that I brought this on myself and that I'm responsible for what grown men choose to do.

I am 14.  My breasts have grown overnight.  They are the fathers of my friends, and they cannot look anywhere else.  In a moment of boldness, I take one by the chin one day and tell him, "My face is up here."  I get in trouble for being disrespectful and inappropriate.  I am told to wear baggier shirts.  I learn that my body is something to hide, and that men are allowed to look at whatever they want if they can see it.  I am responsible for how men treat me.

I am 14.  He is 16.  We are doing a group meditation in the dark at a summer camp.  When the lights go off, he kisses my neck, even when I try to move away. He takes my hand and rubs it over the erection in his pants.  I keep trying to pull away, but he is stronger than I am. He bruises my wrist.  The other girls call him my boyfriend.  The camp leaders tell my parents that I am forward with the boys. I am told that if I don't like him, I shouldn't participate in these things with him. I learn that it's okay for boys to be sexual, but not for girls.  I learn that my no isn't enough.

I am 16.  He is 16.  He is a classmate.  Every time he sees me alone in the hallways he grabs my breasts, pushes me against the lockers, and sticks his tongue down my throat.  He never says anything, he just does it.  I close my eyes, clench my fists, and wait until he pauses long enough for me to push him away.  I don't tell anyone, because this is what boys do when they like you: They hurt you and they scare you.  I know that his actions are my responsibility, but I don't understand why or how and so I don't tell anyone.  I try to never be alone in the halls.

I am 17.  He is 22.  He rapes me on his living room floor while my friend and her boyfriend are in the next room.  It is our first and only date.  When I go home, I get into the shower fully dressed and sit on the tub floor until there is no more hot water.  I scrub at my skin until it is raw and bleeding.  I don't know what to tell or how to tell because I wore a skirt and willingly kissed him, so that gave him permission to do everything else even though I fought back when he pushed me down and used his knee to force my legs apart and held his forearm across my throat so that I couldn't breathe enough to yell.  I'm not even sure that it qualifies as rape because of these things.  My no is not enough.  I am responsible for what men do. My mother has often said that it is only rape if he uses a gun or a knife, because otherwise you can stop it by fighting back. I should not have gone to his house.  I wanted him to think I was pretty, so the fault is mine.  It will be more than a year before I tell anyone. When I do, I am horrified and comforted at how many young women I know who have experienced the same. Not everyone I confide in takes it well. Some ask questions like, "Are you sure you said no?"  "Did he tie you up or something?  How can it be rape if he didn't?"  "Why did you go to his house?"  "What was he supposed to think?"  and "Why would you even tell me this?"  I learn that rape is not so clear cut for most people and that whether or not something IS rape can be very controversial. I learn that I need to be careful who I share my secret with.  I still don't understand why it was my fault, but I understand that on some level it must be.  I learn that if I don't want this to happen again, it is my responsibility to not be alone, not wear the wrong things, not say the wrong things, not be in the wrong places, not say yes to anything sexual ever.  Guys are guys.  They can't help themselves.  Girls have to do better. I will never tell my parents. 

I am 18.  He is a 19 year old football player at my college.  When he comes to pick me up for our date, he shoves me on my bed and tries to have sex with me.  I tell him no.  He says "Everyone will think we are, anyways."  He is angry, why would I say he could come pick me up in the dorm if I did not intend to have sex with him? I do not remember anything after that until I am standing in the hall of my dorm, crying, with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped.  He leaves, still angry.  My RA says I shouldn't ever let guys into my dorm room with the door closed if I don't want to have sex with them because inviting them in sends the wrong message.  How can I argue against that?  I fail the class he and I have together because I am too ashamed and too scared to go back.  Girls are supposed to have sex with boys so we aren't teases, but we aren't supposed to because that makes us sluts.  I don't know which one I am.  I don't want to be either.  To say yes or to say no, both can be terrifying.

I am 20.  He is in his 50s.  He is the national president for an organization I belong to.  At a party, in a room full of people, he says "I just have to kiss that mouth!"  He grabs me by the face and kisses me while people cheer.  I feel dirty and afraid, and sad for his wife.  People talk about how awesome that was for me, to be kissed by HIM.  I pretend to agree, because it is awkward and uncomfortable and shameful otherwise. For years, people talk about it as if it is a badge of honor.  I play along, but the badge I really wear is one of humiliation.

I am 21.  He is 20.  We are in the same university student organization.  It is St. Patrick's Day.  He says to me, "Erin go Bragh! What color is YOUR bra?" and rips my shirt down to see.  Everyone laughs.  When I shout at him, I am told that I'm too sensitive and that I need to lighten up.  It was just a joke.  I'm not allowed to get upset about "a joke." 

I am 20, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32...pick an age.  I am out dancing at the bars with friends.  Men come up to us to dance while rubbing their bodies on ours.  I do not know them, but I know I am supposed to be flattered.  Sometimes they grab my breasts, my ass, my pussy.  I get mocked by them and called rude names every time I express disgust or move away, so most of the time I grit my teeth and wait for them to go away.  If I wear baggy shirts to hide my body, sometimes guys come up behind me to dance and shove their hands right up inside my shirt to pull at my bra and breasts.  I know I'm responsible for what they do, but I cannot figure out how to stop it.  I learn from my peers that this is something to laugh and joke about, that I'm not supposed to feel shame or taken advantage of. It's just what guys do. I learn to mask how I feel with jokes and false bravada. 

