My kids and I are big text messagers. Whether they are at school, or I am at work, they are with friends, or I am out doing errands, our lives don’t lend themselves to phone conversations. And goodness knows, with a 16 and an 18 year old, actual face time is limited to the one dinner and one weekend day per week that we brainstormed everyone could spare without seriously effecting their social standing.

So, we tap out our messages, on our cell phones, in a modern day Morse Code.

From the common, everyday stuff:

* Can we go to Red Lobster tonight?
* We can’t afford it. Doctor bills have us pretty broke until payday.
* Okay. Dollar menu at BK, then?

or

* Help! I have a bag of Doritos on my bed that I need for a class party in English. Can you bring them to school please?
* That’s exactly how I’d dreamed of spending my day off! Sure.

To the comical:

* I didn’t get raptured. You?
* I’m at Target, so I can’t tell.

or

* Pooping so much in the IHOP bathroom. There’s NO WAY the people in the restaurant can’t hear it.
* Well, I’m glad you had your phone with you to share this moment with me.
* Smartypants. Okay, gotta go pretend the noises were someone else. Love you!

To the touching base to let each other know that we care:

* Hey mother, did you know you are the coolest, awesomest mom in the entire world?
* Did you know you are the best daughter? Besides Dakota Fanning, I mean. Duh. I loves you.

or

* How was your doctor’s appointment? Did they figure out that you are a zombie?
* No, I went brain-free the entire time! But now I’m starved!!
* So you’re okay? I was worried. Good about the brains, though.

When Jeff Conaway died recently, I knew my daughter would take it hard. I didn’t want her to hear it from someone else, so I texted her.

* Goddamn it, Jeff Conaway died.
* Oh. He had a hard life.
* Should we talk about this when I get home?
* Yes.

When I got home, we did talk about it. She asked if he had finally died of an overdose.

We took to the internet for more info. She nodded as I read the details out loud. Pneumonia. Coma. Life support. Terminated.

We both had tears in our eyes.

Why should the death of a 60-year-old, washed up actor, matter to a 16-year-old high school sophomore and her checkout girl mother? Yes, we both grew up on the movie Grease, knowing every word of every song, and dreaming of our dream parts should the movie version of a Broadway play ever need a fresh-faced remake. But there’s more. An undercurrent to every sensational, drug-related Hollywood death. Corey Haim. Michael Jackson. Greg Giraldo. All, the same reaction.

A look cross-wise. A second where we meet each other’s gaze and time stops, then we look away and life is back to normal.

We love an addict.

My brother, her uncle, struggles with addiction.

Born when I was 16, my brother, now 22, is more like my child than sibling. For the first three years of his life, I helped care for him, before marrying and having children of my own. My kids have grown up with him, spending weekends and school vacations with him, and embracing him more as a brother than an uncle. And we all love him, right down to our core.

Time and tide took us away from our hometown of San Diego and landed us in Richmond. And, while we had all kept in touch, I hadn’t actually seen my brother in two years when I got a call from my dad.

“Your brother is a heroin addict.”

Confusion. Tears, yes. Anger, yes. But, mostly, confusion.

I mean, sure, we come from alcoholics and eaters, but heroin? What was that, even?

My brother went to rehab, while I went to educate myself. He learned 12 steps while I learned what he’d been going through for five years. He struggled with his demons, while I struggled to revise, in my head, the image of the boy that I thought I knew inside and out. Guilt over not having been there gave way to a vow to be there now, even though I’m not actually there.

And he still struggles, daily. One step forward, two steps back. Two steps forward, one step back. We believe in him. And love him, as much as we ever did. More, in fact, because now we are loving him for who he really is, not who we thought he was.

But every middle of the night phone call brings the same cross-wise look, as my children and I meet in the living room to check the caller ID. There’s a slight feeling of sadness when we recall family fun from the past, and a slight feeling of worry when we talk about the future.

And I text them a bit more. Sometimes to tell them to watch out for dog poo when they get home because I saw it while I was running out the door but was already late for work, and sometimes to tell them that I love them and am proud of the choices they are making.

Will my brother overcome this? My heart will only allow me to believe yes. The thought of any other possibility leaves me paralyzed, and I have things to do. And his struggle has brought my children and I closer, more willing to express our feelings because we know that tomorrow is a promise not always kept.

