The Mother Centurion

The Weight of a Life (cont) Non-Fiction

First, thank you for reading and this is another excerpt from Weight of a Life. Please see previous posts for full story.

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I walked past one patrol car, readjusting the light to the ground and turned off the other so as to not backlight us too much.

“Whatchagot?” I asked as I approached Brian, one of my newer officers. As one of the probationers, Brian maintained his lean academy profile. His uniform was crisp and cut a trim silhouette in the dark. I glanced at Margaret, shoeless with sagging purple socks, the left strap of her tank top hanging off one shoulder and frayed cutoffs to mid thigh. Her exterior hinted of a woman in her late 40’s but with the influence of the streets and her visible chemical enhancement, she easily could be in her late 20’s it was just hard to tell.

“Check out her socks boss, can you believe, guys are still pickin’ her up?” Brian whispered, emphasizing “still” out of the corner of his mouth as he pointed his chin to the woman’s legs and ankles. In her socks just out of my view were three syringes. Two contained a dark liquid with the plungers pulled up, the other looked empty ready to load.

Margaret proceeded to disclose details of her life including her occupation on the streets, method of approach to the ‘johns’ and which ones she knew with her keen street certainty were safe. She recounted the last several years of her life in a spastic, fluid yet remarkably coherent manner. Her telegraphing hand gestures broadcast the problems encountered and categorized near misses. Her hands flew past her face in a feeble attempt to cloak her need to expend the stored up energy from whatever she was on. Her details were vivid, the talk rapid and only briefly interrupted by a “really?” or a “what?” by one of us. In answer to one of the “whats”, she explained her drugs of choice were primarily meth and heroin, one to get her up, one to bring her down. Clearly, she was way up and had stored a stash in her sock for the forth coming down.

She preferred to work in the cars versus the hotel room she maintained with her meager wages. The money supported her $150 a day habit and the few dollars left over went to food and hotel. She detailed her expenditures in detail, giving highlight to her method of securing partially spoiled food from behind the grocery. Segways for the account of her daily events consisted of the removal of the binding from her hair, finger combing it back, pulling the sweaty mess back up and securing it again. I was exhausted just watching her.

Of course my pattern of questioning to any woman lacking any sense to relate her risky lifestyle to a higher than average risk of pregnancy lead to:

“How many kids do you have?” She had at least four. Two others who died inside her before they were born. A work – addiction hazard as she put it. She made no effort to shadow her addiction in assumptions but instead discussed it openly, showing us the syringes, turning her instep out toward us. She described the places she had burnt out shooting up such as her arms, legs and even disclosed she tried her neck but couldn’t get the hang of it. She pointed to each marred, visible space on her skin, even revealing her stomach as either an area used or explored. As for her neck, which made us all lean forward as if witnessing a dissection she explained,

“I needed a mirror with me all the time and after trying to carry one in my back pocket, I just kept breakin’ the damn thing.”

The scars on her calves were skin grafts designed to replace the tissue lost during gangrene from a killer infection. As a result she had now taken to shooting in the area between her toes. She had Hepatitis, a raging cough, which came as a brief audible distraction to her constant gyrations and she could not rule out HIV. She did not care for shoes much since her toes had started to swell. Her purple socks bled into varying shades of light and dark as she stood on the wet asphalt.

Weight of a Life -

Weight of a Life (excerpt) please see previous posts for more.

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I tucked my patrol car, ass end first against the block wall of the grocery store at 43^rd and Thomas. I repositioned myself in the seat, shifting slightly to adjust the rise of my vest as it reared up under my neck. Hot air escaped from the layers just under my chin giving a break from the trapped heat under my uniform. My computer sprang to life, the glow filling the interior. A message from two of my guys said plainly; “Sarge, you gotta come see this”.

I headed south on 27^th and by the directions given, my officers should have been about a block south in a parking lot behind a private business that sold payday loans. I was classified as one of the “baby sergeants, the new girl” both to supervision and relatively new to police work. I had no sense of gender differences in police work per se but knew plenty of women on the department who subconsciously had the need to prove something from the start with what amounted to perceived “bitchiness”.

