Red Writing Hood: The Fog

Today's prompt is to write about this picture. I apologize in advance for any typos--there is a storm rolling in and I am typing very fast!



Whenever I see fog rolling in around me, it always makes me hesitate. I don't think that the moisture droplets in the fog are actually alien nanobots here to alter my DNA. That would be odd. Come to think of it, that would be a good plot for a science fiction movie, sort of a Pod People/Stepford Wives thing. But my thoughts don't usually move toward science fiction when I see fog.

There is something about the tide of murkiness surrounding me that implies mystery. On some days, this makes me nervous. I sometimes feel as though the person I am before the fog rolls over me will not be the person I am when the fog dissipates. Maybe this is what it would feel like to have Alzheimer's, I think. Only the fog would be inside of my head. Will pieces of me swirl away in the blankness?

On other days, when I am feeling more adventurous, the grounded wall of clouds rolling beckons to me. Come, it calls. See what is waiting on the other side. I occasionally consider following that invitation. I've had dreams of ending up in a different time, or a different part of the world. That would be very exciting, unless the different time involved dinosaurs. I'm pretty sure that I would not like hanging out with dinosaurs. So I hesitate when the fog rolls in, and I think about what that whiteness holds for me.

Maybe one day I will walk into the fog. Maybe one day the cares and the worries that tie me here will fall away, until I walk out of the fog into the sunshine of a blue sky, my bare feet stepping on soft green grass. "And all will be well and all will be well, and all manner of things be well" Don't know who wrote that quote, but it fits.

A Label By Any Other Name...Might Be Stinky

Mama Kat's Prompt: What's your stance on 'labeling'? Were you labeled as a child? Have you labeled your own children? How do you feel about this?

My child has several labels, one of which is "Preemie". "Preemie" is a label that tells a teacher and other professions that there might be some hiccups in a child's development. When I read that a child was born prematurely in a referral to special education, I pay close attention. However, Zane is an extremely healthy child who seems to have escaped the health and cognitive issues that many premature babies seem to have. In fact, he is bigger than his friend who was full-term. The label no longer really applies, as far as I'm concerned. Yet he was born prematurely, so the label stays.

Labels are an important part of what I do. I work with students who have been referred for special education services, to see if one of the disabilities we serve, Autism, Specific Learning Disabilities, Other Health Impaired, etc., applies to that student. A label is a descriptor of ONE aspect of a child, as it pertains to education. If a teacher hears that a child is intellectually disabled, for example, she will have an expectation of what a child might be able to do the first time she see him/her. In this instance, labels are a starting point, a baseline. This is where we are, the initial label says. The label gets you on the bus, but it doesn't tell you where to go. (That is what the IEP does--it maps out the steps for the child to get where they need to be, or at least heading in that direction.) This is where most people become confused; they see the label as the end point, not the beginning. Once they hear the words 'intellectually disabled', they think that they know all there is to know about the person. They couldn't be more wrong.

We have turkey vultures around these parts. Turkey vultures, or turkey buzzards, as we call them, are downright ugly, creepy birds. I am serious. Look at them! (I tried to take a picture of one of them, but I usually only see them feasting on deer or squirrel carcasses when I am driving. Police officers tend to frown on people who try to drive while taking pictures, and I've already used the "It's for my blog!" excuse.)

The turkey vultures carry a multitude of labels, in addition to being ugly and creepy. Most of those labels are very negative. Ungainly, carrion-eaters, stinky...I could go on. All of those labels are true and factual. Yet when those very well labeled birds take to the sky, other labels suddenly apply: graceful, majestic. Wings stretched out as far as possible, soaring gracefully in slow circles. effortlessly flying through the sky, the very ugly bird becomes something else, and that is beautiful.

No one is ever the sum of one label.

Delusions of Gander

I am a pretty hopeful person. Or delusional. I never can tell. Which brings up other questions, because it is a tangential sort of day.

Does a delusional person know they are delusional? If you know that you are delusional, are you still delusional?

As many people out there who are diagnosed with autism, maybe they are the 'normals' now. Genetic shifts happen all the time, you know! Or is that just MY family tree? Moving on...