I am 39, he is in his 40s.  I am at a fundraiser.  My purse is behind him, and he holds it hostage until I hug him.  For the rest of the night, he finds excuses to press against me. He is married, and I'm not interested.  I can't avoid him because we are both there with mutual friends. He tells me I have food on my shirt and grabs my breasts.  On the dance floor, he keeps coming up to me to grind on me and whisper in my ear, "FELLATIO."  When I don't respond other than to try to move away, he licks my ear and says "I bet you could make me cum in 17 seconds."  When I shove him away, he is deeply offended and says I've assaulted him.  He was just being friendly, can't I take a joke?

I am 43.  A man running for president talks about how he doesn't ask women if he can kiss them...he just does it and he can get away with it because he's a celebrity.  He says he can just grab women by the pussy.  It is "just locker room talk" though.  Some people say that because a recent erotica novel was a best seller that we cannot complain about the things this man brags of doing...because really, what's the difference between real life non-consent and a fictional story about a consensual relationship.  I haven't read the book, but I'm angry.  I'm angry that the underlying message is "Well, if some women enjoy being aroused by erotic fiction, then they can't complain when a man brags about doing whatever he wants to other women."  I'm angry that anyone, anywhere, defends it.  I'm angry that when people in his party condemn his words, people from the opposing side are critical of that condemnation. 

And mostly, I'm angry when I see other women using social media to share their stories of sexual assault.  I'm angry that it happened to them.  I'm angry that it keeps happening. I'm ashamed that I am not brave enough to share my story publicly.  I'm ashamed that I am neither brave nor strong enough to deal with the fallout that I know will happen...that what I expect is people to question why I let any of these situations happen, to wonder why I didn't tell, to think that these assaults are proof that there is something wrong with ME, to accuse me of trying to cause trouble in my family or worse, to accuse me of lying. 

And I'm ashamed that when they ask those things, for just a moment I will wonder the same things even though I know NOW that these things were not my fault or wrongdoing.  I know that I didn't ask for these things to happen, that I did not deserve them, and that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CHOICES OTHERS MAKE.  I know that I ought to be able to wear what I want, how I want, where I want, when I want and still have the right to give or withdraw consent as I please without being shamed or insulted or humiliated for it.  This should not even be a topic for debate, and yet, it still is.  This is not a concept that people should still struggle to grasp, and yet, some still do.

These stories are mine, but any or all of them could belong to you, to a woman you love, to anyone.  My experiences are common, mundane, the standard experiences of American women.  These aren't even all of my stories, just the highlights.

This is rape culture.  And it needs to end. 

A Fairy Tale to Save Kids

Once upon a time, a little boy north of Detroit was diagnosed with cancer.  His brave mom and dad shared their family's journey far and wide, and so did his nanny.

Once upon a time, a tiny baby in upstate New York added that little boy to her nightly prayers under the guidance of her mommy, who was friends with that little boy's nanny.

For a year, that little girl faithfully added the little boy to her nightly prayers, even though she, her mommy, and her daddy had never met him, his parents, or his nanny.  And then, one day, Emelia's mommy had very very sad news:  Ryan had passed away and had gone to heaven.  Emelia was still very little, and she knew this was very sad news even if she didn't fully understand all that it meant.  She had a very big heart inside her tiny little body and her heart had already decided to love Ryan.  And, because she loved him, Emelia insisted on still praying for Ryan every night before she drifted off to sleep.  Every year on Ryan's birthday and on Ryan's angelversary, Emelia and her mommy buy special balloons and send them off to Ryan.  And every Christmas, when they light candles in their window for the souls of loved ones lost, Emelia makes sure that there's a candle for Ryan.

Our story isn't over, though, because fairy tales have happy endings.  Emelia is almost 7 now.  She's asked her mommy and daddy a lot of questions about Ryan and about kids with cancer.  She's come to understand that there's a lot of work and research which needs to be done so that kids with cancer have happier outcomes than Ryan did.

Once upon a day last year, a radio station in Emelia's town was doing an on air fundraiser for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  Emelia's mommy explained to her that the money being raised would help kids like Ryan feel better.  Emelia's great big heart inside her still little body wanted to help, too.  That afternoon, Emelia's mommy took her to the radio station, where Emelia handed over all the money that was in her piggy bank.  She had saved $11.85  and she wanted every last penny to be spent helping kids like Ryan.

Emelia's mommy and daddy were so proud of their generous and compassionate little girl that they told some of their friends what Emelia had done.  Those friends were so inspired by Emelia's generosity that they decided to match Emelia's donation.  Those friends told their friends who told their friends.  Some people even multiplied Emelia's gift by 10, and by the next morning more than $1000 had been donated to St. Jude just because of Emelia and her beautiful, loving, generous heart.

Once upon a this morning, that same radio station in that same town started a radiothon fundraiser for that same St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  And that same extraordinary little girl once again decided that all the money she'd saved in her piggy bank needed to be given away to help kids like her friend, Ryan. 

And so, once upon a today, each of us has the opportunity and challenge to write the happy ending for this tale.  We can match (or multiply) Emelia's gift of $13.73 to St. Jude.  In so doing, we write more than just a happy ending to this little tale...we help write happy endings for children who might not otherwise get them.  St. Jude is a leading research facility for pediatric cancer, and they freely share their research results with other researchers in order to further ALL research.  Families who come to St. Jude for treatment are NEVER billed.  Ever.  Our gifts to St. Jude write happy fairy tale endings for years to come.

If you'd like to help write a fairy tale ending with Emelia, please CLICK HERE to donate.  Select "Other" and enter the amount you'd like to give.  Emelia gave all she had, $13.73.   Once you've done that, leave a comment so we know...that's the only way we can roughly keep track of how Emelia's gift will multiply!

They Always Remember Love

Did you know I'm a dolphin?  I totally am. 

My nanny career has its roots in my early babysitting years.  I began babysitting at the age of 10 and never stopped.  I quickly built up regular client families, some of whom became like family to me. 

