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My Edward
“If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do, you have to keep moving forward.” ~ Martin Luther King
You may not know where forward is going to lead you but you do know when you have to do something to help you move in that direction.
He came upon a winter’s night in late February, 2010. Actually, it was a winter’s day but the sentiment is the same. It was out of the blue. Unexpected. Fate. Meant to be. Sometimes, you don’t know what you need until you see it. And when I saw him standing there, as silly as it may sound, I knew I needed to have him. Love at first sight, if you will. Tall, dark and handsome yes, but more than that, he was CREEPY looking; an answer, albeit a slightly disturbing one, to a prayer I didn’t even realize I had. I also knew there were several other younger, prettier girls who were just as determined as I was (if not more-so) to have him. But honestly, somehow I just knew he would be coming home with me that day and he did.
My husband was appalled that I brought him into our home. But after what we had all just been through, I wasn’t concerned about his reaction. Frankly, I didn’t care. Edward was staying. My 12-year old son was embarrassed, “Oh, come on, Mom! Are you kidding me?!” he said, even though I knew he too, was oddly comforted by Edward’s presence in the same twisted way that I was. My 9-year old daughter was amused. A little creeped out but mostly amused. I know he’s raised more than an eyebrow or two in the neighborhood. That was after all, my intention. Although, not one person has actually had the nerve to ask me about him. Not that I would feel compelled or obligated to explain him if they did.
For nearly a year now, he has stood in the long, thin window at a side entrance to our house overseeing our driveway. Without moving, he looks in the direction of our neighbor’s house to our immediate left. The ones who we have lived next door to for 18-years. The neighbors who we share grass with and whose family room I can see right into from our kitchen window. The same ones whose 21-year old son terrorized my family for at least 6 months (that we know of) last year and who the court issued a 5-year Order of Potection against, for each member of my family, including my two children, but that’s another story for another day– maybe.
This, is about Edward. My Edward. My 6ft tall, cardboard cut-out of Edward Cullen; the teenage vampire from the Twilight series. I won him in a raffle at a local high school during intermission at a performance of Bye Bye Birdie. He was the prize all the young girls wanted but it was me who had the winning number and I knew it would be.
Edward serves a purpose for me; an irrational one perhaps, but a purpose none the less. He “keeps an eye” on the house next door and the menacing boy who lives there. You can’t come in or out of my neighbor’s driveway (which is adjacent to ours) without seeing Edward in our window or more importantly, without him seeing you. He looks very real. Like the movie character, my cardboard cut-out has deep, dark, smoldering eyes; the kind that make you feel uneasy as though he is looking through you and not at you; like he’s judging you. The kind that say, ‘That’s right, I’m watching you, now — punk.’ He’s perfect. And he’s not going anywhere; not at least until I do.
He brings me comfort in a way that’s difficult to adequately verbalize. I don’t really expect people to understand. His presence helped me take those first few steps forward that I needed to take last February and since then, we’ve even managed to take Edward out and have a little fun with him from time to time.
You never know what life is going to bring you. Living life on life’s terms is not always easy and we all need to be comforted every once in a while, for whatever reason. Some people turn inward or to a friend or a pet. Others find solace in a bottle or in food. Me, I found a little bit of peace of mind in a cardboard cut-out with dark, smoldering, piercing eyes.
Mother of the Year, I am Not!

As a parent I strive to expose my children to culture; music of all types, galleries, museums, plays and the like. The goal of course, is to make them well-rounded members of society able to participate in a wide range of conversations, having a little bit of knowledge in a variety of subject matter. So, when I recently realized last year’s Christmas present, tickets to Westchester’s Broadway Dinner Theater, were days from expiring and having no desire to let $80 a ticket fly out the window, I did what I thought any good mom would do; reserve seats at the show, whatever it was. How bad can it be? Jekyll and Hyde. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, it was a musical. Aren’t all musicals lighthearted and gay? Question: At the age of 45 and since this tale has been around, oh, since 1886, how is it possible I did not know the plot and ending? Doesn’t everyone know “the work is commonly associated with the rare mental condition often spuriously called split personality, wherein within the same person there is both an apparently good and an evil…” ? Isn’t it common knowledge that Mr. Hyde wreaks havoc (by way of murder) on the streets of london once Dr. Jekyll injects himself with the mind altering serum? Apparently not, not me anyway. It must have been the word “musical” that made it all seem, well, like a good idea at the time. Lesson learned: Just because it has the word “musical” in it, doesn’t mean it’s a happy play.
It never dawned on me for one second that my sweet, sensitive, caring, 9-year old daughter would be so disturbed by the this performance that she would be exposed to the crumbs on the floor underneath our table, rather than the “culture” on the stage for the better part of Act II. You would think one would take note when their child notices she is one of only two, maybe three other children in the theater. But when she asks outright, “Mom, what is this rated? Am I even allowed to be here?”, surely this is a red flag for any parent. Wisdom to impart: Taking your 9-year old to a play that explores man’s internal battle between good and evil and re-enacts the killing of an innocent love interest (among several others) is well, ill-advised.
Hindsight and parenthood. It seems pretty clear now. We spent the hour’s ride home discussing the broader more philosophical meanings behind this sad and fairly gory play and she came away only slightly scarred. I think she gets it now, somewhat. I would have rather had that discussion oh, say, when she was 12 or 13 maybe instead of 9. So mother of the year, I am not but try I can and so I will.
Tell me, have you survived a similar parental faux pas or inadvertently bestowed one?
I’d love to know I’m not alone.