I am getting used to the idea that cats are very punctual. Every morning at 6am, ALL of the cats are waiting for me to get up and feed them. Even the feral ones are sitting on my back step, waiting. I'd give them a key, but then I'd have to give them the code for the house alarm.

Tonight at soccer practice the father of one of the girls on Zane's team apologized to me. He told me that she had only just turned three, and he seemed a bit embarrassed. I thought that was kind of sad. You never hear dads making excuses for their sons in sporting events.

If one more person posts that "Facebook will begin charging" rumor, I am going to scream. Just letting you know right now. I am a loud screamer--you may be able to hear me.

RemembeRED: The Story of my Life

Prompt: Congratulations! Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script. Write the opening scene for the movie. Would you begin with a visual montage? Voice-over? Flashback or forward? A conversation? The trick here is to look through a lens. The camera needs to tell the story through visuals, action, dialogue. Yeah, I'm not really very secure about this, but I'm trying it anyway. Fake it 'til you make it, right?

Flash Forward: The scene begins at a nursing home situated on a hill. Two little old ladies are sitting hunched closely together in their wheelchairs on the porch. One of the ladies, Laura, is watching the cars passing by at the bottom of the hill very intently; the other woman, Tina, has dozed off, her head slumped so that her chin rests on her chest. She snores a little, and there may be sleep drool. Laura notices that her friend is asleep. She smiles, then leans over to adjust the blanket that covers the legs of her friend, then pats her hand. She then returns to her car watching.

A red Volkswagon Beetle speeds by. Laura suddenly sits up straighter in her wheelchair, and her eyes light up with what might be described as fiendish glee. She leans toward her friend Tina and punches her in the arm as hard as she can, yelling "Slugbug!" Laura cackles loudly, and does a turn on her wheelchair, as if celebrating a victory. A very startled Tina jumps upright in the middle of a snort, her blanket flying. She puts her hand on her chest and takes a deep breath. Tina turns to Laura, rubbing her bruised arm.

"What the hell you doing, Laura?" Tina angrily asks. "Why did you hit me? "

"Slugbug!" was all Laura could say, because she is still giggly/cackly, and it's making her start to cough a bit and probably tinkle in her diaper a bit. Tina then recalled that her friend had been waiting for several weeks for VW Beetle to pass by. Just so Laura could yell "Slugbug!" and punch someone in the arm. It was on Laura's bucket list.

Tina sighs heavily, shakes her head and smiles. Flashback; The camera transitions to the front of a college dorm, with Tina and Laura staring down a hill watching traffic go by. A VW Beetle goes by slowly. Laura leans over and punches Tina in the arm, yelling "Slugbug!" Tina rubs her arm where the punch landed, smiles.

The action proceeds from there.

Going on a Bear Hunt

Zane sings a lot of songs. Mostly what he hears at school. We have tried and tried to get him to sing Elvis, just because we think it would be such adorable blackmail video for the teen years. But my son is apparently smarter than his parents, so he sticks to the classic children's songs. Big hits such as "Twinkle Twinkle", "Itsy-Bitsy Spider", and "Put Your Bottle on the Roll".

You heard me correctly. That is how my son's brain interpreted what the teacher was singing. There's also a song called "Dizzy Week". It can be a challenge for Larry and I to figure out what the boy is actually singing. Young children tend to have "mushy-mouth" when they are learning new words, at least until they get the feel of the letter sounds.

I have to try to remember the tune, which for the song referring to putting your bottle on a roll turned out to be "Frere Jacques". If I have that down, I can generally figure out what Zane is singing by the rhythm of his words. In this case, my son was singing a song about putting his bottom on the rug. He was supposed to put his bottom on the rug, then give himself a hug.

Once I understood that, I found the song to be very clever as a way of transitioning to a new activity. The kids sat down on the rug AND by giving themselves a hug, they end up keeping their hands to themselves. I'm convinced that such a song might make staff meetings a little more palatable, but my boss is being stubborn.

And "Dizzy Week"? That's actually a little number called "Days of the Week", but I like Zane's title better. Most of my weeks seem to leave me dizzy.

Occasionally when Zane sings his little songs, he'll insert different words in there. He is playing around with language, which is just fine with me. He'll sit back there in his car seat and giggle to himself.

