Peace Out

Tonight was the last night the kids and I will spend together in this house. Tomorrow night they'll spend the night with a friend to be spared at least a bit of the chaos of moving, so tonight was it for us. We planned pizza and a movie and baking cookies for our bus stop friends. Simple, but perfect.  But certainly not easy.  Not tonight.

I had misread the school lunch calendar this morning and packed Ben a turkey sandwich when he would have strongly preferred the hamburger on the menu. I ordered our pizza from the wrong place. And even after a frantic correction, I ordered the wrong kind of pizza from the right place. Ben's favorite Wii game had inadvertently been packed.  The first movie the kids selected had technical difficulties. But more than anything else, Ben was convinced he would never see his bus stop friends again after tomorrow. It was all a bit too much and he just couldn’t hang. Crying, screaming, hives and a touch of destructive behavior ensued. Lucy and I did our best to stay out of his way and to be quiet. At its core, autism is a language processing disorder and when Ben has "passed the point of no return," the fewer words the better. Every time we spoke he screamed at us to stop talking. Lucy and I started making cookies that we planned to give our bus stop friends in the morning, but even our whispers bothered him. Then Lucy started to cry. “This was supposed to be our special night, mommy.” Oy.

I got a movie without technical problems rolling, served the pizza – the correct half of it - and began bagging up the cookies for our bus stop friends. Lucy was helping me put our notes in the bags and we were being very quiet. Eventually, Ben noticed what we were doing and came over to help. I silently handed him a bag of cookies and our note. He took the bag, put the note in and zipped it up. I smiled at him and he smiled back. I handed him another. And our night was back on track.

After the movie, I asked if there was anything else they wanted to do for our last night in this house. They both said they wanted to read together and Lucy, of course, wanted to sleep with me. Then they started coming up with all sorts of silly “last night in our house” things that we should do. Lucy wanted to do back walkovers in the living room one last time. Ben wanted us to watch a Lego Guy Wipe-Out round. And they both wanted me to carry them to their rooms for bedtime in whatever manner they chose.  (Super.  Thanks for not choosing anything too physically demanding, guys. Oof.)  I carried Lucy upside-down and Ben cradled in my arms, “like a baby.” We read together as we do most every night, exchanged tummy blows until our stomachs hurt from laughing and said our good nights.

After a rocky start, the last night in this Heagler House turned out pretty perfect after all.

Peace out, 17507 North Park Place.

Every Girl Needs a Motto

It started with, “I’ll drink to that.” One morning last year my Facebook status read, “I’m going to begin posting ‘I’ll drink to that’ to virtually everything I read on Facebook just to see how long it takes for someone to stage an intervention.” I was looking for work at the time so I was sitting at my computer all day, most every day sending out resumes. For the rest of that day, I posted “I’ll drink to that,” after every, “Janie got an A on her spelling test,” “I’m wiped out after a long day,” and “Tonight is date night with my husband.”

And my first motto was born. It was certainly fitting. I’ve been known to drink a glass of wine (or two) on occasion. OK – who am I kidding – nightly. I used, “I’ll drink to that” for the better part of a year and chuckled damn-near every time. (Sometimes it’s pathetic, really, how much I amuse myself.)

Some time later I began receiving some very flirty attention from a 25-year-old client at work (I’ll drink to that). I was sure at first he was just flattering me – this boy who was born the year I graduated high school – but he was very persistent (and very cute) and I found myself seriously considering embracing my inner cougar. My married friends couldn’t get enough of this little flirtation and more than one of them literally begged me to sleep with him so that they could live vicariously through my experience. It was right around this time that my second motto was born: “Don’t mind if I do.” Coincidence? Probably not.

”Don’t mind if I do,” was so versatile. Another glass of wine? Want to see the dessert menu? Stay a bit longer, laugh a little more, dance one more dance? “Don’t mind if I do.” Sleep with an adorable 25-year-old? I’ll never tell. But admit it – you’d be a little disappointed if I didn’t.

Yesterday I was participating in a funny comment thread on an old friends’ Facebook page. He was lamenting the brevity of the fall season in Colorado when another old friend commented that, like so many other things, it was likely caused by Justin Bieber’s hair. It struck me as so funny that I decided right then and there, “I blame Justin Bieber,” would be my new motto. “Don’t mind if I do” was wearing thin and I’d been thinking for some time about what should be next. My whip-smart and wicked-funny friend’s comment provided just the ticket.

