The Future Next Abraham Lincoln

It did not mean anything to me until recently that Abraham Lincoln lost his mother at age nine and was raised by his stepmother, Sarah Bush Lincoln. So as Jake continues his struggle to define who I am to him, and chastises me for buying him the wrong conditioner or underwear, I think of Sarah Bush Lincoln. She probably went through this same thing with Abe, and look how great he turned out. And, if him dropping everything involved with being President to ride the freight train to rural Illinois to see her when she summoned him is any indication, he clearly loved her too.

Maybe one day I'll have a claim to fame like this: "But at just the right moment, she encountered a small motherless boy, and helped him to become Abraham Lincoln."

Ted Wilmer did a great blog about this on the New York Times Online. Here's some of it, click to go read the rest.

Lincoln's Other Mother

On the evening of Jan. 30, 1861, a slow freight train chugged into the small hamlet of Charleston, Ill., having completed a 12-mile run from Mattoon. Or nearly 12 miles — the train didn’t quite make it all the way to the station. A few people straggled out of the caboose and trudged through slush and ice toward the depot, where a gaggle of townsfolk loitered. To their astonishment, they realized that the tall man coming toward them, wearing a shawl, was Abraham Lincoln.

He did not seem very presidential. He had been traveling all day to cover the 120 miles from Springfield, and had missed the last passenger train to Charleston — hence the ignominious arrival by freight. According to an observer, he wore “a faded hat, innocent of a nap, and his coat was extremely short, more like a sailor’s pea-jacket than any other describable garment. A well-worn carpet-bag, quite collapsed, comprised his baggage.” He had no bodyguard.

Across the country, people were saying goodbye as the new world shaped by secession came into focus. Some did it loudly — the grandiloquent farewell speeches of Southern senators and still-serving cabinet members — but most did it quietly, inside the family. As Lincoln wrapped up his affairs in Springfield, he realized that he needed to say a special goodbye to someone who had arguably done more to shape him than any other.

And so on the morning of the 30th, this most closely observed person slipped away from it all and boarded a train in Springfield to the southeast. We know that it departed at 9:50 — the United States was beginning to acquire the railroad precision for which it would become famous. But that precision was not yet universal, and Lincoln did not make all of his planned transfers. He handled it the way he usually did — fellow passengers that day remembered that he told an endless succession of droll stories, punctuated by his own hearty laughter.

Lincoln spent the night of the 30th in Charleston, and the next morning began the final phase of his journey, to reach the secluded farmhouse where he found a 72-year-old woman, his father’s widow, Sarah Bush Lincoln.

“Stepmother” can be a fraught phrase in the telling of childhood stories — one thinks of Cinderella and the well-named Brothers Grimm — yet it was a very good day for Lincoln when she came into his life. His mother, Nancy Hanks, had died when he was nine years old, and we don’t have to look far for the sources of his legendary melancholia. In 1844, as a rising local politician, he returned to the Indiana of his boyhood and was so moved by the experience of being near the graves of his mother and sister that he wrote an uncharacteristically emotional poem about it. It began:

My childhood home I see again,

And gladden with the view;

And still as mem’ries crowd my brain,

There’s sadness in it too —

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A video of Murphy getting pissed.

This is so ungentlemanly of him, but he can't help it. One of the boys got a remote-controlled car from Uncle Zackary and Aunt Brittany for Christmas and Murphy HATES it.

And Corey LOVES pissing Murphy off.