"Going on a bear hunt, gonna bring some..." Zane was back there one afternoon, singing a new song, a song I actually sort of remembered! I had a sudden grand vision of my son and I laughing and singing silly songs together, doing that bonding that I'm always hearing about. I decided that I would participate in Zane's Bear Hunt.

"Pizza." I helpfully inserted.

(silence) Crap. I try to recover the moment with some humor.

"Hey Zane, did you know that bears REALLY like pizza?"

"I know." If I had turned around at that moment, I would bet money that Zane's eyes would have been rolling.

So much for that mother-son bonding thing.

Darth Vader is the Good Guy?

My son and his father have been watching various Star Wars movies and television shows. They have not seen the newer movies, episodes 1-3, because my husband has a very real fear that Zane will decide that Jar Jar is totally awesome, and Larry loathes Jar Jar with the passion of a thousand white-hot suns. The two of them have also been watching The Clone Wars, and occasionally I catch part of the show.

The Star Wars movies, and the animated series The Clone Wars, are directly marketed to kids. Anakin Skywalker is the hero of the animated show, as far as I can tell. For those who are not acquainted with the story(or those who think that George Lucas should have stopped after the first three movies), Anakin Skywalker, Luke's daddy, becomes...Darth Vader. One of the archetypes of evil.

Yep. The biggest, baddest, evil-est dude in that galaxy far, far, away...is a hero to millions of kids out there. Kids who haven't made the connection between the name Anakin and Darth Vader. What happens when they do make that connection?
This is a super-heavy concept, this idea of a holy warrior ultimately throwing everything away and killing everything in his path to embrace evil, aka the dark side. There is no true happy ending for Anakin. Even if he was ultimately redeemed by his son, Darth Vader spent his life doing many evil things, and he never had a second thought about it, at least not before Luke showed up.

The first three Star Wars movies delineated good and evil perfectly. Everyone knew who was on 'the Dark Side', and there was no doubt. The boundaries were clear--this was good, and this was bad. Darth Vader was very obviously on the bad side, and his very being exuded his evilness, even from the rows of a darkened movie theater.

We had moral certainty. Darth Vader=Evil

But that second trio of movies threw a hitch in there: it turns out that Darth Vader hadn't always been evil. No, Darth had started life as an adorable little blonde kid who grew up to be a Jedi, a hero. He wasn't really bad; he just became that way, at least as far as the movies were concerned.

Our moral certainty went out the window. It went out the window and made a horrific sound as it hit the pavement.

Yet, at some level, we understood the meaning, that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Anakin's journey to the Dark Side began with his intentions of doing good things. Many of us out there have been faced with similar choices, minus the light sabers. Does that mean that we are evil? If so, can we be forgiven?

At some point, my son is going to make the connection, that Anakin=Darth Vader=Evil?. It may be a traumatic realization for him. Of course, I hope that my sweet boy doesn't have his epiphany until he is much, much older. I really don't know how I will answer his future questions; I haven't answered those questions satisfactorily for my self. I would like a little more time to find some answers that make sense.

Special Needs Parents: Morgan's Wonderland is for You!

I am a little obsessive about things being accessible. I can't help it. It's my belief that there is no good reason that places can't be accessible to everyone so that they can independently participate in life to the best of their ability. Unfortunately, lots of fun places for kids are not easily accessible for ALL kids. Which ticks me off; just because a person is in a wheelchair doesn't mean that they don't want to independently play and have fun and just BE. I understand that it is expensive to make doors wider and put handlebars on everything. Businesses are all about the bottom line, and no matter how wrong it is, that's just the way it is.

Here in San Antonio, however, is Morgan's Wonderland. This is, as far as I know, the only truly inclusive amusement park in the country. Gordon Hartman, whom I have never met but seems to be an awesome person, built this park in honor of his daughter Morgan.



I got a chance to explore the park before it was open, and I was blown away. And not just about this awesome sculpture in the front. As I walked around Morgan's Wonderland, all I could think about is how great this place would be for families who have members with special needs.

There are so many things that people without handicaps take for granted. How many people who are wheelchair-bound get to ride a carousel, for instance? Wheelchairs are often bulky and difficult to maneuver for most people. Even if they have a desire to ride on the merry-go-round, there may not be a way for them to get ON the ride independently. This place has a carousel that is accessible to all. An entire family can ride this together.