The temptation to blame something or someone other than myself for my (numerous) current difficulties is not overwhelming – honestly it’s not. I’m usually pretty willing to own up to my mistakes, missteps and general shortcomings (I’ve had a lot of practice). But though the temptation to blame isn’t overwhelming, it’s not non-existent either (I am human) so, “I blame Justin Bieber” strikes just the right chord with me. I can indulge my desire to blame and make fun of myself at the same time. Indulgence and self-effacement – two of my very favorite things. It’s a win-win.

“I blame Justin Bieber,” may be the very thing to get me through this difficult time in my life. A good motto, fantastic kids who love me to pieces, plenty of wine and an army of supporters cheering me on. What more could a girl need? Except maybe for this ash tray.

The motto, the kids, wine, supporters and this ash tray. And that’s all I need.

And this remote control…

Oh you get the picture. (And if you don’t, I blame Justin Bieber.)

Better Keep the Bed

I signed a lease last night. I’m renting a place to live for the first time in 13 years. And to make the experience a complete blast-from-the-past, I have a roommate. Three, actually. The lease-signing was chaos – foreshadowing, no doubt. My new roommate and I met the landlord at the property with our four children, ages 7, 8, 9 & 10. It was my kids' first time to see the inside of the house. Our roommates were already there when we arrived and Ben and Lucy instantly whipped the other kids into a frenzy, bursting through the door at a fever pitch. All four kids ran around checking the place out and discussing who would get what room and the best location for Nerf wars at a volume way beyond 11 while my friend and I asked our questions, discussed some details and gave our deposit checks to the landlord. Our young landlord, expecting his first child any day, looked a little shell-shocked by the pandemonium but didn’t panic and change his mind at the last minute. (Whew.)  It’s official. We move in on the 25th.

By the time we got home it was past the kids’ bedtime. They got ready for bed quickly, we said our goodnights and I sat down fully intending to write. But I quickly decided that what I really needed to do was drink a sizeable glass of wine, watch some mindless TV and go to bed early. And I did just that.

So I was sound asleep when Lucy came downstairs and crawled into bed with me around 1:00 a.m. When the kids were very young I swore I would never let a child sleep with me. I was afraid it would be a slippery slope and I didn’t want to set a precedent. I’m still not one to let kids sleep with me all the time, but I would like to think that over the years (and with all we've been through) I’ve learned when to loosen my rules in favor of making sure Ben and Lucy know they are loved and supported. We’re struggling these days in the Heagler Home – there’s no doubt about that – so I’m willing to relax my standards to give my kids what they need during this difficult time.  Even if that means a kid in my bed.  Or even two.

A couple of hours later Ben came downstairs and also wanted to get in my bed. This is practically unprecedented. I can count on one hand the number of times in nine years Ben has sought my comfort in this way, so of course I let him in bed too. When my alarm went off this morning at 5:51, I turned it off and reset it for 7:00. This morning, spending an extra hour smashed uncomfortably between my peacefully sleeping children was far more important than getting a little exercise.  I can practice yoga tomorrow.

When we were discussing sleeping arrangements with our roommates at the new house, it was decided that my roommate’s 10-year-old boy would give his bunk-beds to the girls who will be sharing a room. He'll take his sister’s twin-sized bed and Lucy’s full-sized bed will not be needed. I first thought I would sell it to help with my share of the security deposit. But then I reconsidered, thinking that a full-sized bed might fit well in my smaller bedroom at the new house. With a little paint it would look reasonably like a grown-up’s bed (not that anyone ever sees it who would care).  I went to bed last night thinking I should sell my mattress and box spring and keep Lucy’s bed for myself.

But this morning I changed my mind again. At seven and nine, my kids are pretty big and the three of us barely fit in my queen-sized bed. And who knows when Ben and Lucy might need to make a Heagler sandwich again in the middle of the night.

I think I’d better keep my bed.