It's really the only time he acts masculine.
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Numbers from our new normal

1. Corey thinks it's funny when I ask Murphy what he's doing, like he's going to answer me. "Well, you see Mom, there's this stump out here...."
2. Parenting is not for sissies. On Wednesdays, the boys bring their tests home from the last week so you can see their grades. Landen has brought home a D or an F the last three weeks, so he's been without Xbox. This punishment is obviously not working, because he had a D last night, so Corey and I started talking about what else we could take away from him to motivate him to do better. Jake also had a bad grade in his stack of grades, so we took the computer games away from him. What we're trying to figure out is how to exercise a punishment when one child is grounded at level A and one child is grounded at level B.
3. Murphy needs a haircut. He smells like what comes out of the vacuum cleaner.
4. The Target wine cube is my life. It's very delicious. It keeps well. It's not the kind of wine you feel like once you've gone to all the trouble to open the bottle, you have to use the good crystal, but it fakes expensive enough in taste to merit the crystal. If you feel like washing something by hand tonight. I have to teach Corey that there is a step beyond tipping the box to get the rest of the wine out - you also have to open the box, remove the bag and squeeze it out. You'll throw away at least one glass of wine if you don't follow these steps.
5. Oprah did a great show today about the families of active/wounded/deceased/deployed soldiers. The Allbrittons should have been on the show, and I am kind of bitter about it. Michelle Obama was on. It was probably my shot to make Oprah know who I am, and I missed it. Sumbitch.
6. If you live in our house, you wipe your plate into the garbage and put it with your utensils and glass in the sink when you're done eating. Or done not eating, whichever the case may be. We have one child who performs this chore dutifully every evening, without prompt. He announces he's done and if his dad and I agree he's eaten enough, we nod at him and he shoves the food in the garbage and puts the plate and stuff in the sink before skooting his tiny hiney (there's your hint on his identity) up the stairs. Somehow, two-thirds of the time, the other one escapes the table before Corey and I look down and notice his crap is still there. And yes, we call him downstairs and when he arrives at the table, Corey says "Did you forget something?" And this boy looks his dad dead in the face, his full place setting directly to his left, and says "What?"
7. We're applying to a new school for next fall. The boys don't know this yet, so please don't tell them if you see them. St. Theresa is wonderful to them and to us, but it's in Gonzales, and we live in Baton Rouge. And work in Baton Rouge, or west of it. On Tuesday we went to the open house for the boys' new school, to which applications are due next Tuesday, along with 844 supporting documents about their school, health, faith and political activity. Part of the application is writing a statement about why you want your child to attend that school. Here I am, married, parent of two...hating my kids' homework...cussing my sister out every time she asks me for help with a school project. I absolutely emailed my dad to get him to tell me what my statement should say. I'm thirty. I fear I may never outgrow this.
8. Corey goes back to work on Tuesday. For the first part of January, he was rather unfriendly because he was bored sitting around the house all the time. Now he has a tendency to be unfriendly because his days of sitting around doing nothing but talking to Murphy and playing computer games are almost over. He'll also have to shave his face, which he has not done since December 18.
9. I'm kind of excited for Corey to go back to work. I remember in college, I would forget how to write between semesters. When I was off work for two weeks to get married and to go Mexico, I did not remember what I was responsible for when I got back to work. You know, if you don't use it, you lose it. I'm not sure I can share this without oh-fending. Sitting husbands are nice, but husbands who are used to moving and shaking all day are better. Working Corey is a taskmaster at work and at home. Vacation Corey is a reluctant chore-sharer.
10. Speaking of chores, last weekend we were going to paint our bedroom. It's a lovely color, but since there is no direct sunlight in the room, it's dark and it gives me the Seasonal Affective Disorder. I stomped my feet and threw myself face down on the bed enough to get his attention and he recruited a soldier-friend who know how to do that to come do it for us. We were going to pay him and we were going to help. Then we woke up that morning and I got all nervous and overwhelmed about it - the bedroom is huge and all the trim and doors had to be repainted and we are doing the ceiling a different color - and I chickened out and pleaded that we just pay our contractor to do it later. One day, after $1 million in registration fees are paid to the parochial school of our choice and the couch gets covered or replaced, the bedroom walls will be Irish Mist and the ceiling will be Cumulous Cloud with clean white trim and doors.
11. I have two laundry baskets of clean and folded clothes sitting by my side of the bed waiting for me to put them up. They are all mine. Both baskets. They've been there since Sunday.
12. Jake has a picture of a girl by his bed. She's not his girlfriend, he's quick to correct us. I do believe she is where the sun rises and sets in the heart of my beloved fourth-grader.
13. I love watching American Idol with Landen. When he likes what is happening, his little foot dances. When he does not care for the auditioner, his entire face wrinkles in horror.
14. I leave you with this footage of how Corey and Murphy pass those non-napping, non-computer game-playing moments together. The lovely little ditty you hear at the end is how our washer and dryer (a.k.a. Ricky and Lucy) tell you to come get your shit. They sing it!