Morgan's Wonderland has swings for all sorts of sizes and disabilities. They have a Sensory Village, and a lake where kids can shoot a water cannon. There's several playgrounds that are accessible to all; siblings can play together. There is a train that goes around the lake, which I know my son would absolutely love. I did not get to see everything, but what I did see I loved.

Why am I talking about this? How many families with children who have special needs get to go on vacations? How many of those vacations are limited by activities which are not accessible by the entire family? Usually someone has to stay with one child while the other child gets to ride the rides. Wouldn't it be nice to go somewhere that everyone could stay together for the entire day if they wanted?

This is a place that offers that opportunity. Come visit!

Red Writing Hood: Personal Ad

Prompt: Let’s have fun this week. We want you to write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site. The ad should tell us about your character, but should not be a laundry list – and no cliches about walks on the beach.

Make it interesting, unexpected. Is there something your character is trying to hide that you can tell by reading between the lines? Would we know which character it was (if you have a recurring one) by reading the ad? Will something be revealed? We’re not looking for the ad to be part of a piece – we want it to be THE piece. Hmmm...my character is slightly different. Plus, I've never really looked at any personal ads. I know, I'm freaking myself out. Here goes.


Mature Female with "Fiery" Passion Seeks Human Male.

I am a reclusive scholar with a fondness for flying, spelunking, mountains, and lava. I seek a courageous, adventurous male who is strong of mind and purpose. I desire a permanent alliance, as I intend to mate for life. I am to be the matriarch of a large family, so it is vital that my partner be willing to share in the parenting and education of our children, our Gifts. Warriors are preferred; a cunning mind is required. I need someone who is willing to be the Keeper of Secrets, Guardian of Clan, and Protector of Gifts. Loyalty and fidelity are expected and will be rewarded. I have many assets secreted all over the world, so I travel often An acceptance of sudden change may be required; my mate must be able to adapt. Those seeking my favor should apply in person at my home, located on the side of a volcano on the southern-most tip of the continent.

Parents Can Do Things That Teachers Love

School has started for a lot of kids, and parents are nervous. Teachers spend a lot of time with our children, and we want that time to be as positive as it can be. Will this teacher like my kid? we think. Will they smile at him/her as they come into the room? Will they challenge my child to learn, encourage them through challenges, and move them past momentary failures?

Because there is such a tremendous amount of trust in a parent-teacher relationship, there are a lot of things that can go wrong. Shenanigans can occur. Feelings can be hurt, professionalism can be questioned...and unlike when we were all kids, not all issues can be solved with a handshake. Throw special needs into the mix, and it's no wonder an adversarial relationship can develop! It needs to be emphasized, however, that not all of the parent-teacher issues are the fault of the teacher, nor are the parents to bear complete responsibility. Parents and teachers need to work together, united in the best interest of children. There should never be a question of where the focus should be.

Teachers go through some form of training every year that involves working successfully with parents. They have Monday Mail, and websites, and voice mail, among other methods of communication. Teachers are told to respond to parents promptly and to be courteous and respectful no matter what. Parents do not receive any such training. They are not given a list of rules to follow when dealing with teachers, or the school. It is assumed that they know, when that isn't necessarily true. I always tell my husband that he can't just assume that the kids know what to do--he has to tell them what he expects, in clear and precise language.

In the interest of being helpful, then, I offer just a few tips that seem to improve a teacher's perception of a parent. It's not an exhaustive list, and I must emphasize that my list is The Neutral Zone. I work in education, but I also happen to be a parent. Consider me Switzerland.

So, here goes:

1. Communicate, but not too much.
Teachers love to hear from parents, but calling the teacher four or five times a day could be considered stalking in some states. Especially if your child is in college. The communication needs to match the age and the needs of a child. Your average ten year old may only require a weekly email between parent and teacher, while a severely disabled student may need daily communication via a spiral notebook. Notice that I said daily, not hourly. Remember that the time spent returning those four or five phone calls is time spent away from instruction and/or planning.

