This girl.
And I got some. The good kind, with REM sleep. And dreams.
My dreams are usually pretty funky but these were wacky even by my standards, featuring a cousin, my father, my brother, some Soprano's type dude, a former co worker, my grandfather, and a whole bunch of wacky circumstances involving professional yard sale selling and a secret vault and a hidden key -
You know what? I think I need some more sleep. One night is not enough to counter chronic sleep deprivation - so I'm off. (This will get better. And easier. Probably.)
Friday, January 10, 2014
Thursday, January 9, 2014
So Much To Say
And too busy to say it or think it through properly.
I have a column due; struggling on that front.
Laundry Hill growing into Laundry Mountain.
Adjusting to being two, easily, and trying to enjoy it instead of fretting about how quickly it goes by.
Children. Driving. Me. CRAZY.
Anyway.
I posted. Job done. Back again later.
I have a column due; struggling on that front.
Laundry Hill growing into Laundry Mountain.
Adjusting to being two, easily, and trying to enjoy it instead of fretting about how quickly it goes by.
Children. Driving. Me. CRAZY.
Anyway.
I posted. Job done. Back again later.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
(You've Got) The Magic Touch
Last night while I was waiting at the airport, I had some time to sit and indulge in some voyeurism.
People lined up at the gate and waited for someone. Parents..children...spouses...lovers, friends, brothers...
They fidgeted. They tapped their feet. They tapped their smartphones. They looked around. They sipped coffee and water, their faces betraying their anxiety, eagerness, impatience.
And one by each, as their loved ones came through the doors, wheeling their luggage or pushing a cart, their faces would change, muscles relaxing into smiles, laughing, shouting out to each other, some growing tearful - and I began to notice something.
As soon as they were able, every time - every single time - someone came through the gate to be met by someone else, they made physical contact. Handshake, shoulder clap, hug, kiss, high five, pat on the back - it didn't seem to matter. Men, women, children - the young, the elderly, the middle aged, the teenagers - it seemed like they were all compelled to achieve that physical connection as soon as possible.
They've done studies determining how important physical touch is - the impact it has on mood, self esteem, depression, health - not just for the huggee, but for the hugger as well. And at the end of the day, I guess we not only want it, but we need it. And somewhere in our collective consciousness, maybe we know it. Or maybe it's being largely deprived of touch during your travel and flight times, apart from the lucky few who are treated to a TSA grope or a handsy seatmate. But I really think it goes deeper than that.
We are affiliative creatures by nature. No matter how stodgy or badass or frosty or elsewise impervious my fellow airporters presented themselves to the world, they all wanted that touch. So consider the notion that while you might recognize how you benefit from receiving physical touch, you can also meet the inherent human need of others by simply by making physical contact with them.
It's astonishing and wonderful. And I found the whole thing rather...er... touching.
People lined up at the gate and waited for someone. Parents..children...spouses...lovers, friends, brothers...
They fidgeted. They tapped their feet. They tapped their smartphones. They looked around. They sipped coffee and water, their faces betraying their anxiety, eagerness, impatience.
And one by each, as their loved ones came through the doors, wheeling their luggage or pushing a cart, their faces would change, muscles relaxing into smiles, laughing, shouting out to each other, some growing tearful - and I began to notice something.
As soon as they were able, every time - every single time - someone came through the gate to be met by someone else, they made physical contact. Handshake, shoulder clap, hug, kiss, high five, pat on the back - it didn't seem to matter. Men, women, children - the young, the elderly, the middle aged, the teenagers - it seemed like they were all compelled to achieve that physical connection as soon as possible.
They've done studies determining how important physical touch is - the impact it has on mood, self esteem, depression, health - not just for the huggee, but for the hugger as well. And at the end of the day, I guess we not only want it, but we need it. And somewhere in our collective consciousness, maybe we know it. Or maybe it's being largely deprived of touch during your travel and flight times, apart from the lucky few who are treated to a TSA grope or a handsy seatmate. But I really think it goes deeper than that.