When I was 17, my neighbors had their second baby.  I held that tiny girl in my arms when she was less than 12 hours old and fell hard for her tiny wrinkled face.  I spent a great deal of time at their home that school year, helping mom get sleep and avoiding the drama and chaos in my own home across the street.  When I went away to college, she was not quite 10 months old.  I knew her older brother would remember me, but I was absolutely certain that she would quickly forget me.  About a month later, I came home for a weekend and had the opportunity to babysit for them again.  When I walked into their home, I expected her to be wary of me and unsure who I was.  This was not the case.  When I picked her up, instead of being her wiggly active little self, she snuggled in and laid her head on my shoulder, faced in towards my neck.  And then she stayed like that, cozy and melted in, one tiny hand patting my back.  I remarked about my surprise to her parents, and her dad said something which has guided my caregiving ever since:

 "Of course she remembers you. They always remember love." 

It was really the first time I realized that the way in which I cared for children, even if just occasionally, had an impact on the children.  I knew it mattered if I kept them safe, if I followed their parents' rules, if we had fun together.  But the longer term implications, the lasting impact I could have on their hearts, hadn't really sunk in for me until that moment.

Perhaps because I did not grow up feeling secure in the love of one of my parents, due largely in part to being told straight out that I was difficult to love, and that she wished I'd never been born, the words of that man on that night struck a deep chord inside me.  It has resonated ever since.

No matter what I may or may not teach them, no matter what they may learn under my care or in spite of my care, the guiding principle for me is this:  I want the children entrusted to my care to know that they are loved.  That they are loved by their parents, by their siblings, by their extended family, and by their nanny.  Unconditionally.  Not because they are funny or smart or athletic or artistic or cute or compassionate or talented or sweet...but loved simply because they are.  You exist, and thus you are loved.

It can be difficult to feel successful with that goal, especially when so much of my role involves correcting behaviour, setting boundaries for children to push against, and convincing little ones to complete tasks they are loathe to take on.  Eat your vegetables. Pick up your toys.  Wash your hands.  Keep your hands to yourself.  Stay where you can see me.  Do your homework. Be kind to each other.  Say please.  Say thank you.  Use your walking feet. Time for bed.  Buckle up.  No matter how sweet or patient or silly I am, I know that my little free spirits often chafe under authority.  And, thus, some days I am left wondering "Did they feel loved enough today?"  and, on the balance, "Are they secure in the knowledge that, no matter how easy or rough our day is, their nanny loves them?" 

Which brings me to the fact that I'm a dolphin.

On Christmas Eve I had the pleasure of a day with my previous nanny kids.  The Twincesses are nearly 9 now, and Little Litigator will be 11 soon after that.  They are bright, active, curious little chatterboxes and our conversations often venture far deeper than one would expect with 3rd and 5th graders. 

Over lunch at a nearby museum, Twincess A brought up the subject of Native Americans.  The girls are currently studying the subject in school and find it fascinating.  "Did you know?" she queried, "Did you know that Native Americans get their names from nature?  They get named for their personalities, not just like, names.  Part of their name is about their personality, and the other is something from nature that is like them.  Like, Running Rabbit or something." 

And so, of course, I asked her, "Well, if you were Native American, what would your name be do you think?"  That stumped her, and she turned it back around on me.  "I think you should name me, people don't name themselves!"   

Hmmm. How to name the observant, kind, gentle souled, socially savvy child who is sensitive to being smaller than her twin?  "Thoughtful Willow."  I'm not sure that's what she expected, and she asked for definition.  "Thoughtful, because you like to think before you talk about things.  And thoughtful because you pay attention to how other people feel, and you are very thoughtful and considerate of those feelings.  You notice what is important to others, and you are kind and respectful of that.  Many people aren't that insightful, and the people around you are happier because your love and kindness are a part of their lives. And Willow, because willow trees look very pretty and delicate, but they are actually very very strong because their branches are flexible and move with the wind even though the tree stands its ground.  You don't like to fight or argue, but you are very good at being strong and standing your ground when it is important to you."   She lit up, proud and slightly self conscious.  And, of course, her siblings clamored for the same. 

Twincess E, the direct, straightforward, confident, not-afraid-to-question-authority child with a deep deep sense of justice became "Speaking River."  Speaking, I told her, because she likes to talk things through and talk about all the different parts of topics, and because she is not afraid to speak up when she thinks something is unjust or unfair or unkind.  "Some people just stay quiet, and let things be wrong," I explained, "But you are brave and speak up, and that's how the world gets better for everyone."  And River, because rivers might twist and turn with the lay of the land, but they leave their mark.  Water is a strong force in nature, and over time can create great beauty just like the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon.  And, like a river, she is willing to go with the flow when she needs to, but she's not afraid to leave her mark to change the world.  

Little Litigator was harder to name. Not because I couldn't come up with descriptors, but because as an almost 11 year old boy, he is sensitive and aware of being seen more as an older kid than as a little kid, more aware to start defining himself as man instead of boy.  "Fighting Antelope"  Antelope, because it sounds (to him) more masculine than "gazelle" and gazelle (gazelles being a type of antelope) is what I think of when I see this boy run.  When he runs all out, for the pure joy of movement, his stride is longer than he is tall.  It is graceful, strong, breathtaking to see.  It's not just the power of his movement, but the joy that radiates.  And Fighting...a word which made him chuckle...because he likes to challenge everything, and that while his grown ups sometimes don't like it, it's also a sign of strong character.  He fights for what he thinks is fair, and what he thinks is right.  That takes bravery and strength, especially when it means challenging authority.  Nothing ever changes to make the world better without the occasional challenge to authority. 

All in all, they were pleased.  And then they decided they should return the favor and give *me* a new name. 