2. Let your child take some responsibility.
Let your child have the grade they have earned. If they get a discipline referral, let them serve the consequence. Don't go rushing into the principal's office screaming that your child 'deserves' a passing grade, or that they shouldn't have to serve detention because of their poor self-esteem. The message sent here is that a kid never has to actually work at anything, because his mom or dad will 'fix' it. We complain that children have no sense of personal responsibility, yet we 'fix' a lot of things for our kids because we don't want them to fail. Sometimes kids just don't study or don't turn in assignments, and they get a failing grade. That is a natural, real-life consequence that can be applied to the adult world. "If I don't do my work, I don't get the grade" is equal to "If I don't do my job, I don't get paid".

3. If you don't understand something, ask!
There is no harm in asking the teacher to explain the purpose of the assignment or what skill is being taught. Parents often don't want to ask questions because they don't want the teacher to think that they are uninformed; teachers want parents to ask questions because that means that they are actually interested. If a teacher can't explain why she is teaching a concept, then you might have an issue. But you won't know that until you ask.

4. The only constant is change, so be flexible when you can.
Stuff happens. Plans sometimes have to be delayed, postponed, or cancelled. Teachers do their very best to accommodate students' needs, but things happen(random fire drills, equipment being stolen, etc.) that the teacher may have no control over, so try to be a little flexible when there's an occasional hitch.

5. Please make sure that your child does their homework.
My husband was asked why a student had to read twenty minutes every day. Since this particular student was on the football team, my husband asked him why he had football practice every day. To work on skills and get better at the game, responded the student, and one can almost imagine the little light bulb that lit up. The best way to improve at any skill is practice, and that is what homework is. Your child is not only practicing the skill they learned that day, they are practicing future work skills like task completion and self-discipline. A future boss is not going to be forgiving if your son or daughter blows off a work assignment; why is a teacher expected to do so?

6. Don't expect instantaneous results
This is one that I admit that I struggle with. Intellectually, I understand that learning is a step-by-step process, and that my son will learn a skill when he is ready. Emotionally, however, I get a bit impatient, as if the clouds will part and the Heavenly Host will impart instantaneous reading skills upon my child. The brain doesn't work that way, and if a child is special needs, it may be even harder for there to be acquisition of a skill.

7. Follow the chain of command.
There isn't much that I hate more than being called into my boss' office and yelled at about a problem when I had no idea that there WAS a problem. Don't do that. Give the teacher a chance to explain or correct the problem. If that doesn't work, follow the chain of command up the ladder. Parents may think that getting the 'big shots' involved in a problem will correct it, but the reality is that the Superintendent, who is comparable to a CEO, often has no idea what the heck is going on. He or She just wants the problem to go away, and that is not productive.


Now parents who have read this can say that they have had some 'training' in parent-teacher relations. I hope that I have helped at little. If you've lost your temper and yelled at a teacher, don't be hard on yourself. It happens. Apologize for the outburst, emphasize your desire to work things out, mend fences. I promise that will make the school year much smoother for parents. Oh, and the kids will be happier, too. Except about the homework.

Where I Am From

I get a weekly email from Mama Kat, who has had some pretty cool ideas for writing. I really liked this one. I liked it so much that I've been trying to persuade my husband to share it with his seventh graders as a writing assignment. Here's another example from my fellow blogger, Betsy. A template for this writing exercise is here , just in case you want to try it!

I am from military uniforms, cardboard boxes, and moving trucks. From nowhere and from all over.

I am from terrifying cornfields, and from the chestnuts we used to hurl at one another. From vast fields of bluebonnets that lie underneath new apartment complexes.

From imaginary gargoyles, slaying dragons, and long hours reading in the back seat of a car.

I am from awkward, unsmiling, sepia family pictures, and strong-willed women. From hand-me-down clothes and thrift shops.

I am from Virginia and Leonard. From a bright pink house on a gravel road, a windmill always slowly turning.

From the brightest blue skies that stretch out beyond every horizon. From thunderstorms that lull you to sleep with their distant rumbling.

I am from the stoic, from the loners, and the scholars. From pay attention, from stand up for yourself, and from work hard and do the job right.

I am from the cradle Catholic, from a call to serve others, from soldiers, nurses, and nuns.

I’m from the great state of Texas by birth, and from Germany by blood. From beer and frito pie on a cold day of football or soccer.