We are affiliative creatures by nature. No matter how stodgy or badass or frosty or elsewise impervious my fellow airporters presented themselves to the world, they all wanted that touch. So consider the notion that while you might recognize how you benefit from receiving physical touch, you can also meet the inherent human need of others by simply by making physical contact with them.
It's astonishing and wonderful. And I found the whole thing rather...er... touching.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Watching & Waiting
I've spent nearly 8 months watching the calendar and the clocks, and a while tonight watching the Arrivals Gate and waiting on The Man's arrival.
Been busy trying to make the house look like somewhere you'd want to stay and trying to hide evidence of my shopping, er, habit. (Fail.)
Not much time to write, as the day is nearly done but he is here and I am happy and I'll be back later. Play nicely, now.
Been busy trying to make the house look like somewhere you'd want to stay and trying to hide evidence of my shopping, er, habit. (Fail.)
Not much time to write, as the day is nearly done but he is here and I am happy and I'll be back later. Play nicely, now.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
I Want A New Drug
When I was growing up, I thought it was typical parental bullheadedness when they wouldn't buy a Ferrari like the one Magnum P.I. drove. "It's too expensive." Well, they said that about Nikes too, and dang if I didn't eventually get those, so what's the problem here?
It's hard for kids to sometimes sort out what's practical and what's parental stodginess and what's parental meanness - - exerting their authority just because they can. Not that I would know anything about that.
My children think I'm the Meanest Mother Ever. When they lob that accusation at me, I thank them and tell them that it's the best reassurance I have that I'm doing my job properly. Also, that the hospital made me sign a contract before I took them home, promising to make their lives miserable. After this there are dark looks and mutterings for a while, but I have come to enjoy it.
Anyway, I digress.
As an adult and a parent, I now understand why a Ferrari was a big "NO". Not only is it indeed too expensive, it's also ridiculously impractical. Where do the groceries go? The baseball equipment? The pet carrier? HOW DO YOU SEPARATE YOUR CHILDREN IN A FERRARI?
I'm about a million miles away from driving a Ferrari. I wanted a hip SUV - something sporty and 'up' a little bit, with heated seats and maybe a moonroof, with a great sound system, frosty a/c, three rows and lots o space.
What I ACTUALLY drive is a non hip, non sporty Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber of the most mundane kind. The seats are not heated, there is no moonroof, the a/c is profoundly broken and the sound system, while operative, could never be called 'great'.
However.
There are three rows.
This is essential.
I can't overstate this matter; I need. NEED! To be able to separate my children while we hurtle along over the roads here, for the safety and mental wellness of all parties involved.
Most parents of more than one child know too well what it's like when the little darlings behind you set up howling about whether their brother is encroaching on their seat space or who's touching whose chicken McNuggets or what-have-you... and it is nearly inevitable that parents wind up flailing blindly, one arm swinging into the backseat hoping to make contact with someone and break up the mayhem.
No-one will, of course, admit to this. But we all have our limits and for some reason, these fools like to pick the car as the place to start Something.
Adding insult to injury, my children are not run of the mill kids. They both have High Functioning Autism, which is a lot like Rain Man Lite. There's clinically diagnosed Anxiety Disorder, OCD, Sensory Integration Issues, Emotional Dysregulation, Impulse Control and, in one of them, a scorching unspecified mood disorder. (To be honest, one of them has a condition called Pathological Demand Avoidance Syndrome which is a completely frustrating experience unto itself because, surprise!, it is not a condition recognized in the U.S., where we live, and yes, it is all EVERY BIT as fun as it sounds.)
This is more than a job. This is more than TWO jobs. This is a LIFESTYLE. And honestly, forget the damn Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber, I should be driving a short bus. I'm not sure THAT would be big enough to keep them from kicking / throwing / yelling / looking at each other.