I won't lie.  I held my breath and died a little inside.  I was completely unsure what they would come up with.  Bossy Cow, maybe? 

"Well," Fighting Antelope put forth as his siblings nodded, "Definitely your name is Loving...something.  I don't know what from nature, but definitely Loving."  My heart skipped a bit.  Speaking River chimed in, "Yeah, Loving.  Or Caring, because you take care of us." 

I had to swallow a few tears to tell them, "That makes my heart so happy to hear you say that." 

And then they were stumped for the rest of it.  After several minutes, it was the insightful Thoughtful Willow who finished off my name.  "I know!  Loving Dolphin!  That's your name!  Because dolphins are smart and they help people and they like to play!" 

In a nutshell, that's what a good nanny is, right?  At least in the eyes of a child.  Smart, helpful, playful. 

Loving Dolphin. 

I haven't been their nanny in three years.  I do not see them nearly as often as my heart would like because of busy schedules and just...life. 

But of all the things they could have chosen... Loving Dolphin.

They always remember love.  

No success could be sweeter.  

Undeserved and Unexpected

It caught me off guard. 

15 year old Clara had been asking me about her mother.  She wasn't even 2 years old when her mother passed away from leukemia.  "What was my mother like?"  "What was my mother like with me?"  She's asked these questions of everyone...and I know she's asking me to verify, in her mind, that what she's been told is really true. 

And then, the one she can't ask any of them.  "Tara, what is it like to be a bone marrow donor?" 

So I told her.  I told her how you get a letter, or a phone call, telling you that you're a potential match for a person of a certain age and gender, with a certain disease.  That you agree to more blood tests to confirm you're a match.  How the marrow program will tell you all you need to know about the collection procedures.  And how, when it's time to donate, all you really do is just show up and lay there.  You let them put the needles into you and you lay there for hours while a machine separates the needed stem cells from your whole blood and then returns everything else to you.  And then you get up, you go home, and...if you're me...you chase around the world's most active two year old the next day. 

It's really that easy.  Kind of embarrassingly so when you consider how much fanfare can happen when you tell people you're a donor.  Really.  You show up.  You lay there.  You go home.  It's painless. By the third time I donated for Clara's mother, Erin, it was unremarkable enough that I slept through most of it. 

What I didn't expect, though, was for Clara to jump out of her seat, to grab me in a hug tight enough to rival the one I got from her grandma Diane the first time I met them, and to say to me,

"Thank you for saving my mother's life." 

Because in the end, I didn't save Erin.  To be sure, the cells collected from my body bought them an extra 17 months from the first transplant.  It gave them time, it gave Erin enough time to know that Clara took her first steps and to hear Clara's first sentence, "Hi, Mama."  It wasn't enough time. 

Is there really such a thing as enough time with a loved one?

Shortly after Erin had passed away, a vicious and sadistic person...under the guise of friendship...told me that someday Clara might seek me out and ask me why I'd killed her mother.  I knew it wasn't rational when he said it, but it stuck in the back of my heart with the guilt of not having had cells strong enough to kick her cancer's ass.  For over 13 years, I wondered if, someday, Clara would blame me for her mother's death.  I know it wasn't rational.  I know her family would set her straight if she did.  But it was still a lingering thought and it worried me. 

There was a lot I didn't tell Clara about being a marrow donor.  I didn't tell her how freaked out I was the week before I donated the first time, terrified that I'd get sick and not be able to donate.  I didn't tell her how I desperately wanted to know more about her mother so that I could pray for them.  Or how I wept bitterly when I was called to donate a second...and then a third...time, knowing it didn't mean wonderful things for them.  Or how it had really seemed like NOTHING on my part right up until that first time I met them, thanks to friends we had in common who put the pieces together and allowed us to meet before the 1 year of anonymity was finished...that moment when her Grandma Diane grabbed me in a hug and wouldn't let go and kept saying, "Thank you, thank you, oh my God, thank you."  Or how, this past weekend, when I showed up at that same house I drove to 14 years ago, that Clara threw open the door and rushed to me with the same energy and manner her mother had on that first meeting.  It took my breath away. 

"Thank you for saving my mother's life." 

I didn't deserve it.  I didn't expect it.  But I absolutely needed to hear it. 

Read her mother's story here.
Read mine here.

And if you're in Michigan on Saturday, August 8, 2015, come join us here from 9am until noon.  If you're ages 18-44 and would like to join the marrow donor registry, I'll be there to help you join.

Crime Spree

The love for a child has finally driven this nanny to a life of crime.

Well, a night of crime.

Alright, maybe just an hour or so of crime.

But crime, nonetheless.

My day started out a little roughly.  You see, today is Ryan's birthday.  Would be?  Is?  I never know which verb tense to use.  He's forever 7, but if that mother fucking bitch called cancer hadn't taken him then he'd be turning 11 today.  Crap.  Did my language there offend you?  You should probably stop reading now, if that's the case, because the rest of this won't be very fun for you.

I woke up crying even before my alarm went off, trapped in the intersection of grief and the depression side of PTSD.  It's not a place I get stuck in often.  In fact, all of it is usually very manageable...except for the occasional times like this morning, when the dark sadness overtakes my heart and leaves me curled under the blankets, wondering why I ever need to get out of bed again.  Lucky for me, my oppositional streak starts to fight the heavy darkness and gets my sorry butt out of bed after a half dozen hits of the snooze button on those mornings. 

Today, I knew that time spent with the SnuggleBoys, my current nanny kidlets, was probably the best way to put light into the day.  And, I looked forward to a visit with Ryan at the cemetery.  I figured that with the cemetery closing at 6pm, I'd have jusssssst enough time to get there and spend a few Happy Birthday moments after work. So, I got out of bed and made myself face the day.