As for Jeff Conaway, I read, about a year ago, that he wanted to die at home, and was requesting a Viking funeral, including being burned on a boat and sent out to sea. While he didn’t get those things in the end, he got peace. We all do, some of us just need it more than others.

I heard his voice out of the corner of my ear, emanating from the television that was shouting out headlines, as I got ready for work.

“Something-something-something missing 16-year-old son. Something-something-something tornado in Joplin, Missouri. Something-something-something calling his cell phone, hoping he’ll pick up.”

I glanced over and saw the image of a man, crying uncontrollably, and clutching a picture of a boy, who looked much like my own teenage son.

I stopped what I was doing and stood in front of the television, having gone from passively listening for current event tidbits about which I could make small talk with customers for the day to captivated by this dad’s story.

He was Mike Hare, the father of 16-year-old Lantz Hare, a boy sucked from his car by the EF-5 tornado that leveled huge portions of the city of Joplin, Missouri, a week ago Sunday. A friend, who was in the car with Lantz at the time the tornado struck, was found alive, but badly injured.

As I stood before the television, Mike Hare described, through tears and breath-stealing sobs, the family’s growing desperation and how, in addition to constantly phoning hospitals, help agencies, and morgues, he was also frequently calling Lantz’s cell phone.

“It rang for the first day and a half, and now it goes straight to voice mail. But just in case he gets it, I want him to know his dad loves him.”

My heart stopped. My eyes welled. My gut knotted. I had to sit down.

Since the hot Hawaiian day I gave birth for the first time in January 1993, I have been warned.

“Oh, you’re children are so darling. JUST WAIT until they are teenagers.”

As they edged toward teendom, the seemingly well-meaning and opinionated, grew more ominous in their predictions.

“Your son and daughter are 10 and 12? You are in for a rough few years!”

When they reached the magic ages, the same people looked at me the way one would gaze upon a martyr.

“13 and 15? I don’t know how you do it!”

I was regaled with stories about other people’s wild teens, and about what wild teens the people, themselves, were. I was cautioned about drug use, promiscuity, and just plain spawn of the devil-type evil.

But I knew my children. They are the two halves to my whole heart. I’ve never understood someone so intimately as I do the pair to which I gave birth. I can finish their sentences. I can see hurt. I can feel disturbances in their force, and, even when we aren’t together, can send an “I love you” or “call me if you need me” text at exactly the right time, as if by magic.

And I’ve also never been understood so intimately. No one can see through me as well as those two, or cut right through me, when they so choose. Criticism from others? Shit, I’m a strong woman and I know myself so don’t even try it. Criticism from them? Devestating. But they are sensitive enough to look at the clock, notice I’m not home, and send an “I’m sorry you have to work late, does this mean no dinner? Haha.” text, as well.

But, as someone who could easily have won “Miss Completely Uncertain of Her Parenting Skills” for 18 years running, I worried. What if those soothsayers of doom, those harbingers of rebellion and anarchy knew more than I did?

As one who has always been honest with her children, to the point of “Mom! We don’t NEED to know all this about you!!”, they know I’ve been battening down the hatches for years. From time to time, we’ll disagree about something and I’ll say “Is this it? Is this the moment when you start hating me and start planning your facial tattoos and back seat babymaking?”

But they are 16 and 18 now, and I’m still waiting. Waiting for them to be less than my everything. Waiting for my heart to break. And, nothing.

When I saw Mike Hare talking about Lantz, the son who looked so much like my own, I felt something well beyond sympathy. I felt oneness. I, too, would be calling my lost boy’s cell phone, maybe even for the rest of my life.

Lantz’s body was located in a morgue on Thursday, through the efforts of a community who had come together for this family. Heartbreakingly, there are dozens more stories, just like his. The numbers rise and fall, daily, but, at last count, at least 126 people in Joplin had died due to the storm, and the number unaccounted for stands at 44.

That’s 170 hearts, missing halves.

If you want to help the tornado victims, abc News has put together a list of organizations that are doing just that, and ways that you can contribute to them.

“Mom, please tell me you chose cable.”