The point is this: There is medication involved now. The younger child has been on several highly recommended medications, 'well tolerated' and 'within established protocol for pediatric use' to try and curb his aggressive outbursts. The first one would seem to work...then not. So they'd increase the dose. Then it would seem to work. ...Then...not. So they'd increase the dose. Lather, rinse, repeat. FAIL. They tried another drug with more 'sedating' properties; mega, ultra, King Kong sized fail. Drug # 3, a different class of drug entirely, given the failure of the last two, has also proved an abject failure. Now we are on Drug #4. It will take a week or two for Drug 3 to leave the building, as it were, and we are approaching the end of week 2. Drug 4 is on day 2. (Could I make this any more confusing?)
The first day and a half of Drug 4 was a dream. My child reverted from a thorny, combative aggressor to his toddler self - a sweet, dreamy, affectionate, giggly boy who loved elephants and cuddling. I am desperately hoping this is the right drug for him because I fear for everyone's well being in terms of the psychic trauma being done all the time.
But by nighttime, my sweet boy had vanished behind this unspeakable hostility again; a barbed, unstable hostility with teeth in it, and entirely without logic or rationale he is able to explain.
Several tricks-up-my-sleeve later, he was back - giggling in his tub full of bubbles. He made me an apology skit using an app on his tablet, featuring dancing hearts and animated cats meowing, "I love my mama", "I didn't mean to be mean to my mama", asking for hugs, kissing hands, and his bedtime songs.
I am so glad to see this child again - and I wish there were a medication to keep him at the fore and better manage the other stuff. I hope this is it. Because THIS kid could probably manage an injury free car ride with his brother in the second row of the Grocery Grabber. And someday, possibly in a ferrari.
It's hard for kids to sometimes sort out what's practical and what's parental stodginess and what's parental meanness - - exerting their authority just because they can. Not that I would know anything about that.
My children think I'm the Meanest Mother Ever. When they lob that accusation at me, I thank them and tell them that it's the best reassurance I have that I'm doing my job properly. Also, that the hospital made me sign a contract before I took them home, promising to make their lives miserable. After this there are dark looks and mutterings for a while, but I have come to enjoy it.
Anyway, I digress.
As an adult and a parent, I now understand why a Ferrari was a big "NO". Not only is it indeed too expensive, it's also ridiculously impractical. Where do the groceries go? The baseball equipment? The pet carrier? HOW DO YOU SEPARATE YOUR CHILDREN IN A FERRARI?
I'm about a million miles away from driving a Ferrari. I wanted a hip SUV - something sporty and 'up' a little bit, with heated seats and maybe a moonroof, with a great sound system, frosty a/c, three rows and lots o space.
What I ACTUALLY drive is a non hip, non sporty Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber of the most mundane kind. The seats are not heated, there is no moonroof, the a/c is profoundly broken and the sound system, while operative, could never be called 'great'.
However.
There are three rows.
This is essential.
I can't overstate this matter; I need. NEED! To be able to separate my children while we hurtle along over the roads here, for the safety and mental wellness of all parties involved.
Most parents of more than one child know too well what it's like when the little darlings behind you set up howling about whether their brother is encroaching on their seat space or who's touching whose chicken McNuggets or what-have-you... and it is nearly inevitable that parents wind up flailing blindly, one arm swinging into the backseat hoping to make contact with someone and break up the mayhem.
No-one will, of course, admit to this. But we all have our limits and for some reason, these fools like to pick the car as the place to start Something.
Adding insult to injury, my children are not run of the mill kids. They both have High Functioning Autism, which is a lot like Rain Man Lite. There's clinically diagnosed Anxiety Disorder, OCD, Sensory Integration Issues, Emotional Dysregulation, Impulse Control and, in one of them, a scorching unspecified mood disorder. (To be honest, one of them has a condition called Pathological Demand Avoidance Syndrome which is a completely frustrating experience unto itself because, surprise!, it is not a condition recognized in the U.S., where we live, and yes, it is all EVERY BIT as fun as it sounds.)