I held onto that plan until late afternoon, when I decided to gps the fastest route from work to the cemetery, pulled up the cemetery website, and discovered that the cemetery gates would be closing at 4:30.  Not at 6.  At 4:30.  And I work until 5.

I wept, a little.  And shared my frustration with a small group of nannies.  We keep a running messaging conversation through our workdays and weekends about our lives, our joys and frustrations, our observations on the world, our ideas for kid activities.  Today, they kept checking in to see how I was coping, to make sure I was okay.  So when I told them my screw up about the cemetery hours, they got it.

Samantha, especially, got it.  Like me, Samantha knows what it is like to love someone else's son through cancer and then to lose that sweet little boy to the mother fucking beast.  (I warned you before about that language, didn't I?)  She's had other major, heart wrenching losses.  She gets it.  And her immediate response was "T if you want I'll meet you there and sneak in with you. No joke. I will help. As per my high school years I'm a pro at this. And although I have been in retirement for many years. This totally warrants breaking out the old skills again."

There I was, ready to be defeated.  And there Sam was, refusing to allow that to happen.  I admit I hesitated at the thought of breaking into a cemetery, in the freezing cold, after dark.  And then Sam added, "Also who gets arrested for sneaking into a cemetery to visit a grave? No one. That's who."

Sold. 
 
Not even two hours later, I was sitting in my car at the entrance gates to the cemetery, lights off to avoid detection, texting Ryan's mom to see if the cemetery had security guards.  (For the record...no.  Just cameras.  Good to know.)  Sam pulled up, hopped out of her car, and suggested we park in a nearby neighborhood to avoid detection.  Smart, that girl.  And she was ready, in her black clothes and black coat...I should have thought of that!  

We approached the cemetery with Sam muttering, "Sidewalks all the way around, that's good, we're just walking.  We just got out of work and met up for walking, that's all.   Oh, we can totally hop this fence.  Not here though, not near the gates.  There are cameras there for sure."  I followed along, certain that we would get caught, but comforted by the fact that our friends and my dad had already offered bail money.  

I wasn't as confident as Sam was about hopping the fence.  The 387 foot high fence with spikes on every horizontal bar.  Okay, maybe not that high.  Maybe more like 8 feet.  But definitely true on the spikes.  I'm sure that Sam, with her athletic and gymnastic past, could easily vault over that fence with a running start.  I, on the other hand, have the upper body and arm strength of a spaghetti noodle.  I took one look at that fence and had instant visions of various body parts impaled on top of the fence and trying to convince EMS that we had a really valid reason for breaking into the cemetery. 

We walked and walked and went around the far edge of the cemetery perimeter.  Sam's logic was sound:  The other entrance was less likely to be lit up, and we'd be more likely to gain entrance without detection.  Don't mind us, just two people out for an evening stroll.  Oh, even better, the stone pillar will make it super easy to get over the fence.  

Sam was convinced she could help boost me over.  I was convinced that I would die, skewered on the fence spikes she kept warning me to be careful of. We shoved the paper wish lanterns and my jacket through the fence. Just as I was about to attempt to launch myself into the headlines ("Nanny Loses Limb on Cemetery Fence"), Sam decided to check out the third side of the fence perimeter.  She came running back, "We've got kickass angels watching over us, T.  There's a whole section of fence missing back there, with just caution tape on it. We don't have to climb anything!"  

So there we were, stepping over the caution tape and skulking through the treeline, with me following Sam's example and smoothly ducking into the trees whenever a car would pass on the road.  Sam's commentary continuing, "What's this little building, there are probably cameras near the building, we should stay near the trees.  But there's no lights or cars here, so that's good.  Who the hell closes a cemetery anyway?  What if you had a really shitty day and just wanted to come hang out with your dad or your grandma or whoever after work? These lanterns are really white, easy to see..."  and we slipped the lanterns under our coats.  

I was feeling pretty much like a criminal mastermind at that point.  Totally badass.

And with that, we made a beeline for Ryan.  A little difficult in the dark, but within a few minutes we were there. 

It's tricky, to ask someone to join you at a child's grave.  It is awkward for most people, and that makes it uncomfortable. I think it is hardest for those who never had the chance to meet or to know Ryan.  But Sam...she handled it with an easy, loving grace that I suspect is born of her own experiences with grief and loss.  She understood and embraced the idea that Ryan was there with us in those moments.  She helped battle the wind as we lit the paper wish lanterns, scolding and encouraging as if Ryan himself were the one making mischief and creating difficulty in getting those things lit.  She let me babble on about how he used to stand on his rocking horse, and about how he died the day before I was supposed to leave for Spain (but I'd cancelled my trip just three weeks prior), about how Little Litigator and the Twincesses asked to come have picnics with Ryan.  And we sent off those lanterns...the first one took flight swiftly and easily.  The second one bobbed and weaved and tilted to and fro...and Sam gasped, "Oh, he's DANCING!"  

He was.  And so was my heart, though still grieving...forever and always grieving the loss of that sweet, funny, vibrant boy...dancing with what I'm sure was Ryan's spirit, laughing at his old nanny for thinking she was going to die on the graveyard fence, knowing that we'd find an easy and safe way in if we just paid attention and trusted that he had it covered for us. 

As lonely as grief is, as isolating as it can be, I'm convinced the only relief from it is community with others...even when community, like tonight, is just one friend in the dark of a closed cemetery.  A friend willing to risk sitting beside me in the backseat of a patrol car because she knows how powerfully a nanny's heart loves, how shattered that heart is by loss...and how healing it is to not be alone. 