Things are tight in the Fuck Yeah household, but not any tighter than usual.

Due to the fact that I’m crap with money, the cable/internet is off for a week or so, which has lead to two sullen teens. “I’m bored” and, consequently, “I’m hungry” are heard echoing through our apartment, making this place sound like the orphanage in a modern day version of Annie. The kids discuss all the wonderful shows they’ll watch (Which have magically transformed into the best things ever, due to their unattainable nature. “Remember Hannah Montana? The ‘Cheese Jerky’ song is a work of genius!”) and computer games they’ll play, when our bill is paid.

But the pouting doesn’t last long. We all know we’re on this ship together and, if we don’t work as a team, we are headed straight for that iceberg.

We go to the grocery store and the girl, who is pragmatic above all else, says “Okay, how much do we have and how many days do we need to shop for?” She then pulls out two carts, pushes one at the boy, and instructs him as to where he should start. We roam the aisles, looking for bargains, careful about “specials” that really aren’t and recipes that require too many ingredients. We always use our store discount card at the end, so we can see how much we’ve saved.

When we come home, he pulls out his guitar, and she the ukulele full of barf (She’s cleaned the strings and says “Who the heck is going to look inside my ukulele or smell it, anyway?”) and they say “Let’s play” and we pick out a few tunes very slowly (He’s a true virtuoso, as are she and I. But only in our own minds.) and discuss names for this new supergroup which has coalesced seemingly by the hand of god and also the hand of poverty. She says “Let’s make our own show! Turn on your webcam!” and we film the opening sequence to the smash hit new series “The Dog and Cat and Girl and Lady Show”, complete with theme song, written and played by us. We laugh until we are exhausted.

I wish it weren’t necessary, but the truth is, we’re good at being poor. When the going gets tough, we get going. We could, all three of us, teach classes in how to make a penny seem like a dollar and how to make a dollar seem like fifty. Even when it’s a hard knock life, we still believe that the sun will come out tomorrow. Especially if tomorrow is when “The Dog and Cat and Girl and Lady Show” premiers. That thing is a phenomenon waiting to happen.

With a predicted high of 104 degrees, I frantically ran through, in my head, reasons that we couldn’t leave the house. Chicken pox? No bumps. Worried about Lindsay Lohan’s future? They’d never buy it since they just heard me say “Girl, you are about to have SEVERAL freaky fridays! IN JAIL!!” the night before. How about global warming? Surely there’s enough proof now, right? My daughter arched an eyebrow when I tried frantically to convince her that Al Gore was right and we should all stay inside, lest we end up like a 3 Piece Meal, extra crispy.

“You don’t even LIKE coleslaw!”

“Mom, go get in the shower.”

Resigned to my fate (and also a teensy bit curious about art shit but mostly resigned), I cleaned up and grabbed the Gold Bond Medicated Powder. If you’re not a chub or are a chub and don’t know, Gold Bond is basically like grownup baby powder that you can sprinkle in your cracks when it’s hot, to keep them dry and fresh-smelling. The medicated version has menthol in it and, when air hit the crack, it’s like a frozen angel is blowing you a kiss. Under your gut. Or between your thigh and your giant cooch mound. Which is totally where frozen angels would kiss, anyway. Of course, if those areas got much air in the first place, you wouldn’t need the powder. Fresh and dry and a front-runner in the Miss Scowly 2010 pageant, I mumbled to the babies to get their asses in the car and we were on our way.

The heat was unfuckingbelievable. You could see waves coming up off the asphalt and birds were dropping out of the sky in complete surrender, praying to their birdie god for the sweet release of death. A quick caffeine stop perked me up (Is speed still illegal? Then, yeah, totally caffeine.) enough that I let the girl choose the radio station for our twenty minute drive. Usher pow pow pow’d and wow oh wow’d as I sipped my liquid personality with an extra shot and gave myself a little pep talk. I knew that in this city, on a weekday, at an art museum, we were bound to be swimming in a sea of old white people when we got there and I practiced my “How interesting!”, “Pop art is for plebs”, and “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?” faces in the rear view mirror. Locked and loaded, we dashed from the relative cool of the car into the relative cool of the museum and grabbed a map.