This is more than a job. This is more than TWO jobs. This is a LIFESTYLE. And honestly, forget the damn Family Truckster slash Grocery Grabber, I should be driving a short bus. I'm not sure THAT would be big enough to keep them from kicking / throwing / yelling / looking at each other.
The point is this: There is medication involved now. The younger child has been on several highly recommended medications, 'well tolerated' and 'within established protocol for pediatric use' to try and curb his aggressive outbursts. The first one would seem to work...then not. So they'd increase the dose. Then it would seem to work. ...Then...not. So they'd increase the dose. Lather, rinse, repeat. FAIL. They tried another drug with more 'sedating' properties; mega, ultra, King Kong sized fail. Drug # 3, a different class of drug entirely, given the failure of the last two, has also proved an abject failure. Now we are on Drug #4. It will take a week or two for Drug 3 to leave the building, as it were, and we are approaching the end of week 2. Drug 4 is on day 2. (Could I make this any more confusing?)
The first day and a half of Drug 4 was a dream. My child reverted from a thorny, combative aggressor to his toddler self - a sweet, dreamy, affectionate, giggly boy who loved elephants and cuddling. I am desperately hoping this is the right drug for him because I fear for everyone's well being in terms of the psychic trauma being done all the time.
But by nighttime, my sweet boy had vanished behind this unspeakable hostility again; a barbed, unstable hostility with teeth in it, and entirely without logic or rationale he is able to explain.
Several tricks-up-my-sleeve later, he was back - giggling in his tub full of bubbles. He made me an apology skit using an app on his tablet, featuring dancing hearts and animated cats meowing, "I love my mama", "I didn't mean to be mean to my mama", asking for hugs, kissing hands, and his bedtime songs.
I am so glad to see this child again - and I wish there were a medication to keep him at the fore and better manage the other stuff. I hope this is it. Because THIS kid could probably manage an injury free car ride with his brother in the second row of the Grocery Grabber. And someday, possibly in a ferrari.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot
To round out the first week of the new year, and because I simply cannot have enough fun at once, I came down with a fever. Yay nature.
I'm not stoic or brave; I'm not a particularly good patient...apart from having good pyjamas and exelling at being waited upon...in theory, at least.
So I've been to the blog, I've said my piece and I'm off to hunker down in my pillow fort with my Tylenol, a bottle of water and a pile of blankets.
And some cowbell. Definitely need some more cowbell: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/more-cowbell/n41046/
I'm not stoic or brave; I'm not a particularly good patient...apart from having good pyjamas and exelling at being waited upon...in theory, at least.
So I've been to the blog, I've said my piece and I'm off to hunker down in my pillow fort with my Tylenol, a bottle of water and a pile of blankets.
And some cowbell. Definitely need some more cowbell: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/more-cowbell/n41046/
Friday, January 3, 2014
10th Avenue Freezeout
Sorry, Bruce.
So, snow from yesterday. Also a klonopin before bed, hence an abrupt and fairly strange (albeit true) signoff.
Still snow today. Drifts and ice and an unwelcome reminder that age is not kind to us in a lot of ways. But we are shoveled out - and plowed out as well, thanks to some wonderful friends / neighbors. "Snow Plow" will soon be a line item in the winter budget because HELL YES, that made life so much easier.
Anyway.
Not a lot to say. I've got a vicious chill down to the bone, and can't warm up. I just want to go to bed, so I'm in flannels and fuzzy socks and under three blankets and the heat is set to 66. And I'm still cold. So I'm thinking sleep will be the kindest thing. Possibly the most sensible thing as well.
Meantime, I am sticking to my resolve.
However, my brain is stuck in an icy, snowflake frosted rut and I hope - really, really hope - that it thaws soon so I can come up with something more compelling and indeed, something worth reading.
I did suspect this might happen, so I took measures to protect myself from...myself, and the writer's block I come up against far too often.