Working the west side of Phoenix, calls ran the gamut from gang shootings, to prostitution, neighbor disputes to drop houses. I earned opportunities in this line of work to witness even every day scenes twist dramatically into a facade of normal life. One night's work could reveal the best and the worst in society and not all would make the nightly news or a daily headline.

I parked my car behind the two patrol cars, both flanked nose to nose with spotlights illuminating the dark lot, a business that in the morning would reveal little evidence of our presence. Our work here like most nights in the dark behind buildings, went undetected with little to show the following day to those now sleeping. Settings on most nights lent little in the way of commentary from passerby and backdrops consisted of sturdy buildings, white lined parking lots and chaotic neighborhoods. The cool rain did not drop the temperature as much as it lent a heavy blanket of humidity and I tugged uncomfortably at a layer of undershirt, vest and uniform. Moistness collected hot against my waist where my belt sat as sweat tracked a path down my chest.

The patches of dark and light along the concrete and parking lot evaporated almost as you looked at it, giving off a percolating simmer. Margaret stood in the glare of the light shielding her eyes, engaged in conversation with the officers. Her hips cantered to one side, then the other. A hand went to her waist, a shift here to there. She ran her hands halphaserdly through tangled straw brown bangs. Drugs had her dance card and took her to the floor as we challenged her activities.

The Weight of a Life (cont)

Here is a second excerpt from "The Weight of a Life". Please see the post before this to catch up.

Feel free to comment or leave feedback. Please follow me! Leave your blog as well!

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Weeks later, as I reluctantly returned to work, I understood just how much my view of this role contradicted the many scenarios I witnessed each day. In my line of work, it is not difficult to find destructive cycles in parenting. I became a cop in 1991 and in the years before I would have my own children, I met people. I came into their lives unannounced, uninvited at times and through authoritative persuasion or probable cause, learned of their choices, saw the results and got to know mothers like “Margaret” and the children she would fail. This gave me rare insight into the very complicated cause and effect of mothering.

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Margaret put out her cigarette and stuffed the twenty dollar bill in her bra, slack and gray beneath her red tank top. Her hand rested on a stiff vinyl tear in the passenger seat and for the first time she took in the scattered mess of the inside of the car, cans, mail, various store bags and soiled work clothes. Searching for a distraction she began picking chipped polish from her nail. The layers of the red paint fell away like the flesh on her bones each hour she spent in this life. Her sun baked skin creased and well worn, was testament to her life choices.

“I’ll see you tomorrow maybe? I’m over here most nights but only after about 10… Got too many others trying to get in on my area.” Margaret hesitated trying to seal the deal for what could be a potential repeat customer. Her words, a weak attempt to present herself as model pretty came out desperate and cheap.

“You know I’ll give you the best deal, a nice time.” She opened the passenger door. The man sat in the driver’s seat, filling up the space with his oversized body, smelling of gasoline and sweat. His large hands with thick stained fingers, worked to stuff the too small work shirt back down his pants. He sucked in, hooked his belt quickly and maneuvered the steering wheel back to position with a loud click. He glanced quickly in Margaret’s direction outside the passenger door, his eyes downcast to the floorboard then returned back to the windshield. He rumbled to life along with the engine and spoke to her for only the second time in the short few minutes during their encounter, “Yea, later,” he said, leaving Margaret to retreat her grasp from the handle just before the car lurched forward. The patchy gray Lincoln squealed a retreat, made a U-turn and headed toward the drive. The front headlights clicked on just as the back tires whipped around and headed south on the access road. Margaret clutched the left side of her chest verifying her night’s wages remained intact. The bill lay stuck against her skin, suspended as if held by magic. She gave a slight chuckle in spite of herself, peeled the bill away and pushed it further into the void against her breast.