It may well be that tomorrow our faces show up on the evening news under the title "Women wanted for questioning in graveyard break in" and turn us into fugitives.  I'll look pretty shitty in prison orange, and I'm sure I'll have to make up some story about some vicious and heinous crime in order to avoid becoming someone's prison bitch once I'm convicted, unless Samantha is willing to run rogue with me and drive across the country, evading capture like Thelma and Louise.  But until then? 

I'm really grateful for criminally minded friends who shine the light of their compassion into the darkness so that I can find my way out. 

I'm forever going to love that boy.  As hard as it was to lose him, as horrific as it is to be witness to the indescribable grief of his parents and family, as wretched as my own grief can be, I am forever going to love Ryan James Miller and I'm forever going to be so thankful that I was blessed with the opportunity to know and love him for all of his seven years. 

And I'm confident that, even if the lights in the darkness tomorrow are red, blue, and flashing, there are plenty of people at the ready to post bail and help me pull myself out. 

Thanks, friends.  Your light means more than you know.





 

Retro Post: Do you think he'll call?

I originally wrote this as a facebook note in 2009.  Mock away. It is also the piece which birthed the name of this blog.

I don't date often.

There are several reasons for this, although topping the rather long list of "Reasons Tara Does Not Date" is simply the fact that I don't get asked. Guys are visual (so I'm told), I'm not pretty (so I can see), and that puts a wrench in things. I'm not going to hold it against men for not wanting to be the guy who had to settle for the unpretty chick. Plus, given my druthers, I'd rather peel off my fingernails and plunge my raw bleeding fingertips into rubbing alcohol than play the dating games.

I've never been good at the game playing of dating. If I follow "The Rules", I'm supposed to hide the fact that I have intelligence, passions, or opinions until I've got a fella well and truly snared. And, even then, I'm supposed to nod and giggle and behave as if I'm ashamed that I've got a brain.

If you know me, you know I have a genetic inability to smile and nod passively, or to refrain from having an opinion. The things I think of as the good parts of me...my ability to think and my passions...are, supposedly, the very two things which...other than my looks...make me highly undesireable as a lifemate. Dating, I've found, can thus be unpleasant for the likes of me. It should be no surprise that I try to avoid it. I have, however, noticed that dating is a prelude to most relationships, and that a relationship is usually a prelude to marriage and family. Since I'd like to have the marriage and family, it stands to reason that I must suffer through the dating phase of the process.

And suffer, I have.

In the rather recent past, I sucked up my pride and went on a date. The fellow seemed harmless, a decent and respectable sort of guy. They always seem that way, right up until The Date. I did "The Rules" thing and waited patiently until he suggested meeting for dinner. I followed "The Rules" and wore a skirt, even. And heels. I freaking wore heels.

He started off by arriving late. Not very late, only about 10 minutes or so...and I was willing to grant him leeway because, as a single father, he DID have to drop his little girl off at the babysitter's house. He was wearing jeans. And a faded tshirt. Okay, I won't judge that...I just wish I'd known, so I could've worn jeans too.

We get seated, start looking over the menu, and he says "Well, I ate at home with my daughter, so I probably won't really order a full meal."

Wait...whaaaaa??? You invite me out to dinner, eat at home instead, and then expect me to eat while you watch?

I think my stunned expression chastised him just a bit, because he *did* end up ordering a sandwich.

After we ordered, his cell phone rang. I don't blame him for checking the caller ID, after all, it could have been the babysitter calling about his daughter. And, as he answered the call without even a glance of apology thrown in my direction, I figured it WAS the sitter. Then I heard him chatting and realized it wasn't his sitter...it was another family member calling from vacation to chat. For more than 5 minutes he participated in this conversation, even telling the person he was "out to dinner".

At this point, I've pretty much figured this is a no brainer...but I'm too polite to just get up and leave someone sitting there. Plus, I wanted to give him a full chance. We all make mistakes and, let's be honest here, a girl like me really can't afford to be overly picky. So, I waited. And waited. And waited until finally he finished his leisurely chat and hangs up the phone. "That was my sister," he explained. "She's on vacation."

Yeah, I wanted to say, I *got* that because you had a whole conversation with her and, since we are the only two people sitting at this table I had nothing to do but listen to your conversation. Instead, I nodded, expecting a bit more...but no. That was it. Not even an apology. It did not take long to realize that this fellow is not particularly skilled at conversation or social graces.

Anyone who has ever had to spend much time in my presence knows this: I can strike up a chatty conversation with a brick wall. In fact, if some of my hazier college memories are at all accurate, I have done exactly that. I'm sure you can understand my surprise at being completely unable to spark a conversation with this fellow.

"Okay", I thought, "I'm not entirely clueless. The fact that he's more riveted by the baseball game on TV than by my supposed charms most likely means that, well, he's just not that into me. Especially since he's already commented...twice...that the game is a REPLAY of the game he WENT to the day prior."

I probably could have predicted this predicament when I asked him prior to the baseball induced silence, in a desperate and pathetic attempt to get him chattering, "So, what kind of movies do you like?" and his answer was,

"Action."

pause...

*
pause...

*
pause..

Yep. Just that. "Action." That's all. No elaboration. I tried for elaboration. "What kind of action movies?"

"Just...action."

Swell.

I should give him some credit, though. He certainly was able to talk about his former wife during the commercial breaks...and her heroin addiction that he never noticed until she overdosed. Seriously? I mean, I'm not an expert...but if you're living with someone, and married to them, and they're caring for your tiny baby...how do you MISS a heroin addiction? How do you not put together the missing items, missing money, neglected infant who was born with drugs in her system, and track marks as, you know, CLUES?

He was also able to cobble together enough words to ask me, "So, how much money do you make?"

Honey, there's a lot I'll do on a first date...but telling you my income is *not* one of them.