From the small snake that fell on my mother, from my grandfather's beer tab chain that decorated his kitchen, and from my grandmother cooking catfish for lunch and dinner two weeks straight.

I have hidden my past--photos, family trees, baby books--in forgotten boxes, priceless treasures always wait to be rediscovered.

RemembeRED: Why It's A Phobia

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment. I will probably have nightmares about this one!


*scritch*

*scritch*

I open my eyes to darkness, pitch black, heart thudding in my chest.

What?

*scritch-scritch-scritch*

I wake up fully, and the darkness seems more ominous, more threatening.

*scritch-scritch*

It is a stealthy sound, tiptoeing. Furtive.

*scritch*

I am not afraid of the dark, I tell myself.

Is it coming closer? It is impossible to tell over the sound of my heart trying to escape from my chest.

*scritch*

My brain is frantically trying to identify that sound, that whispery scratching sound. If I don't move, maybe whatever is making that sound will go away.

*scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch*

I am not afraid of the dark, I tell myself. What concerned me was what might be IN the dark with me.

*scrit-scritch-scri---*

I have never been the kind of person to wait for approaching peril, and finally I can stand it no longer. I jump up in the darkness to find the light switch. I turn to confront the monster.

And freeze.

There, on the stack of printer paper NEXT to the bed, right NEXT to my pillow, right NEXT to where I had been sleeping...was a cockroach.

An extremely large cockroach.

Seeing the World

I love to travel. I like to go to new places, see the sights and wander about, mostly because I love history. I love meandering through museums, looking at pieces of the past, and I love going on guided tours, where there is someone who can point out pieces of history that I may have missed.

When I was a kid and my father was stationed in Germany, the whole family would pile in the car and drive to different countries. We didn't have very much money, so we would pack camping gear. We would find a campsite, set up our tent, and go exploring. Even at a young age, I could feel the ancient past calling to me, begging to be discovered. I was, and still am, a history geek. I can remember playing near our campsite in Florence, Italy, and trying to dig up a rock that looked like it might be a statue. When we were in Greece, I got to see Lord Byron's name(if you don't know who that guy is, google him. He was what they called a 'character'.) carved into a column in a temple that overlooked the sea, and I was transported. I even tried to read some of his poetry, which was a pretty big deal for a ten year old.

I want Zane to have the opportunity to discover the world around him. I have seen what becomes of people who never travel anywhere outside a ten mile radius from their home, and poor language skills is only the beginning. I do not want my child's intellectual and cultural growth stunted, so we have begun to take little family trips. It took a bit to convince my husband, who likes his comfortable chair, but he's been great about finding the best hotel rooms. We tell Zane that we are going on an 'adventure', which he seems to like.

What better place to start exploring than our own state? Texas has an extremely rich and varied history, beyond the Alamo. There's a tree in Landa Park in New Braunfels, for instance, that is reported to be over a thousand years old. Fredricksburg has a wildflower farm. The oldest Polish settlement in the United States is in Panna Maria. The field where the Battle of Medina was fought isn't far from here. The 'birthplace' of Billy the Kid is right up Highway 281, as is the former home of Lyndon Baines Johnson, who is famous for picking up a basset hound by the ears and having really cool initials.

Plus, there's an actual Dinosaur State Park!! A park for actual dinosaurs!

That was only half true--there IS a Dinosaur State Park, but it's called that because you can see the footprints of the dinosaurs who passed through the area. My point is that there are a lot of things for us to see as a family right around here. When Zane gets old enough, we can start venturing out of state, and maybe out of the country. Who knows what sorts of adventures we can find?

Stolen Property

I have a book in this house. It's a library book. I've had it for the last twenty plus years. I wasn't the person who took the book; it actually was stolen by a friend at college. She's the one who never returned the book to her local library. She is the one who brought it with her to college. She's the one who left it at my apartment.

I love books. I love the heft of a healthy-sized hardcover, hot off the press. I adore the sound a new book makes, that little cracking sound, when you first open the cover. I love the sound a page makes when you turn it. I love the smell of old, leather covered books, too. Books remind me that there is a world out there, ready to explore, a world that has nothing to do with where I am, but where I want to be. At least for a little while. If I had all the money in the world, I definitely would spend it all on books. Well, that and a personal visit from Stephen King, because I have some questions for that man.