Fambly Game Night

We have become that family of dorks in the commercial who sit around with the excitement of Christmas morning while they play Life or Sorry. Except we don't play either of those. Last night we tried to play Chinese checkers, but Corey and I got in an argument about the non-specific statement of rules and the boys found it boring. So we switched to our staple game, Trouble.

I have to break here to talk about Landen's lack of sportsmanship. Landen came to play. He's fierce. He's ferocious. And he cries when he's losing. Sometimes he gets kicked out of the game. Sometimes he puts his head down and refuses to play anymore. This is proving to be a very, VERY slow habit to break. His psychologist plays games with him because improving his sportsmanship is serious bidness and it's a team effort.

Speaking of psychologist, when we went last week, she was so pleased with how well the boys are doing that she's going to see us in February and then said we may not need to come for a while. Does that mean there's a cure for grief, anger and dysfunction?

Landen is also grounded from video games because he keeps bringing home D's and F's in his test folder on Wednesdays. Landen has a touch of The Lazy, and he is a whiz at Science and Math but does not care to apply much effort in Reading or English. Tonight we made an exception to change family game night up a bit, and everybody was going to get to participate in our favorite Wii game, Martian Invasion.

I assure you it is every bit as fun as the name implies. There's a big green gun and you shoot the shit out of little green martians who pop out everywhere and try to kill you. Jake and I push the trigger continuously and move the target around the screen. You're bound to hit it all that way. Jake improves the more rounds he plays. I have terrible hand-eye coordination, so I show no improvement in five rounds. What Jake lacks in marksmanship, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He also misses a lot of martians because when he does a good job, he jumps up and down. It is very difficult to be a crack shot when you're bouncing up and down. He's intense though.

Landen has better hand-eye coordination because he has Corey's Gaming Gene and can pick up a controller and work a game, any game we've ever deemed appropriate for him. He can put in a demo disk Corey gets with a magazine and just start playing on the Xbox. He probably doesn't hit any more than Jake does, but he points the little icon on the screen at the martian and pulls the trigger one time. He aims well.

And then after the boys and I get killed in the middle of each level, The Professional comes in and saves us. He is hard core. He is also the only reason we get to unlock more levels.

Tonight Jake and Landen said they were having "the time of their life." He is their savior, in every single way.

Just so Murphy doesn't get left out of the post, check out boyfriend owning Corey's poncho liner, which we use as a blanket. It is Murphy's woobie. When we fold in and put in the ottoman where it's stored, he stares at the ottoman when he's ready to nap.

Corey goes back to work next Tuesday. The boys start After Care that day, which is great because when I pick them up at five, their homework will be done. So we won't get home at 5:30 or 6 PM and have to eat and do homework instead of family game night. Corey said tonight that he's going to have separation anxiety from Murphy when he goes back to work - they've spent all day almost every day together since Corey got home in December.

Murphy will have to go back to hanging out by himself during the day.

We're adjusting all around.
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Back to life. Back to reality.

The joke around our house right now is that Corey is surprised his children are not wards of the state. He only gets away with this because he expressed genuine and extreme gratitude for what I took on and succeeded at while he was deployed. For the first few days he was home, I forgot how to do everything. I ran into my neighbor’s porch with my car and Corey used a Magic Eraser to get the scratches off. I routinely left my keys in the door. I misplaced everything. I guess I was running on some hormonal surge while he was away that kept me from dropping all the balls and once he got home, I could not remember how to juggle anymore.