I bought a book. Not just any book - a book of writing prompts. So when stuck, if nothing else, I can dip into the book, pull a prompt and at least churn out something.
Prompt: Write a poem about a tomato
Oh tomato, on the vine
How I wish that you were mine
Angry orange, red and frightful
You taste like sunshine; so delightful
My tomatoes grow so green
I water, fertilize and preen
And then, sans warning, they are dead
I stamp my feet and wrack my head
A mystery; I don't know why
they bloom upon the vine and die
They never color, never flourish
They drop to earth and turn to mush
I won't try tomatoes anymore
I'll have to buy them from the store
===========================================
So, snow from yesterday. Also a klonopin before bed, hence an abrupt and fairly strange (albeit true) signoff.
Still snow today. Drifts and ice and an unwelcome reminder that age is not kind to us in a lot of ways. But we are shoveled out - and plowed out as well, thanks to some wonderful friends / neighbors. "Snow Plow" will soon be a line item in the winter budget because HELL YES, that made life so much easier.
Anyway.
Not a lot to say. I've got a vicious chill down to the bone, and can't warm up. I just want to go to bed, so I'm in flannels and fuzzy socks and under three blankets and the heat is set to 66. And I'm still cold. So I'm thinking sleep will be the kindest thing. Possibly the most sensible thing as well.
Meantime, I am sticking to my resolve.
However, my brain is stuck in an icy, snowflake frosted rut and I hope - really, really hope - that it thaws soon so I can come up with something more compelling and indeed, something worth reading.
I did suspect this might happen, so I took measures to protect myself from...myself, and the writer's block I come up against far too often.
I bought a book. Not just any book - a book of writing prompts. So when stuck, if nothing else, I can dip into the book, pull a prompt and at least churn out something.
Prompt: Write a poem about a tomato
Oh tomato, on the vine
How I wish that you were mine
Angry orange, red and frightful
You taste like sunshine; so delightful
My tomatoes grow so green
I water, fertilize and preen
And then, sans warning, they are dead
I stamp my feet and wrack my head
A mystery; I don't know why
they bloom upon the vine and die
They never color, never flourish
They drop to earth and turn to mush
I won't try tomatoes anymore
I'll have to buy them from the store
===========================================
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Snow (Hey, Oh)
The forecast calls for snow, and lots of it.
School was cancelled, which honestly, was a relief because I simply have no internal resources remaining after the last <s>year</s> twelve days with which to constructively manage the early morning tug of war regarding who's going.
So really, dodged a bit of an academic bullet there.
However.
The absence of school means this was day thirteen of school vacation. THIRTEEN. That. Is a lot of consecutive days playing referee around the clock. I don't even have a whistle.
A lot of time today was spent doing productive pre-storm things like salting steps, arranging a snow plow for tomorrow, gassing up the family truckster, and washing Mount Laundry. We made fajitas, chowder, sandwiches, cupcakes and tea. We watched Modern Family and the children made, and promptly decapitated, a little snowman. (This is major; their sensory integration issues are so profound, I spent the first 7-9 years of their lives wiping snow off their coats and boots, because it made them weep to have specks on them - and woe betide she who allowed snow to touch their tender skin!)
And there were the bat-crap crazy escalations, meltdowns, freezeouts, and flailing-thrashing-shouting episodes. All the flappy, tearful, awkward stuff that comes with Autism Spectrum Disorders which most people will TELL you 'all kids go through' but I assure you, it's a whole other brand of kid. Autism is not a blessing. It's just how it is, and I accept it and even embrace it. I embrace it because it's my children's reality, and I love them beyond anything I could impart in words or art or interpretive dance. But it's not for the faint of heart. Regrettably, I am faint of heart. Apparently the Universe didn't get the memo.
So anyway, the blizzard is kicking up and the wind is howling and spitting snow at the house; as long as the power stays on, we'll be fine. We are well prepared. (Except that *someone* forgot to go buy wine; really?) Initially, we were due to get 4-6 inches. Maybe 6-8. Or...well, 8-10. Yes. A foot, max. Except that it might be 14 inches.