"Weight of a Life"- A visit with ARPKD/CHF

Please take a moment to read the following post. It is a snapshot of my short story, "Weight of a Life". I have yet to really dive into my family's internal struggle with our son's disease, ARPKD/CHF. Some of you may have visited recently hoping to find more information and hopefully you have returned. It takes time of course to write of things that touch a dense, sensitive spot inside. Our son's illness; a chronic kidney disease that also effects his liver, has taken us on a journey we never imagined we would take. I wish I had only overflowing dishwashers, dead car batteries or even stitches to worry about. I worry about very 'heavy' things every day, most just don't see it. I keep my resources close by and our family is very resilient.
The pain more than anything, is the realization there are children who have no one to fight life's battles with them. The first in line for the assignment should always be the parent, so you would think. I have seen too often children treated as inconveniences and distractions in my line of work.

Be a purposeful mother.

Please leave a comment or critique. I will be posting a couple of paragraphs at a time and look forward to your input.

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It was all I could do not to break into pieces. I held my three-month-old son over the kitchen sink, his body tucked into the crook of my elbow, while his morning feed exploded from his mouth. My urge to crawl into myself, search for some divine intervention was overwhelming and I processed all number of actions only to return full circle to this little boy who needed me. Repeat offerings of his bottle only resulted in frantic suckling and a deposit back into the sink. Confirmed he was dehydrated, I relented and reached for the phone knowing we would need to go to the emergency room again.

I pinched the phone between my left ear and shoulder, waiting for the hospital answering service; the calm voice of reassurance that would direct me to the on call nephrologist. My three-year-old sat on the kitchen floor, running cars along imaginary intersections, oblivious to the scene around him. A fuse ran past him to my powder keg of emotions set off several times a day since his little brother and his broken kidneys entered the family.

My boys’ eyes told me they were born to their champion; a strong, resilient fighter, a mother not willing to give up hope because things get too difficult. My struggle was to believe it. With my return to work looming after several months off with the birth of our youngest, I dreaded the pending separation I knew so well. The moments of early years were destined to be turned over to someone else. I could barely accept how anyone would be able to care for my children much less one born to panic a person with his vomiting, fevers and swollen belly. Little did I know a story was revealing itself. Over time in my role as a police officer, I would gain a life lesson in the awesome multi-faceted role of earning the title of ‘mother’. It did not lie only in shared chromosomes, or providing the basic needs even if those needs are a work of extraordinary complication. It was a pull, an internal desire to nurture at any level and the heartbreaking fact as experienced in my work as a cop is some in life never have their champion.

"S" Words

My #1 son said after school one day:

"Mom. You would not believe what one of the kids in my class said today!" Son #1 said to me as he swung his checkered back pack over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in two lower case 'n' shapes.

"What?"

"The 'S' word..."

"Which one?"

Please note.. the 'S' words in our house are not the standard version. They include S*utup and S*upid. These are our 'S' words.

My son diliberated on how best to describe and dictate this particular 'S' word without actually saying it and his wheels began to turn in rapid succession. Thinking, imagining, gesturing..

He stated the word, "Shut" then pointed directly with one finger toward the sky.

"Ohhh." I say. "That word. Wow, who'd the kid say that to and what happened?"

He began to tell me with much detail the when and why this word was announced by his 9 year old classmate and in what context. This subject may not register as jaw dropping conversation for most parents but I can guarantee you one thing, on some of the city streets I have worked as a cop, these two words render significant impact.
Troubling as it may seem, the average person would be shocked how much this dialouge from parent to parent or parent to child alter a child's perception of the world and how they fit in it. A child who hears these two words in my line of work are usually hearing them in a descriptive fashion to supply much needed emphasis to something they are or are doing. This type of descriptive slap in the face is very hard to witness when standing in the middle of someone's living room, unannounced in most cases and carrying the confinement possibilities of criminal code in your pocket.

I do not have a problem now nor ever speaking up during public exchanges while on duty and these words are spoken quite often in my line of work. I figure the least I can do is to object in the presence of others that while I am overseeing these activities on this call, those words will not be used to describe anyone.