Come Up Swinging

Fairy House

Tonight we had a full-scale meltdown at the Heagler House. Like so many families, we’ve suffered difficult financial times in recent years.  Tonight, facing some hard choices sent us all over the edge, I’m afraid.

Years ago, when we divorced, the kids’ dad and I agreed that he would provide housing for the kids and me at least until they were both in school full-time and we bought a house for me and the kids. I worried at the time it was too expensive and that I’d never be able to make the payments on my own, but Dad insisted my owning the house was an attainable goal and I, rather blindly (and completely foolishly) believed that was true. When the kids reached that “both in school full-time” milestone, my photography business had just begun to take off. Dad and I both liked the fact that owning my own business left me plenty of flexibility to be home when the kids were home. So, he very generously agreed to keep paying the mortgage even though he was not required to do so.

When the economy faltered, my business slowed to a crawl. I tried to find a second job that would still allow me to be home when the kids got home from school, but finding that job in a depressed economy took much longer than I anticipated. I did finally find a job, but not soon enough to save me from bankruptcy and losing the photography business that meant so much to me. All the while, Dad graciously continued to pay the mortgage, even though he did not have to.


But even with the benefit of bankruptcy, I can’t seem to make ends meet with the expenses of this house. It has become clear in the past year that I will likely never be able to take over the mortgage payments. Dad, in the meantime, has met a woman, fallen in love and wants to start a life with her. And that life does not include continuing to pay the mortgage on a house in which he does not live – a mortgage he’s paid far longer than he planned and far longer than he was required. It’s perfectly understandable, but that doesn’t make it any easier.


I have been talking with a dear friend (and fellow single mom) about the possibility of renting a house together. Sharing expenses and household duties would be a benefit for both of us and maybe I could finally gain some financial independence. When I broached the subject with the kids they seemed generally OK with the idea. And when I told them who the roommates would be, they were actually excited. We looked at a house together this afternoon and Ben and Lucy smiled, laughed, and chattered happily with the other kids about which bedrooms might be theirs.


But when we got home, I think the reality of the whole thing hit them and we had a meltdown of epic proportions. They completely lost it when faced with the idea of leaving this house in which they’ve lived for more than five years – at their ages, as long as they can remember.


I tried to hold it together. I really did. And I managed through a good 45 minutes of them crying, yelling, throwing things and listing every reason they couldn’t possibly leave this house and Lucy flatly refusing to do so. I tried to talk to them. Tried to soothe their fears. Tried to just hug them. All to no avail. And then, I’m ashamed to say, I finally broke.


Earlier this week I made the decision to let the bank repossess my two-year-old Kia and paid cash borrowed from family for a 12-year-old station wagon with 150,000 miles on it. I also sold my bedroom furniture on Craig’s List to catch up on unpaid bills. It’s not been a stellar week.  In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like more of a failure. And when I finally broke tonight, not just my week, but the whole road that led to this week seemed to cave in on me. I sobbed quite uncontrollably, scaring Ben and Lucy terribly. I’d added to my week of utter financial failure, a parenting failure on a grand scale.


Unable to stop crying, I walked out to the front porch and used a lifeline. I phoned a friend. And this wonderful friend sent her own kids to the neighbors’ and came to my rescue. She helped calm Ben and Lucy down and get them ready for bed while I pulled myself together. Then I somehow managed to get both kids into bed and talk calmly with each of them without anyone bursting into tears again. I could have never done it without this friend and my gratitude for what she did tonight is immeasurable.


I used the term “Heagler House” in the first sentence of this blog entry. It’s a term I use frequently. One of the many things about which the kids were concerned tonight was that there would be no “Heagler House” if we moved. But I told them at bedtime that the Heagler House is not really a place at all. The Heagler House is quite simply us.  “Home” is me. And it’s my Ben. And it’s sweet Lucy. It’s all of us together, loving each other (all the time) and just being a family.


This house and all the things in it are just that – things. We are what make the Heagler House what it is. It’s just that simple and I’m going to try to remember that. And of course, like any parent would, I’m going to try to do it better next time. Sometimes that’s the best we can hope for.


Tonight, I’m afraid I let the world drag me down. But I’ll come up swinging tomorrow.