Mercifully, the arrival of our food helped dull the ache of the missing conversation. As we finished up, I figured I could put us both out of our misery. "Oh, wow, look how dark it has gotten outside, I wonder what time it is? Wow...it's getting late...probably time to get going!"

You know, in a normal life in a normal world that statement would have been answered with, "Wow, yeah, you're right. Geeze, I need to go pick up my daughter..."

But, this is MY life, which never, ever, ever, EVER goes simply or according to normal. Rather, he looked at his watch and said, "Well, actually...we can stay for another hour or so before I have to go get my daughter."

I wanted to cry. In fact, I think it shows remarkable growth and restraint on my part that I neither cried nor mocked him for that. At least, not to his face. Because in my head I was snarkily saying, "Well, thanks be to God for that, because I couldn't bear to miss one second of your wit and articulate views on the world."

I mean, come on. REALLY? He shows up late for a dinner date, having already eaten his dinner, dressed sloppily, is alternately distracted and inarticulate thus giving the impression that he'd rather be oh, I don't know, clubbing baby seals rather than suffering through my company, I give him the easy way out of this disaster and he says, "No, let's stay?" Really? REALLY?! That's just craptastic.

And, were I as suave and sophisticated in real life as I am in my imagination, I would have coolly said, "Well, enjoy the rest of the game. I've got a busy week ahead of me and need to get going. Nice meeting you." Then I ever so gracefully would have walked out.

This, I did not do. Instead, being me, I just nodded and said, "Um, yeah...okay" and put my keys back into my purse. I could probably say I was trying to hide my intelligence, as per "The Rules" but, quite frankly, I really am that stupid.

When it was finally, finally, acceptable to him for us to end the farce, he glanced at the folder with our bill in it and said, "I guess we should probably pay now." We? WTF, WE? This is a DATE. YOU asked ME. But I reached for my purse anyway, clear on the point that I'm paying for my own meal when he very deliberately pulls one...and only one...twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and flicks at it just to make it obvious that he's only pulling that ONE bill out. Just in case I didn't quite understand his intent he added, "I'll need change, I think," as he slid the bill folder over to me so I could see what I owed. I mentally calculated my portion of the bill, plus tax and tip, and pulled out the appropriate amount of cash silently thanking myself for stopping at the cash machine earlier in the day.

He carefully counted out what I had put in. He counted it again. "Did you add tip?" he asked, "That's less than half the bill."

Can I just interject something here? I overtip as a rule. I overtip even more when I've been taking up a table for an extended amount of time. So to be asked if I'd included tip or paid enough was salt in the bitter wound of an unhappy evening and I had pretty much lost all patience.

With a cold, chilly, deliberately measured voice that clearly indicated my extreme irritation I said, "Well, if you add the cost of my meal and pop together, you'll find I put in more than enough to cover my share." At his continued confusion, I added, "Your meal and beverages were more expensive than mine, and I did not factor those into my portion of the bill." The unspoken "Jackass." ending to my words was unmistakeable, I think, and he let it go.

He did, however, walk me to my car. This is supposedly the sign of a "good guy" who just might be "into you" but all I could think as we made our way across the parking lot was "I bet Ted Bundy walked women to their cars, too."

Thanks for walking me to my car, but...too little, too late.

Jackass.

With Hope

This is not at all

How we thought it was supposed to be.

We had so many plans for you

We had so many dreams,

But now you've gone away

And left us with the memory of your smile.

Nothing we can say

Nothing we can do

Can take away the pain, the pain of losing you.

 - "With Hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman

A year ago today was a Wednesday.  It wasn't a normal Wednesday.

Fresh on the news that Ryan was going to come home under hospice care and that maybe we'd get a few days to cram in as many joyful memories as possible, I was trying to figure out a way to sneak a pool into his backyard, get it filled, get it stocked with fish, and give him one last chance to go fishing...an activity he dearly loved.

I was exhausted.  I'd woken up suddenly just before 5 am.  Not the bleary eyed roll-over-and-go-back-to-sleep waking, but the kind of waking up where you are suddenly alert and untired.  I sat up in bed and thought, "Ryan.  Something's going on with Ryan."  I considered calling his mom, but it was five in the morning and a phone call seemed intrusive.  So, I prayed and I waited to feel sleepy again.  It took about a half-hour before I could lay down and get a few more minutes of sleep before going in to work.

So, there I was later that morning...running around trying to figure out how to help Ryan's parents make his final days at home the celebration they wanted it to be...when my phone lit up with his mother's name.

"Tara, where are you?" 
"I'm at work, with the kids."
"But where are you?  Are you driving?  You're not driving, are you?"  And I knew.  I knew, but didn't want to know and didn't want it to be true, so I pretended not to know as if that would somehow change reality.
"No, I'm in the kitchen.  Do I need to sit down?"
Through tears, his mom said, "I wanted you to know that there's another angel in heaven now.  Ryan...a few hours ago, around five o'clock this morning.  I wanted you to hear it from me first, I didn't want you to find out another way."

Did you know that when your heart shatters, you actually feel it happen?  That the pain is physical, right in your center, and that all at once the world becomes both crystal clear and a blurry mess?  That you hear your own breathing stop...and even when it starts again you aren't sure that it has?

The details of Ryan's last night and final hours are not mine to share, that story belongs to his parents.  They were both with him, holding him and loving him as he peacefully and, finally free of pain, gracefully slipped away from our world.   It wasn't until the next day that I realized my sudden waking on August 10 coincided with the time that Ryan's soul was on the way home.  A convenient coincidence?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  I've chosen to take it as a validation that choosing to love a child who is not your own means something, something important and something significant to the universe.  If you disagree, please keep it to yourself, because I NEED to believe this in order to cope with the unimaginable grief that comes with losing a child.   I need to believe this so I can continue to choose to love other people's children, rather than protecting my heart from the possibility of ever having to feel this again.  I cannot be a good nanny if I cannot choose to love the children entrusted to my care...so I have to believe that the choice to do so matters beyond the walls of the homes where I work.