Now, for the two of you left who don’t know, I have a bit of a poop problem. As in, I do it. All the time. I know every bathroom in this county and the next one over and the quickest way to get from the front door to the ladies at every establishment I frequent. Going someplace new frightens me. What if I can’t find the restroom? What if they don’t HAVE a restroom? I really need someone to do a national potty review blog with a complimentary blackberry/iPhone app so I can have adventures without worrying I’m going to have to poop while crouched behind a bush. Anyway, the run from the car plus that extra shot I had a whole ten minutes ago made it so that I spent the first twenty minutes of our museum trip appreciating the powerful plumbing and flawless acoustics of their shitter. Nothing like a crap symphony to make fancy old ladies clutch their pearls.

After the poopocalypse, we finally got to some art seein’! We wandered through gallery after gallery of paintings, sculptures, photographs, arts and crafts, and furniture. The teens nudged each other and giggled at statue boobies and played “Where’s Waldo: The Penis Version” with nude paintings and cherub statues. I never realized how hilariously dirty a lot of art is, but leave it to a 15 and 17 year old to point it out. But they also appreciated the pieces more than I expected them to, mentioning things that I hadn’t even noticed and I’ve traveled around the world and been to a countless number of art museums. Then again, it could have been the severe caffeine jitters. Hard to seriously deconstruct a painting when you are flying high with espresso brain. Except Picasso cuz his shit always looks like that.

Which reminds me, we saw some Picasso sketches and one was designed sort of like a comic with six panels. The kids had been playing “That’s me, because I’m so pretty” and “That’s me, because I’m so awesome”, finding themselves in paintings, and my son said, pointing to the Picasso comic, “Mom, that’s you,” referring to some hideously deformed man (Picasso Comics presents: The Monstery Looking Guy Who May Or May Not Have Been Based On A King Who Was A Tyrant). So, anyway, I’m all “Haha, you’re right. That’s totally me” when cut to panel five and I suddenly have a GIANT PENIS. “Is that still me? Me with a giant penis?” The kid shrugs and says, “Yeah, I stand by it.”

It’s comforting to know that I am raising goddamn geniuses who love art but can also crack a joke and put their mother in her place. It’s times like these that I hear Maria Von Trapp in my head, singing “Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could. So, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.”

That’s what I get for not taking notes.

The other day, we were doing our traditional Sunday stroll through Target and had veered off of our usual course so that I could buy a case of bottled water (is this me saying “fuck you, mother earth!”? no. but yes. shit. I like bottled water, okay?). I saw the water display on the back wall and took a right down the soda/alcohol aisle to get there. My super smart, teetotaler children were right on it.

Him: Why are you coming down here? Do you feel like you need a drink?

Me: What? No. I’m just going back here to get water.

Her: Then why did you slow down?

Him: Mom, do you know who liked to drink alcohol? President Kennedy. In 1962. Just before the Cuban Missile Crisis. And look how that turned out.

Me: Um, badly?

Him: It was a disaster. And do you know who else liked to get drunk? Ronald Reagan. Are you aware of the negative impact of Reaganomics? Because you can thank Ronnie for making a national deficit acceptable.

Me: I wasn’t looking. Or stopping. I really just want bottled water.

Her: You know who else was a drunk? Janice Dickinson. The scariest supermodel, ever. Have you seen her? She’s full of rage and barely human! AND she slept with Jack Nicholson! TALK ABOUT BAD LIFE CHOICES!

Me: Look, I don’t even WANT… Wait, how do you know that?

Her: It’s common knowledge.

Me: You guys. Seriously. Can we get the water?

Him: Yes. Do you get the message?

Me: That you guys are jerks?

Her: Yes.

For the record, I’ve never been a big drinker, and I haven’t had any alcohol in 8 months. Social anxiety keeps me home a lot and I’ve never been one to drink alone. Also, I know that some of their craziness is real, and centers around the fact that they are finding out their family tree is heavy with addiction. Also, quite probably, their fears about my brother being in rehab.

It’s okay. I love them. And forgive them. And am glad they have such strong views about the hooch. But if they ever try to come between me and a pile of nachos, I swear to god I will shank ‘em.

Is that a tiny crack called “opportunity” I see? SEX TALK!