The Adventures of Lego Guy

When Ben was little, our lives were consumed with his line-ups and arrangements. He would line up and arrange objects all over the house that could not be disturbed without a serious tantrum. Any group of matching objects was an obvious target. A case of water from Costco stretched across my basement office. Matching black frames from the top of the piano wound around the living room. Jars of spices formed an ever-changing, but seemingly permanent installation in the doorway leading from the dining room to the kitchen.

But every now and then he would select a seemingly random group of objects with which to make an arrangement. Often these groups would stay together for weeks, cropping up in different locations in the house, arranged in different ways, but always together. For several weeks when Ben was two, he arranged a bottle of conditioner, a tube of hair gel and a lemon over and over again all around the house for about six weeks. Every morning I’d find the arrangement, squeeze out some conditioner before my shower and hair gel before blow-drying and promptly return the bottles to the arrangement.  When the lemon started to wilt we would sneak a new one into its place. And then one day, inexplicably, that arrangement was over. The conditioner and hair gel were returned to my bathroom and the lemon turned up in the refrigerator (naturally I squeezed it into a delicious vodka cocktail – it was still fairly fresh). I’m certain something new took the place of this odd, little arrangement, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

For the most part, lists have taken the place of Ben’s line-ups with the occasional exception (those exceptions occurring exclusively in his room these days, a huge relief for the rest of the household). Arrangements remain, however, but they’ve taken a slightly different form. They have more personality now, and more humor than they did when he as two – much like Ben. The Adventures of Lego Guy, currently happening on the top of Ben’s dresser is the most current manifestation of this tendency.

Ben got Lego Guy at a flea market in the school parking lot. Some enterprising youngsters had set up a table where you could build your own Lego Guy for a buck. Ben was thrilled with Lego Guy and it quickly became clear he would be important in our lives when Ben reached near-panic at least three times before leaving the flea market when he thought Lego Guy had fallen out of his pocket. He began sleeping with Lego Guy which created a complete nightmare every morning when Ben was utterly convinced he’d been lost during the night. I had to add an extra 15 minutes to my morning routine for recovering Lego Guy from crumpled sheets, under the bed, lost in piles of stuffed animals, between the bed frame and the mattress, inside the pillow case or any number of other places a tiny Lego creation could get while a nine-year-old was thrashing about in his sleep. All while Ben broke out in a rash, cried, hyper-ventilated, wrung his hands and repeated over and over again that Lego Guy was surely gone for good.

The decision to buy Ben the Lego Dream House for his birthday was actually a difficult one. Legos aren’t cheap and the $59 price tag was quite a bit more than I would normally spend for Ben’s birthday. Add to that the fact that building large Lego creations had proven extremely stressful for Ben in the past, and my knowledge that any day, Lego Guy could be over. I looked at that set of Legos, walked away, came back, picked it up, put it in my cart, took it back and did the whole drill over again. But eventually, I paid for the Lego Dream House and took it home.

Ben was thrilled with his gift, but as expected, building it was a bit of a challenge. At least three times during construction of the Lego Dream House I sent up a silent, "thank you" to the universe for sufficient wine to get me through the process.  When it was finally done I carried the house to his room and Ben positioned it atop his dresser.  Lego Guy has been happily inhabiting the Lego Dream House ever since. He’s slept in his loft, gone head-first through his basketball hoop, roasted marshmallows over a campfire, hung by his toes from an upstairs window, checked his mail and replaced light bulbs while standing on the garage door.

With the recent addition of his new friends, who knows how long this bit might go on? Already they’ve installed a stop-light for people and had a dance party so rocking it rendered them immobile for days. I love Lego Guy and I will certainly miss him when Ben wakes up one day and decides he’s over. But even more than I love Lego Guy, I love, respect and admire the wonder that is Ben’s mind. I know when Lego Guy is gone, that mind of his will produce something else at which I’ll shake my head, laugh hysterically and no doubt marvel endlessly.

Thanks for keeping me guessing, Ben. Lego Guy rocks – just like you.

Part Of My Charm

Something interesting happened over the last few weeks. For the first time since I’ve been blogging, I dated someone I didn’t already know – someone I met on the street (so to speak). As you might imagine, this presented some fairly unique issues (as if dating didn't already present enough challenges for a  struggling, self-esteem-challenged, boozy, single mom raising two smallish kids, one with autism).