It just went on like that.
The current weather / storm warning for the coastal area is 24" of the freezy white stuff.
I know this isn't riveting stuff but I really do want to hold myself to the goal of writing every day. So bear with me; it's really been a very long 13 days. Did I mention it's been thirteen days?
Side Note:
Two words I love the sound of - Exculpatory. Frangible.
School was cancelled, which honestly, was a relief because I simply have no internal resources remaining after the last <s>year</s> twelve days with which to constructively manage the early morning tug of war regarding who's going.
So really, dodged a bit of an academic bullet there.
However.
The absence of school means this was day thirteen of school vacation. THIRTEEN. That. Is a lot of consecutive days playing referee around the clock. I don't even have a whistle.
A lot of time today was spent doing productive pre-storm things like salting steps, arranging a snow plow for tomorrow, gassing up the family truckster, and washing Mount Laundry. We made fajitas, chowder, sandwiches, cupcakes and tea. We watched Modern Family and the children made, and promptly decapitated, a little snowman. (This is major; their sensory integration issues are so profound, I spent the first 7-9 years of their lives wiping snow off their coats and boots, because it made them weep to have specks on them - and woe betide she who allowed snow to touch their tender skin!)
And there were the bat-crap crazy escalations, meltdowns, freezeouts, and flailing-thrashing-shouting episodes. All the flappy, tearful, awkward stuff that comes with Autism Spectrum Disorders which most people will TELL you 'all kids go through' but I assure you, it's a whole other brand of kid. Autism is not a blessing. It's just how it is, and I accept it and even embrace it. I embrace it because it's my children's reality, and I love them beyond anything I could impart in words or art or interpretive dance. But it's not for the faint of heart. Regrettably, I am faint of heart. Apparently the Universe didn't get the memo.
So anyway, the blizzard is kicking up and the wind is howling and spitting snow at the house; as long as the power stays on, we'll be fine. We are well prepared. (Except that *someone* forgot to go buy wine; really?) Initially, we were due to get 4-6 inches. Maybe 6-8. Or...well, 8-10. Yes. A foot, max. Except that it might be 14 inches.
It just went on like that.
The current weather / storm warning for the coastal area is 24" of the freezy white stuff.
I know this isn't riveting stuff but I really do want to hold myself to the goal of writing every day. So bear with me; it's really been a very long 13 days. Did I mention it's been thirteen days?
Side Note:
Two words I love the sound of - Exculpatory. Frangible.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Only The Good Die Young
The year began with a loss.
Actually, if we're splitting hairs here, the new year began with a rousing call of "Rabbit, Rabbit", a deep, purging breath to exhale away all the tumult that was 2013, and a solid plan for how best to use the day ahead.
But loss was the theme of the day.
It wasn't all bad. It started out okay, actually.
The first losses were deliberate, carefully orchestrated affairs, although I suppose they were not so much loss as forcible expulsion; two rubbermaid totes filled with outgrown jeans and household effluvia that needed to go. It was packed, driven across town and fondly shoved into charity donation bins. Result!
Then came the actual loss.
Loss of expectations: I had to toss those out the window of the extremely sexy family truckster as we spluttered around town doing glamorous errands; one child, thoroughly dysregulated, and one child lashing out at him in sensory overload. It was fantastic. Not.
Loss of moola: Sometimes, you just run out of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g at the same time. That time, for us, was five minutes after Christmas was over. However, due to a very ill-behaved set of nerves (occipital & trigeminal, for the medically savvy or particularly interested), I wound up spending a few days in bed unable to move very much or very well. Erego - the running-out-of-everything-ness. You see what I'm saying here.