And now, somehow, a whole year has passed since that sunny, grief filled morning.

Never have I known

Anything so hard to understand.

Never have I questioned more

The wisdom of God's plan

But through the cloud of tears

I see the Father's smile and say, "Well done."

And I imagine you

Where you wanted most to be:

Seeing all your dreams come true

'Cause now you're home

And now you're free

- "With Hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman

I thought that by today, it would hurt a little less.  I thought that by today I'd be able to hear someone call a little boy "Ryan" without tears clogging my throat and that I'd be able to drive home at the end of a work day without those tears spilling down my face.  I was wrong.

Grief, I've learned, can bring out the best and the worst in people.  I have seen some beautiful acts and relationships come from this loss.  I've watched an extraordinary school community lift up Ryan's parents and family and carry them through this year.  An incredible hospital staff that has stayed in touch and not forgotten a little boy who was but one patient among many.  Two desperately grieving parents reach through their tears and create a non-profit that will, someday soon, provide cancer stricken children with outdoor adventures just like their son loved to have...turning their grief into something productive and supportive for families walking a similar journey to their own.  Countless people who have never met Ryan, Kristen, or Bob but who allowed a very sick little boy into their hearts and who find ways to honor and remember him because they grieve him, too.

I've seen the ugliness that comes when emotions are strong and people do not know how to respond.  The person who ranted, just a few weeks after we buried Ryan, that friends offering me a shoulder to cry on were "indulging in drama" and that no real friend would do that.  The friends who made a point of telling me they didn't want to hear about his journey because it was "too sad" for them to bother with, they only like happy things.  The so-called friend a few months ago who told me that she..."and others"...were of the opinion that the only reasons I bring up Ryan are to get attention or to have people feel sorry for me, commentary which left me feeling like I had no right to express my emotions or to remember him with others for fear of being so harshly judged or becoming the subject of further gossip and derision.

And, while it was painful to realize that some of the people I'd thought of as friends were not truly friends...were not people I could lean on when I needed it, were not people who were willing to allow me a full range of human emotion...I've also had other friendships strengthened and renewed.  Some of those people, I've never met in person.  They've merely reached out through the internet and offered their love, prayers, and ongoing support to me and to Ryan's family.  The friend who, even though she never met Ryan, has helped raise money for St. Jude's in his memory.  A friend whose own infant son is buried just yards away from Ryan...who always knows the right thing to say because she knows a greater grief than I do and who, when she visits the cemetery, sometimes stops in to visit Ryan, too.  She doesn't have to, but she does, and it means the world to me.  The friends who don't run away if Ryan comes up, but who welcome his presence in our conversation even if it means that tears may follow.  The ones who bring him up themselves. The ones who, today, flooded my facebook and email with messages of support and sharing how they were remembering Ryan.

I've become a better nanny.  There are no moments that I take for granted any longer.  Even in the midst of the mundane, the irritating, the frustrating, the exhausting, there is a bone deep appreciation for the ability to have the moment, even if it is not sweet or joyful or giggling.  They are here...and no matter how difficult a day with them might be I am always always grateful that I have the opportunity for that day with them.  It is a gift, I now know, to have them here to give those frustrations, those exhaustions, those irritations.  I am able to more fully appreciate every single moment, not just the ones that are filled with laughter and fun and cuddles.

I've also learned that I really can't fix everything.  I want so much to be able to heal the indescribable pain Ryan's parents experience with every breath they've taken since their brave, beautiful boy died.  Kristen and Bob are two of the kindest, most genuine people you could ever meet.  They always have been and I am in awe that they still manage to be so.  As much as I miss Ryan, it is nothing compared to what they are going through.  I can't heal this for them, nobody can.  We can only be there for them, and help them face each new day without him and hope that they can feel how loved they are.  We can remember him with them, cry with them, laugh with them, and celebrate Ryan with them. We can allow them all the time and ways they need to cope.

We can cry with hope

We can say goodbye with hope

Because we know our goodbye is not the end

We can grieve with hope

Because we believe with hope

There's a place

By God's grace

There's a place where we'll see your face again.

- "With Hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman

I've learned, relearned really, that for me grief is not linear, it is circular and twisting.  It doesn't progress through the famous five stages in any predictable order. Some days, it is overwhelming and stuns me with its force when I least expect it.  It is solitary, separating, lonely. People don't know what to say or are afraid to say the wrong thing, so they often say nothing. They get frustrated that their words of support or comfort have not...cannot...magically lift the sadness and anger away and so they do not offer them.

It has strengthened my faith.  I don't believe that God causes death and destruction in the world, and I do not even begin to try and comprehend why He allows it to happen when He does have the power to prevent it.  I have, though, learned to accept that some things truly are beyond explaining and, more, that I do not have to defend this faith to those who find the death of a child a reason to not believe in God.  I don't understand why Ryan died...but I have to believe there is a reason even if it is a reason I cannot understand.

I've learned that love is worth it.  That at the end of the day, what I will regret are opportunities not taken, kindnesses not done, love not given freely, help not offered.  No matter how much any of this hurts, no matter how wretched it gets, I will never regret loving that little boy.  If I had to do it again, knowing the outcome, I would still choose to love him and to have been his nanny. 

I do not know if this kind of grief is something that has a finite end in this life.  I don't know if any of us who loved Ryan will "get over it" or "get past it."  I think we will adjust to it, but it will always be a part of us.

And I know that, someday, we'll see him again.  Whole, happy, laughing, free of pain.  We'll see him again.

That's the only hope that makes this survivable.