We are settling into a routine, and we do so around Corey, who is growing a beard while he’s on leave until February 1st. The boys went back to school on Tuesday. I went back to work on Monday. Corey is resuming his manly homeowner duties at a relaxed pace, but he is resuming them, so I do not complain.

About that. I complain. I admit this weakness. I also hover. He told me the other day that I needed to give him space to do something (it was something in the kitchen but I don’t remember what.) I agreed with him that this was a valid point, but it was a big ask. I had been left for a whole year to be the only person responsible for making things happen, and I cannot just cease that practice. He’s not critical of me like I wrote about when he was home on R&R in September. He does leave his clothes all over the bedroom floor and his shoes in the most unfortunate spots.

I nagged for a solid week about all his extra soldier shit being dumped around the house. He finally distributed ruck sacks and duffle bags to the upstairs closets, storage shed and carport until such time as an item in them needs to be retrieved. Out of sight not out of mind, because I still feel the clutter. He made a big effort just for me, so I can live with it. He’s had to actually move into the house. He was in it for such a short time in September that he didn’t really unpack his things. His shoes are still in a box in the closet. So he’s purged his clothes and organized the belonging he’ll resume use of. The boys and I had really spread out, so we’ve had to do some purging and moving around ourselves to make room for Dad. Merrily, merrily we roll along.

Having their dad home has made a world of difference to Jake and Landen. The only way to describe it is that something that was missing has been found. It’s even improved Jake’s attitude and behavior toward me. The other night Landen spilled milk all over the dining room table and starting sobbing and apologizing uncontrollably. Corey asked him what all the tears were for? He hasn’t spanked anybody since he’s been home, and he’s given no one any reason to expect him to fly off the handle over spilled milk. The boys are figuring out what Corey’s boundaries are now that they’re here full time, are a year older and have adapted to occupying the house with one adult. They know my buttons. They’re still figuring out his.

We bought Landen the game Trouble for Christmas. It was one of my favorite games to play when I was little. The four of us sat in the floor playing last night. Even Murphy joined. He played as a member of Jake's team. He first became intrigued by the popping noise, and sat and watched us play for a long time. Then that interest evolved into reaching out and slapping at Jake's blue pieces every time he popped the dice. See, I'm not making this up!

He's such a family member.

When Corey bought his car, Price LeBlanc gave him some sausage. Corey's cooked it a couple times for breakfast. This was this past weekend.

In October when I went to Houston for Dad's surgery, I bought two three-drawer chests in the least-expensive-ugliest-color available with the intention of painting them an aqua color. Two months later, when Corey got home, they had been assembled and primed and one coat of paint had been applied to one chest. We finished two coats of paint and two coats of polyurethane the week between Christmas and New Year's and moved them into the bedroom. I'm so proud that I (we) finished such a project. I did not enjoy a single minute of it, but the finished product is so good I've got another piece of furniture in the carport waiting to be sanded.

The Insomnia has miraculously disappeared. So has Jake and Landen's refusal to eat what I cook for dinner and to put on what I put out for them to wear without a battle, changes made immediately without Corey having to raise a voice or make any threats. It is a good time here, and we have a month more of him to enjoy before he goes back to work.

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Santa, reporting for duty.

It has been a long time since the Wilson house was visited by Santa Claus. Not as long as you might think, since I'm 30, but a decade or so...however, when Corey decided that we would stay with our yearly tradition and spend Christmas Eve in Jena, we (I) rallied the Great Ones and commenced planning. Santa did all his shopping online and shipped it directly to Great Don's office. Cydney Wilson made reindeer food and even printed and attached a little poem. It was all-hands-on-deck, and it was amazing.

Every Christmas Eve since 1994, when my Grandmother Nelle died, we have gone to church in Alexandria and to dinner afterward. We've changed churches through the years according to the schedule. We added my dad's best friend in his bass club, Mr. Bill. We've changed restaurants. First it was the Bentley Hotel, until my mother impaled a baked potato on a fork and waved it in the air as the final declaration that the service was terrible and we would not be returning. We went to Outback for ten years, until Mr. Bill and my dad threatened to whip ass when we waited two hours for our food. Now we go to Cajun Landing, which is suitable, but not preferred.