Loss of hope: This has been one of the longest Christmas vacations I can remember. I'd had great hopes for it, but between feeling quite poorly and the neurological misfiring, it was just grim. There were moments, of course - a stolen snuggle, a shared laugh, a cooperative venture between brothers, sans bloodshed - but it was a challenging twelve days. TWELVE DAYS. I don't think this is what the Twelve Days of Christmas are supposed to be about; on the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me...Twelve nervous eye tics, eleven hopeless head shakes, ten fists a shaking, nine rounds of whining, eight consequences, seven thrown Skylanders, six (thousand) scattered Legos, fiiiiiiiiiiive ...tiiiiiiiime outs.... four rolling eyeballs, three crying tantrums, two unhappy boys, and a mother who deserves a glass of wine.
Moving on. Loss. After this DAZZLING Christmas vacation - the forecast calls for snow. Lots and lots o snow. Starting. Tonight. Which means...drum roll please... NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!! There was much rejoicing in the playroom. In the kitchen, over the sink, less so. On the other hand, there will be no mad dash in the morning to get lunches made or find any one of the rogue underpants which have hidden from my 9 year old in the last couple of days... so a loss of ideals as well.
Then there is the to-do list. It loses. I know when I'm beat.
I had conceded defeat to the day. It just didn't go the way I intended. So - perhaps my lesson was meant to be compromise, flexibility, adjustment, collaboration. I can work with that.
And then.
We all have that friend who goes to bed early , and when they call you past their designated bedtime, you just know the news isn't good. And it wasn't.
A boy we'd gone to school with - a man, now, really - had died. Specifics unknown, and kind of irrelevant - it was the fact of this former football player with arms like Popeye and a Paul Bunyon chest, twinkly eyes and a GQ face, being dead. Dead? What? I listened to my friend and then we hung up, because I needed to tell another friend; my oldest friend, who had been utterly infatuated with the decedent for years. For. YEARS. We stalked him in the hallways, at the football games, and once she got her license, we did drive bys of his house; no simple thing, since he lived on a tiny cul de sac. For ages, he was the focal point of her life. And I had to tell her he was dead before she read it on Facebook.
But I couldn't call her, because I couldn't get my head around the facts. I called Early Sleeper back. GQ was dead? Really? Had I understood correctly? Regrettably, yes. I tried Stalker again. And again. And again. Her iphone had conked out. By the time it had juice again, I had blown it up with texts, FB messages, and God help me, an actual voicemail.
Not a lovely conversation to have.
It's terribly sad.
I had about two micrograms left of Infallibility from my youth. And just like that - they left the building.
2013 kicked me in the rear end pretty badly. I would like it a lot if 2014 was not all about loss. I like to start as I mean to go on - so I've been trying to absorb this shock to my already beleaguered system and spin it into a positive notion with which to lead the year: A reminder to live while you're here. A reminder to go for it, to carpe diem, to seize every chance. To live, live, LIVE! Live hard, live fully, live authentically. Live from the heart.
Because really, otherwise - - is it living at all?
This isn't exactly the glorious whimsy I'd hoped to start my blog with, if I'm being honest, but whimsy and whim are close enough and on a whim, I decided to write what was on my heart; the authentic, horrible reality.
Back tomorrow; hopefully with something less rending. I hope you'll be back as well. It would be a pity if, having resurrected my blog and attempting to write every day, nobody showed up to the party.
Party. Well. You know. This could hardly be called a party.
And this is why 'tangential musings' get to headline.
Actually, if we're splitting hairs here, the new year began with a rousing call of "Rabbit, Rabbit", a deep, purging breath to exhale away all the tumult that was 2013, and a solid plan for how best to use the day ahead.
But loss was the theme of the day.
It wasn't all bad. It started out okay, actually.
The first losses were deliberate, carefully orchestrated affairs, although I suppose they were not so much loss as forcible expulsion; two rubbermaid totes filled with outgrown jeans and household effluvia that needed to go. It was packed, driven across town and fondly shoved into charity donation bins. Result!
Then came the actual loss.
Loss of expectations: I had to toss those out the window of the extremely sexy family truckster as we spluttered around town doing glamorous errands; one child, thoroughly dysregulated, and one child lashing out at him in sensory overload. It was fantastic. Not.