Even in my most frustrating moments as a police officer, including one where a person in the back of my car screamed the 'C' word in my right ear about 1,239 times while I filled out paperwork, the most heard from me was "Would you BE QUIET!!!" (very loudly, I must add). After about 2 of those attempts which were actually futile, I just laughed.

I will never call nor state the 'S' words to my children. The lack of respect, degrading connotation and disregard for a person associated with those words are just.... well... they're just....... stu.... DUMB!

Now, I will be quiet........

Eating Dinner Standing Up

On any typical fall afternoon, you can find me seated in a lawn chair in the front yard, more like the driveway, stealing a few minutes with a good book. The kids are running in the street, (literally since we live in a cul-de-sac) and our dog has planted herself at my feet, gauging the kids’ play for the perfect time to intervene with much running and chasing. My hubby is somewhere, possibly in the office or on the phone and the sun is casting a heavy ray of sunshine just before it drops behind the trees.

Fall is my absolute favorite time of the year. By the time October arrives in Arizona, we have witnessed a few more days out of triple digits and have begun to re-explore the neighborhood just in time for Halloween tricks and treats. As the month creeps on, neighbors will prep pool toys for their winter slumber, lawn chairs will find their way out from fenced backyards and the summer zombies will creep from the air conditioned comfort of the indoors.

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One particular afternoon a couple of years ago, a neighbor came to visit. Her stride, slumped and dragging, carried with it a sense of toil and labor. Her son gleefully toddled ahead of her sputtering two-year old lingo in the direction of my boys who appeared to be caught up in the grass with a bug or something...

"Hey, pull up a chair. What's going on?"

It was clear as I said this, there was indeed something going on…. I am of course going to be extremely general here in my description of this particular person but let me just say, since she became a mother, she did not seem to be mastering the stamina necessary to multi-task.

I would like you to imagine a brief pause here as she maneuvered around several toys, bikes, legos, chalk and God knows what else had been scattered over the drive. Finally she landed in the chair next to me.

“Pppphhhhhhhhhhhh..” A long escape of air left her lungs through her pursed lips. Clearly, her white flag was up and waving.

"Wow.. tired?" I said as I watched my youngest begin working on taking his pants down.........

"Hey, knock that off! Go use the bathroom in the house!"

Yes, the bathroom is sometimes outside at our house…. I love having boys but their timing and understanding of convenience and appropriateness can be challenging to manage.

Little chuckle. Nice timing kid.

Shortly after the pants episode, she finally spoke.

"How do you.... do you get any help from Bob?

(let's just call my dh, Bob-shall we?),

…..you know, with the kids, or house?"

It’s clear she was still banking on the dreamer package to the mommy club.. The vision of the black and white portrait of the perfectly round belly draped with sheer linen and holding the blooming pink orchid had become a cavernous stretch mark... Oh.. poor dear.

"Little overwhelmed, huh?"

Duh.. I couldn’t figure that out. This is the same person who after having child number 2 a year later got a babysitter once a week so she could do laundry... no... I am not kidding.

I tried offering a little insight, "Well..... Bob primarily takes care of the outside of the house. I do the inside.”

Bob would speak up here; noting that my version of clean is a bit different from his. Let us just say, I am an awesome re-arranger and NEAT.

“...And when it comes to who has to clear several calendars in order to go the dentist? Well, that would be me. And let’s see… who has to pack for 3 people instead of 1 when we go on vacation? Uhhhh…. me...And finally, who eats dinner standing up more nights than not? yea…me."

Now, keep in mind, my dear hubby, Bob-is a fan-TAS-tic daddy. He organizes after dinner wrestle time, gives hiccup inducing horse bites and has no problem using daddy spit to clean faces. Daddy adores his boys and they love him unconditionally. But we agree on this; mommy is the primary care taker.