We went over the basics, which we do every six months or so, anyway.

“It takes two to get pregnant. Asexual reproduction is rare in humans. Even more rare if you are not a biblical character.”

“The pill is good, but doesn’t protect either partner from STD’s. Unless you count pregnancy as an STD. Which I totally do.”

“The only safe sex is solo sex but condoms are a more realistic option and will keep the makeup off of your private parts. Wait, we’re talking about mime sex, right?”

You know, the usual stuff. Punctuated by the usual eye rolls.

As soon as I said the word “masturbation”, my daughter sighed and pulled out her disapproving whisper.

“Should we be talking about this here? I mean, there are children around. Two of which you gave birth to. One of which doesn’t WANT to eat her quesadilla in the bathroom, but WILL if she has to.”

It’s not an usual name but it’s only become popular in the last few years, so she’s one of the oldest kids you will meet with it. You can’t throw a rock in a preschool without hitting one now, but you probably shouldn’t throw rocks in preschools anyway. Somebody might get mad.

Anyway, I’m not big on sugarcoating things or changing stories to suit me, so I’ve always told her the truth.

“It’s not a story for kids. I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

She’s fifteen now, which is officially older, and brought up the subject again a few days ago.

“I just found out that Dylan is named after Dylan Thomas. Isn’t that cool? Why won’t you tell me about MY name? Come on, Mom, where did you get my name from?”

“Okay, fine. You are old enough to know… you were named after my favorite porn star.”

She let out a big sigh and shook her head.

“Is there anything about our family that’s normal?”

Today, I only had one thing on my list, and I had planned it for over a week. I bought tickets in advance, so that I couldn’t be talked out of it and into something else. I really, really wanted to see the movie “Babies”. With my babies.

I didn’t tell the kids where we were going as I could just imagine the sighing and eyerolling and ultimate realization that it was Mother’s Day and they’d have to put on a happy face and see it, anyway. They asked all morning what it was we were going to be doing, but I wouldn’t crack. When we arrived at the movie theater, they seemed relieved. Oh, it was just a movie. Why all the secrecy, then?

We walked up to the door and I pulled the pre-printed tickets out of my purse. Just then, my daughter caught sight of the poster.

“‘BABIES’? We’re going to see a movie called ‘BABIES’??”

Side Note: If you’re not familiar with the movie, it’s a documentary about four babies (one from Namibia, one from Mongolia, one from the US, and one from Japan) who were followed and filmed for the first year of their lives. It’s a quiet study in cultural differences and, as always with projects like this, it actually more clearly points to our similarities. A “One World, One People” kind of thing.

I smiled, as bunches of moviegoers walked past us and into the theater. The crowd was heavy on moms with kids, a lot of them teens. Funny how the further you get from the baby years the more nostalgic you are for them. You know, as opposed to being in the toddler trenches and thinking “I don’t need to pay to see a movie about babies, I am living that shit.”

Anyway, after a preview for Iron Man 2 (where both kids had hoped we were going before realizing that I had dragged them to something, gasp, educational), the movie started. I enjoyed every minute of it. The kids will grumble about how they saw it for me, but I heard them giggle at baby antics and fret over baby falls, in the dark. There was quite a bit of what the poster called “maternal nudity” which was not at all uncomfortable or the least bit sexy. I thought it would be good for the boy to see that, anyway. The truth is that the airbrushed girls in Playboy will look like ladies in Africa after they’ve had a few babies. Trust me, son, the formula for reality-based titties is PERKY – GRAVITY + TIME.

After it was over, we went to grab some dinner. We were tired from having sat in the dark for so long and everyone was quiet. Then, as I knew it would, conversation suddenly opened up, out of nowhere.

“The thing about those babies was that it didn’t matter how much money or stuff their families had, they were almost the same. Whether they were crawling around in dirt in Africa or an apartment in San Francisco.”

“Yeah. The biggest difference is if your mom wears a shirt or not, which is totally not a big deal to a baby, anyway.”

I miss the babies that they were, and I guess I always will, but I really love the people they’ve grown into.

Her: Soooo, what? They just go from city to city, standing in front of places and hating things?

Me: I think that’s the basic idea.

Her: Well, I hope they at least get a tour bus. And some groupies.