Every year we have to leave at 4:30 to make it to church and get good seats for the 5:30 mass. Which means everyone has to be dressed and ready by 4 PM, so that we can take these pictures. This year was the first in sixteen years of family tradition my father was not giving my sister the silent treatment for making everyone late.

Landen would be repeating this face Christmas morning and would be sent back to bed to collect himself. I think he was mad because he wanted to hold Murphy.

And then his spirits were lifted because he got to hold me. They picked out their own Christmas outfits, by the way.

Dixie stayed home and watched Murphy while we went to church.

Please note, as is the custom, Murphy's wittle face in the picture. He does not like to be left out of a shot.

Christmas traditions vary among families. I know we do things differently than the boys are used to, but it did not seem to throw them for a loop. We only open one present on Christmas Eve, the pajamas you'll wear that night. Before this year, it's always been Cydney and me in matching outfits, dating back to the year of her birth. Actually, my mom and my Aunt Jean used to give my cousin Reynolds and me matching pajamas before Cydney was even born. This year, I bought matching jammies for the boys.

I know, it makes me all weepy too.

Then they wrote a letter to Santa to set out with the milk and cookies he was getting - homemade chocolate chip and teacakes - on the special plate and mug Great Clare bought special for Santa this year. The letter said "Dear Santa, Enjoy your milk and cookies. Love, Jake and Landen."

When Cydney was little, a friend of hers always used to give us bags of reindeer food, to sprinkle out for the reindeer to snack on while Santa dropped of our presents. It had sparklies in it, to attract the reindeer to it. Me, I would want something to drink if I was a reindeer, but no one encourages that. Cydney even went so far as to sweep off the sidewalk before the morning, so the reindeer food would look eaten.

And then Great Clare, who somehow retains an Avoyelles parish accent that she can present upon command despite thirty years of living in Jena, piled everybody up in the bed so she could read "The Cajun NIght Before Christmas." Cydney, Dad, Murphy and Dixie are also sitting in the queen-size bed. 



After we put the boys to bed, Dad, Cydney, Corey and I loaded up in TWO vehicles and went to Dad's office to unpack and assemble Santa's loot. Since we open all our presents on Christmas morning, Santa leaves all his gifts unopened and arranged by the Christmas tree. Two hours later, we had put this out on the living room couch. The tree looked like that when we went to bed.

A disclaimer before I start this: the shit that 7 and 9-year-old boys ask Santa for is not very expensive. Therefore high quantities are provided. I remember how, as a child, the quantity of my Christmas gifts from Santa and my parents decreased and my desires grew more complex and expensive. Corey told me it was ridiculous once he saw it all out, having not been here to endure the ordering and tracking of all of it. It's how Santa gave to me. It's how I want to give to mine.

Landen: a bike, Paper Jamz, Nerf machine gun, Transformers, movies....

Jake: a big-ass Star Wars thing, Paper Jamz, a Nerf rifle, Transformers, Legos, movies....

There is a video of this. There is also video of us waking the boys up at 7:30 and sending Landen back to bed because his appreciation of his Santa stuff was in the negative numbers when he first woke up. He wanted Santa to bring him the Nerf rifle, until he realized the Nerf machine gun was automatic, and then all was right with the world.



The hands-down winners of the Christmas giving are the exact Harry Potter wand replicas Corey and I gave the boys - Draco Malfoy for Jake and Neville Longbottom for Landen. They've been sleeping with them since they opened them Christmas morning. My parents got the boys a tent. When everybody is visiting, we run out of sleeping room. The solution to this was to get a tent that would fit in the living room, and some big plush sleeping bags. Check and check, Great Don and Great Clare. After we put it up Saturday night, they barely came out of it until we took it down Monday afternoon.

Their sleeping bags have their names embroidered on them, and they also got little lantens to keep in there. Roughing it means they had to watch Despicable Me eighteen times on the portable DVD player. It's clearly so hard to be an Allbritton boy.