After our first date, he sent me a friend request on Facebook. And there I was. Faced with not only the question of giving this person the keys to my Facebook kingdom and all the revealing personal tidbits located therein, but also the fact that this would lead to my blog and what amounts to the keys to my very soul. There’s not much about me that can’t be found here in the annals of Perfectly Floppy Bacon. Fears, shortcomings, embarrassments, loss, shame. It’s all here, right alongside my accomplishments, loves, joy and pride.

Not to mention the fact that this person would no doubt, after reading the blog, forever have in the back of his mind that he could very well be the next Fake Accent, Ambiguously Gay Troy or (heaven forbid) Too Cocky Rob. No pressure.

I sat on the Facebook friend request for a day contemplating my next move, but ultimately decided there was no use trying to keep this part of me from him. Because truthfully, keeping from him this part of me would amount to keeping from him all of me. And what would be the point anyway? It’s all stuff that would come out eventually. I’ve always been a very open person, but this was a whole new level of exposed. I felt quite literally naked, but I let him read it anyway.

After reading, he said he liked me even more than he originally thought he did. He found me to be talented and funny and said he had a great deal of respect for me. He saw my naked soul and didn’t flee the scene – at least not for a couple of weeks. I suspect he thought running for the hills the minute he'd read the blog was a tad obvious, so he continued to pursue me for a few more weeks before sitting me down and enumerating his concerns for the future of our relationship. I’m not sure how many bullet points he had prepared, but I cut him off at four. If, after three weeks of dating, your concerns for the future of the relationship require a PowerPoint presentation, it’s time to cut your losses.

Will I do it differently next time? Probably not. In the immortal words of Popeye the Sailor Man, "I am who I am."  And that’s not likely to change. Anyone brave enough to date me should know he's getting the whole damned package – a potty-mouthed, borderline lush with questionable parenting skills and multiple neuroses who over-shares on a regular basis in a very public forum. That’s me.

I contend (and correct me if I'm wrong) it’s all part of my charm.

Feeling Like I'm a Good Mom

A few weeks ago someone asked me what makes me truly, deeply, down-in-my-soul happy and I answered without hesitation, "Feeling like I'm a good mom." As he was asking how often that happened, I picked up a piece of cheese off the floor, added it to a grilled cheese sandwich cooking on the stove without even pretending to wipe it off, poured more wine and said, “Not as often as you might think.”


Just yesterday, Ben brought home cookbooks from his dad's house hoping I would use them… you know… to cook things besides grilled cheese, hot dogs, quesadillas and pasta. I very quickly checked his temperature and pupil dilation because I’ve heard that high fevers and concussions could cause confusion. And evidently this child had confused me with a whole other kind of mom. (The kind who probably always feels like she’s a good mom.)

But then something happened this morning that made me feel as though I must be doing something right, even if it isn’t in the areas of cleanliness, germ control, (sobriety) or nutrition. My dear friend and fellow Boozy Mommy, Suzanne, has a daughter Lucy adores. The girls are the best of friends and they go back and forth between our houses having sleepovers regularly. And the older of Suzanne’s boys enjoys spending the night here as well. But Ben (being Ben) does not usually want to spend the night with a friend. In fact, the only two times he has ever had a sleepover at a friend’s house have been at Suzanne’s. One of those times was last night.

This morning when Suzanne and I traded our kids back (I had two of hers) she told me what a dreamboat Ben was to have over. Having three kids of her own, she was somewhat bewildered by his, (1) getting ready for bed without being asked (including teeth-brushing), (2) remembering they had left the jam in the car and asking her to bring it in (he had the forethought to ask what kind of jam they had for toast in the morning, and not liking their selection, brought his own), (3) not protesting bedtime or demanding any special bedtime rituals (“Just turn the light out, please, Suzanne.”), (4) being up, dressed and eating breakfast with her husband before she got back from her morning run, and (5) even going so far as to ask where he should put away the mat and blanket she had given him to sleep on.

This morning I was reminded that, generally speaking, I’m raising polite, gracious, helpful kids who people genuinely like to be around (mostly). Maybe I’m doing better at this “being a good mom” thing than I thought.

And there’s still time to introduce them to vegetables, right?