I have taken good care of my piece of stolen property all these years. I feel some guilt, however. I know that I hate it when someone borrows one of my books and fails to return it. There's probably some poor librarian who has been very sad about the loss of that book. It may have kept her up nights, just thinking about it. And what kind of message does it send to my son, that his mother would keep stolen property?

When those twinges of vague guilt have surfaced, I've momentarily thought about returning the book to the library. I suppose that I could find the address on the internet and mail it. Maybe I could just drop it into the box at my local library and let them send the book. I don't think that the Book Police could trace the book back to me; I'll wipe the finger prints off, just in case.

And what was the book about, that it was so fascinating? Why did I just have to keep it for so long?

It's about capital punishment.

Bad Mama

Zane learned a new trick at daycare. It's all about drama at the daycare these days. Not only is there REAL crying, now there's the fake crying. Not only is there REAL illness, there's the fake illnesses. Not only is there the REAL "I don't know how", there's the fake one, too. All the aspiring actors out there don't need to pay money to an acting school; just spend a couple of weeks studying the kids in my son's class. Lots and lots of drama. I don't know how those teachers do it.

I hate that crap. I have ZERO patience for it, especially after a long day. I think that I deserve a little consideration in this instance. A Get Out Of Drama Free card would be perfect. If I could sit my son down and explain things to him in way that he understood, I would. Three year olds don't speak my language, however, and my comprehension of theirs is always an iffy thing. I just want to explain a few "guidelines", such as "Do not fall on the floor and start bawling because the cat barfed on the Aquaman action figure that did not get picked up last night."

Or "Do not start screaming and hitting because of the No Cookies Before Dinner rule."

Or "Do not say "My tummy hurts" when it is time to take a bath."

And especially, "do not tell the person who buys your favorite food, books, and toys that you don't love them when they ask you to clean up your toys." That is just plain heinous. Plus, it hurts my feelings.

///

"Zane, are you pretend crying?

"Yes."

"Knock it off, kid. Right. Now."

"Okay."

///


The only kind of drama I want to see when I am at home is the stuff on the television. So my responses to Zane's melodramas are probably less than appropriate. My husband usually ends up chastising me for not being sensitive to our son's needs. Except a mother knows when their child is faking.

I'm a bad mama. I don't fuss and give hugs and treats and attention for that kind of behavior. Zane will be an adult at some point, and he is going to want to have a job. Do you think that an employer is going to pay an employee to throw himself on the floor when he doesn't get his way? (actually, in some countries, that probably costs extra) No, it's best to just nip that dramatic but manipulative tendency right in the bud early. It's either that or give the boy an Emmy or something.

Imaginations can Run Amok

I know a lot about Star Trek. I know next to nothing about Star Wars. I only barely know who is on which side of the conflict. I certainly know nothing about the tech. But that doesn't mean that I can't improvise.

"Mama what's that robot's name?"

"George. His name is George." I never said that I improvised well, just that I could.

My son gives me the "look". The one that says "Come on! Do I look like I'm buying that bridge?" I get that look a lot. Zane turns to his father.

"Daddy what's that robot's name?"

"That is C456PO, and that is C3PO's original prototype from a short film made by Lucas in the sixties." Larry says all that stuff with a straight face.

I give him the "look". He shows me the Wikipage. I throw his laptop at him.

I can remember playing with my dolls as a kid; giving them pretend food, dressing them up, making a 'house' using chairs and a blanket, and all that girlie stuff. Using my imagination for good, instead of evil. I never thought about boys doing that very same thing. Zane is just getting into Star Wars. We watched the movies. Zane has some action figures from the movies. He seems to enjoy playing with them in the same way that I played with my dolls. (action figures are not dolls, I have been warned not to go there. I will refrain. For now.)

Zane has Darth Vader in one hand, and Luke Skywalker in the other. He has them "standing" on the ottoman. There's the 'pew-pew' sound of pretend shooting.

Darth Vader: "Nanny-nanny boo boo! You can't catch me!" *Darth breathing sounds*

Luke Skywalker: "Give me my light saber or I am going to bump your head!"

"Something stinks! Chewbacca, you a poopyhead! That is not nice!"