Mommy is still one the who does the majority of the childrearing, the finding of misplaced favorite monkeys, replacer of ripped socks, child version encyclopedia to the difference between bumble bees and wasps and why the dog food is not as good to eat as you would think.

I informed my somewhat weary neighbor, much to her paralyzed dismay, that she is the one who has to hold down the fort. Fathers have become more like daddies since I was a kid and they do far more now than they ever have. Still, the "mommy" is the one the kids seek out when knees are scraped, pants are pooped or food is spilled.

Maybe it's the cop in me. I was trained to multi-task and yes, it comes in very handy when juggling the household. You have no idea how many varied tasks are involved with just a traffic stop.

Of course I can run this household but my badge wielding at work does not have the same compliance magic at home.

It may not be glamorous, no one will applaud or adorn you with accolades for snotty nose blowing assistance, but that is just fine by me. I love every bit of it and even though I may misplace things, throw a dinner together with only three ingredients and mix my kids’ names up, my children hold me to life and I embrace my part in their day with compassion, determination and a little bit of silliness.

What my neighbor was really looking for was another mother to join in her misery. To march to her beat of "I need a break and you need to get in here and assume the role while I take a hot bath, go get my hair done, take a nap, have drinks with the girls, go to the bathroom without someone following me and asking me why does the dog like birthday cake?”

Well, excuse me if I don’t join in. What I say instead is,

“Put your big girl panties on and get on with it!”

Now, if only I could remember where I put mine.

Under Construction Please Be Patient

As mentioned, I am new to this and in my quirky gotta get it just right way, I am making some small little adjustments to my page. I have a post I am working on, "Eating Dinner Standing Up". I should be finished tonight. For now, I am wanting to get the blog look just right and I will eventually stop otherwise I will drive myself crazy. It is about content not how nice it looks right?

That's what I say now since approaching mid 40's.................. but I digress..

Oh, how I toil..

The Centurion and the Mother

Centurion: A commanding leader in the Roman Army guiding the foot soldiers in the battlefield.

This describes the mother. I am just begining my journey into the bloggosphere, so bare with me. I have no previous experience and am only capable of writing in fits and starts. I do however aspire to document in some form or other my experience in raising two wonderful boys, holding a household and a career oriented husband together all while working full time as a member of a very large police department. Thus the title.

I work in my personal and professional life as a champion of children; a police officer by day and a mother full time. I maintain the household in working order, with bills paid, dog fed, homework done, husband happy and suffer very few "casualties" as my former leaders many centuries ago. As Primus Pilus, I lead my foot soldiers and carry their burden into battle, guide them in the ways of the world and as a further challenge and at times very dibilitating, I manage a child with kidney disease. Yes, one of my two wonderful children was born with Autosomal Recessive Polycistic Kidney Disease/Chronic Hepatic Fibrosis (ARPKD/CHF).

My experience as a police officer has offered me one thing most mothers may not witness, an opportunity to see mothering at its best and worst. The headlines of parental indifference are easy to recognize and offer a bit of a pull into the seedy world of sub-culture we wish to disassociate. They are the children who have no champion.

If anything is gained from checking in with this blog it is to recognize and offer comment to your experiences as a Mother Centurion. You must recognize you are a leader to your children. You have a narrow window of opportunity to garner your child's respect. You will forever have their attention. Losing the respect of your children lends to them a confusing and at times risky period of poor choices. I have witnessed those choices in my career. I am not a parent expert, I claim no formal training in child psychology and can barely spell "psychology"... however I have street smarts and a dictionary. I have learned from my advanced and well deserved "40 something" age that over time, including 19 years with the police department, I probably know quite a bit more than the average mom on what makes or breaks a child in choosing the right path. I have mentored 3 wonderful children in my career and currently my husband and I battle the ups and downs with our youngest son's disease. I most honorably will inform you that almost 3 years ago, I donated a kidney to our son and gave to him what any mother should, quality of life.

Welcome. I will share with you some insight into a parent-life less traveled for most and learn from you as well.