I Need An Intervention

Actually, a personal hero of mine (Eminem) said that in a famous song that Franco and I may or may not enjoy hearing at full blast in the car on repeat. It may or not be the edited version. (Hashtag: SorryNotSorry.)

Every time I take a picture or video of Franco, I think about how cute he is, and how glad I am for this Apple technology to document his funny little spurts of genius, and, most importantly,  all the future fluff pieces in which said picture or video may be used. Swimming solo across the pool at three years old?  He is absolutely the future Michael Phelps and I am the future Debbie. So cute. Singing a solo at theater school? He is absolutely the future Lin Manuel Miranda and I am the future rich mom of Lin Manuel Miranda, and I am not throwin' away my shot. This?

Ummm...well, you never know. He looks like, okay, he has a vision here and what I think of it is unimportant anyhow. He steps to the beat of his own...pink parasol and necktie. (Hashtag: NoJudgment.)

Sometimes, I just take the footage and silently hope it does not end up on whatever is the future incarnation of Intervention. There could be varied reasons for this. For one, I watch, and have watched, an inordinate number of Interventions. I mean, a LOT. Sometimes, I like to watch it while drinking a ton of wine. (Hashtag: ShutUpAndMindYourOwnBusiness.) In fairness, it is not the only thing I enjoy watching while also drinking a ton of wine, so I don't discriminate.

For another, Franco just loves to role play being a teenager. As a teenager in Franco's world, you can drink beer, play kissy-face with girls at parties, and get "sloppy drunk" on "vodkwa" which you hold by the neck of the bottle while taking handfuls of pills. (Hashtag: TooManyEpisodesOfNashville.) He sure is creative, and apparently pays attention to his surroundings, so I give him credit for that.

Furthermore, I do correct him by asking, "Who gets sloppy drunk around you?" And he can't say because it doesn't happen, and this is why we don't need preschool and all those fancy worksheets because the real world can be its own teacher. Life lessons one-on-one. (Hashtag:ThankYouAndYouAreWelcome.)

But, really. Maybe I need an intervention from my own catastrophic brain sometimes. Seriously. The kid is four years old. Yeah, he might end up a train wreck. But, so far, he seems to be able to navigate the world fairly well, and I give him enough rein to do so within reason. (Hashtag: CrunchyNotThatCrunchy.)

At home, he tells me he'll "kick his dad's ass" and yells that when the Penguins lose a game, it's "bullshit" and lets me know that he knows that "son of a bitch" is not nice to say out loud. Out in public, he asks politely for the dessert menu and personally sends his regards to the chef for the tasty wedding soup. (Hashtag: TrueStory.)

So, probably, there is nothing to worry about. We are in the clear. Or we're not. Either way, he is his own little guy. And while I don't take that many photos or videos, due to my love of just living in the world and enjoying my life as it happens, I do have enough to contribute to whatever fluff pieces Franco's future may hold.

And that is the way I personally choose to do it. He's not perfect. I'm not perfect. He's just my only son, and I'm his only mom, and I know he's mine by the eccentric workings of his mind, and the intricate way that we get each other. One time, we were telling stories, and his was, "My mom and I just do the greatest things together."

Of course, I don't have footage of that. (Hashtag: SeeAbove.) But it's okay because I was there and I witnessed it. Sure, he's only four years old. Things will change and, as Franco will likely soon tell me, "shit will hit the fan."

But for now, here we are. Intervention or no, I'm doing my best and so far, it is working. And that is...

Hashtag:GoodEnoughForMe.

You Move Your Way, I'll Move Mine

So, we decided to move to Pittsburgh a few years ago because this is where all the ball games are played and we are usually here anyhow.  In late May, we did it. We bought a little house on Washington Road in Mount Lebanon and here we are. Lickity split and just like that. Easy as pie.

Turns out, pie is effing hard to make. We still have a garage filled with unpacked boxes and I can't find the shower curtain and I am far too practical cheap to buy a new one and also, I moved that thing 500 miles and I am not giving up now. My plantar fasciitis is worse than ever, just from the massive nightmare that is moving across state lines. I contacted a nasty dermatitis around my eyes because I spent a good part of the past three months sweaty and dirty and hauling material goods here and there, and my skin is apparently far too sensitive for that noise. Upon checking myself out in my new mirror in my new bathroom, I found a few gray hairs and I do NOT think that is a coincidence.

We (and I mean Scott) had to personally drive three loaded U-Haul trucks from NC to PA because we have entirely too much crap and obviously did not purge effectively. This, despite the fact that I gave away at least five stuffed garbage bags of perfectly good clothes prior to what I refer to as the apocalypse: the packing, and subsequent unpacking, of my closet. Sweet baby Jesus you have no idea. Talk about self-harm. I am traumatized. To the point that it has taken me until now to emerge from the fog of this horrid and ridiculous ode to consumerism to purchase anything new to add to it. Which was worth it for the glittery silver pair of TOMS, vintage-looking-but totally-new saddle shoes, orange hippie dress at H&M, and Franco Harris jersey I bought with my birthday money. Thank heavens I am healing, one step at a time. (Hashtag: Blessed.)

But, here we are. And it is glorious. Our new home is just about as unglamorous as our old one was impressive. We don't have a pool or a hot tub or a sprawling yard or a knockout view of the mountains from our living room window. What we do have is a busy thoroughfare that runs right beside our home, with more traffic in an hour than Jack's Creek Road probably saw in a week. Sometimes, people walk along and throw stray cups and cigarette butts in our yard. (That never happened in Burnsville unless I was the one doing it.)

And it is, in my opinion, a complete trade up. Just seeing the cars, and the hustle and bustle, gives me a sense of comfort that I have not felt in my own home for a decade. We can be in downtown Pittsburgh in twenty or so minutes, and we take full advantage of our proximity to urban living. Franco and I can walk to his theater school in our neighborhood, which is a nice perk, and we can also walk to a full mall and movie theater and Primanti Brothers restaurant -- which we have yet to do because it has been, on average, and don't quote me on this, roughly 99 degrees and/or raining profusely every day since we got here.

I don't miss North Carolina. I miss people I knew and loved there. I miss Asheville and its crunchy charm. I miss my old swimming pool. But, I am so glad to be home. I lived in my old house for ten years. I called it home. But, it never felt like home. I know I am now where I belong, and I don't know if I will ever move from this house, let alone this county.

Still, I am not perfect here and all my problems did not disappear into thin air once I set foot in the south hills. My foils traveled with me and must be dealt with just the same. It is okay, though.  Because when I go outside to my first therapy appointment, I will be splattered in the middle of a four-lane road if I am not careful. And that is kind of how I always wanted it to be.

At home.