Loss of moola: Sometimes, you just run out of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g at the same time. That time, for us, was five minutes after Christmas was over. However, due to a very ill-behaved set of nerves (occipital & trigeminal, for the medically savvy or particularly interested), I wound up spending a few days in bed unable to move very much or very well. Erego - the running-out-of-everything-ness. You see what I'm saying here.
Loss of hope: This has been one of the longest Christmas vacations I can remember. I'd had great hopes for it, but between feeling quite poorly and the neurological misfiring, it was just grim. There were moments, of course - a stolen snuggle, a shared laugh, a cooperative venture between brothers, sans bloodshed - but it was a challenging twelve days. TWELVE DAYS. I don't think this is what the Twelve Days of Christmas are supposed to be about; on the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me...Twelve nervous eye tics, eleven hopeless head shakes, ten fists a shaking, nine rounds of whining, eight consequences, seven thrown Skylanders, six (thousand) scattered Legos, fiiiiiiiiiiive ...tiiiiiiiime outs.... four rolling eyeballs, three crying tantrums, two unhappy boys, and a mother who deserves a glass of wine.
Moving on. Loss. After this DAZZLING Christmas vacation - the forecast calls for snow. Lots and lots o snow. Starting. Tonight. Which means...drum roll please... NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!! There was much rejoicing in the playroom. In the kitchen, over the sink, less so. On the other hand, there will be no mad dash in the morning to get lunches made or find any one of the rogue underpants which have hidden from my 9 year old in the last couple of days... so a loss of ideals as well.
Then there is the to-do list. It loses. I know when I'm beat.
I had conceded defeat to the day. It just didn't go the way I intended. So - perhaps my lesson was meant to be compromise, flexibility, adjustment, collaboration. I can work with that.
And then.
We all have that friend who goes to bed early , and when they call you past their designated bedtime, you just know the news isn't good. And it wasn't.
A boy we'd gone to school with - a man, now, really - had died. Specifics unknown, and kind of irrelevant - it was the fact of this former football player with arms like Popeye and a Paul Bunyon chest, twinkly eyes and a GQ face, being dead. Dead? What? I listened to my friend and then we hung up, because I needed to tell another friend; my oldest friend, who had been utterly infatuated with the decedent for years. For. YEARS. We stalked him in the hallways, at the football games, and once she got her license, we did drive bys of his house; no simple thing, since he lived on a tiny cul de sac. For ages, he was the focal point of her life. And I had to tell her he was dead before she read it on Facebook.
But I couldn't call her, because I couldn't get my head around the facts. I called Early Sleeper back. GQ was dead? Really? Had I understood correctly? Regrettably, yes. I tried Stalker again. And again. And again. Her iphone had conked out. By the time it had juice again, I had blown it up with texts, FB messages, and God help me, an actual voicemail.
Not a lovely conversation to have.
It's terribly sad.
I had about two micrograms left of Infallibility from my youth. And just like that - they left the building.
2013 kicked me in the rear end pretty badly. I would like it a lot if 2014 was not all about loss. I like to start as I mean to go on - so I've been trying to absorb this shock to my already beleaguered system and spin it into a positive notion with which to lead the year: A reminder to live while you're here. A reminder to go for it, to carpe diem, to seize every chance. To live, live, LIVE! Live hard, live fully, live authentically. Live from the heart.
Because really, otherwise - - is it living at all?
This isn't exactly the glorious whimsy I'd hoped to start my blog with, if I'm being honest, but whimsy and whim are close enough and on a whim, I decided to write what was on my heart; the authentic, horrible reality.
Back tomorrow; hopefully with something less rending. I hope you'll be back as well. It would be a pity if, having resurrected my blog and attempting to write every day, nobody showed up to the party.
Party. Well. You know. This could hardly be called a party.
And this is why 'tangential musings' get to headline.
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