The boys did beautifully through Christmas. The only tears shed in our family at Christmas were mine, and I take that as a blessing. Each of them lit a candle and said a prayer for Erin before Christmas Eve mass. At their appointment with their therapist yesterday, Jake said he didn't get sad about his mom at Christmas and Landen said he was more happy than sad when he remembered Christmas with his mom. She said they're both really happy right now, and this is what she was hoping for once their dad got home. They were both open and talkative in their last session with her, which is sometimes hit or miss. Getting him home just in time for Christmas has been the most joyous distraction from what had the potential to be a very empty holiday.

My Homecoming King: A Photo Essay

"Reunited" is not to be confused with "reintegration." There's so much to new-learn or re-learn about each other - how to work the washer and dryer, what Jake's current favorite sandwich is, Corey's new slang. This is not about reintegration. This is about the day (Saturday) that we picked the paterfamilias up from the designated armory and brought him (and three duffles, two packpacks and a computer bag) home for good. 

That morning was a little stressful because the bus left Camp Shelby with the soldiers an hour or more earlier than scheduled, so we all had to get up earlier and get dressed quicker and we made it to the armory to wave our signs with about ten minutes to spare.

You can't tell, but mine was glittered.

When he got off the bus, walking up to greet us.

I let the kids hug first. I'm selfless like that. And I don't want anybody rushing me to move on when it's my turn, like they stand at the door and try to hurry you out of the bathroom. This is Landen.

And Jake.

*WARNING: Public Display of Affection Following*

I had the bestest surprise in tow. Corey's younger brother Zack asked if he and his wife Brittany could come over from Florida and surprise Corey when we picked him up. I thought it was amazing that he asked instead of declared and knew that Corey would be so floored that they made the trip. We got his mama to come too. They drove all night and arrived at my house at 4:30 Saturday morning, napped a little and stood out in the cold with me waiting on the bus.

I know what it feels like to be a wife seeing your husband step off a bus into safety at the end of a year-long absence. I imagine seeing your son home safely and reunited with his wife and children is just as satisfying!

Brittany is a TROOPER and took one for the family in a big way. She's 32 weeks pregnant with a baby girl and endured eight hours in a car to come see her brother-in-law. She's also one of those people who shows no signs of pregnancy from the back. I have to make a concerted effort not to be mad at her for that.

So, what does one do with a little freedom and the comforts of home and kin? Your first day, you might have The Grumpy, be easily irritated and out of sorts. This could also be because you got schnockered with your buddies and did not sleep the night before.

You may take a shower and put on your favorite t-shirt to play some Guitar Hero with your kids and brother.

You may, for some reason your wife does not understand, CHOOSE to eat ramen noodles for lunch. 

You will definitely drink beer at whatever time of day the mood strikes you. Apparently Blue Moon is the ideal compliment to ramen noodles. 

You may wonder why your kids have two Batmobiles or how playing with your toys on the floor causes one to put their bedskirt all askew (that's actually probably me). Upon seeing you, your anxious older son may instantly stop absentmindedly rubbing his lip raw and being angry with his stepmother for no apparent reason.

Your youngest son may never stop talking unless he's using the bathroom, eating or sleeping. And you may deposit all the random items you encounter during the day on your dining room table, much to the chagrin of your wife. 

Your dog might roll himself up in your poncho liner and take long naps that way. 

You may demand your niece come over for a sleepover so all 70-pounds of her can curl up in the bed between you and your wife. It would be unacceptable for her to sleep anywhere else. 

So we're on Day Five and The Grumpy went away. We went to the boys' Christmas parties, finished their Christmas shopping, bought Corey a new car and made chili. We're still sorting through where to store all the extra stuff. 

We're all exhausted. It is 8:52 PM. Bedtime for the boys on non-school nights is 9 PM. It's been quiet upstairs for a while, and when Corey went up to their room to check, he found that the boys had put their pajamas on and put themselves to bed. 

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