See, if George Lucas would have used THAT dialogue, the movies would have won many Oscars. Emperor Palpatine has many opportunities to yell "Nanny-nanny boo boo!" on the Death Star alone! It would be a first for a character to win an Oscar for saying "Nanny-nanny boo boo!"

Red Dress Club: Not Yet

Prompt: This week we’d like you to explore romantic heartbreak. For you fiction writers, here’s a chance to really delve into the psyche of your character. For you non-fiction folk, well, maybe it’s into your psyche you must delve. We all remember that first love, just like we all remember when our hearts broke for the first time. This is fiction.

There was something on my chest. A gargantuan, invisible demon was standing on my chest, it seemed. I could not even take a shallow breathe; the weight of the words fell on me like body blows.

My focus became pinpointed on the idea that I needed. To. Breathe. I would be okay if I could breathe.

"...and I think that this is something that I need to do, for myself. You just don't fulfill my needs anymore. Candace really gets me. She anticipates my wants and she brings them to me. You won't. I will come back tomorrow to get my things, when you aren't here. I can't even stand to look at you anymore. Candace is waiting for me in the car." Scott looked at me, as if he were expecting something.

That angry demon was reaching into my chest and wrapping their hands around my heart. Squeezing. I could feel claws sinking into me. I could not form a coherent thought, so I simply stared, my eyes wide with shock. My eyes were starting to tear from the pain.

Not yet.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Scott's face took on a familiar sneer. He stepped closer.

"Hello! I am breaking up with you! Don't you get it? Don't you have anything to say?"

The patronizing tone snapped me upright, my shoulders back, my chin high. Difficult to manage with claws deeply embedded in my chest, but I did it. I stood tall, even though I felt like crumpling to the floor.

Not yet.

"Well?" another sneer at me, as if I were too stupid to understand, when I understood all too well.

Demon claws squeezed ever tighter.

Not yet.

I walked to the front door and opened it, pretending calm. I could see Scott's Jeep at the curb, a silhouette sitting in the passenger seat.

I should have been angry. I should have yelled, thrown things, punched someone in the face. Instead, I stood there at the open door and showed no reaction at all. I inclined my head toward the door and tried to keep myself breathing, even as my chest seemed to constrict.

Not yet.

"I am so out of here." Scott walked out of my life, disgusted with my silence. I watched him drive off with a squeal of tires. As I locked the door, I was finally able to take that breath I'd been wanting.

Now.

Those waiting claws ripped into my heart with the malice of the past ten minutes. I felt as though my heart had been eviscerated, yet it was still beating. The pain threw me to the floor, and my numbed reactions now came spilling out of me, an avalanche of anger, fear, hurt. As I lay there, crying, I could finally speak, and I just needed to say the words.

"Don't go."

My Husband is a Great Teacher

Every day, I watch and listen to my husband work with our son on his letters, his numbers, his name, his address. It's amazing to me how fast Zane picks things up, but it is all because of Larry. Zane's father is patient, never raises his voice, and is effusive in his praise when Zane "gets it".

And Zane does get it.

My husband IS a teacher. He has a gift for it, although he would deny it. I think that he would be a great special education teacher, but I know that the ridiculous amount of paperwork would kill every single spark of enthusiasm Larry ever had. The paperwork for a 'regular' teacher is bad enough.

This year, he has a new principal. We all know that it's the principal who sets the tone of the school. If a school environment is hateful and negative, or if it is a positive place with high expectations, look to the principal. School hasn't been very fun for my husband for the past couple of years, with crappy budget cuts and a demand for higher scores on the state assessment. My husband was understandably nervous about his new boss.

And then this principal scored many bonus points(DKP, in gamer lingo). She said that the teachers could dress up in 80s fashions for the pep rally. So Larry did.



I never understood the whole Iron Maiden thing, but I can't deny that my husband is having a great time at that pep rally. The kids loved it, too. It was a complete attitude adjustment for everyone.

I think that he is going to have a great year!

Semi-Wordless Wednesday: Nap Time

Wanna guess? No?



These are Zane's Green Lantern Corps. They are taking their naps. Then they will be well rested when they fly out to save several universes.

Oh, and Parallax's arms are napping as well.

Remembered: Message Boards

Prompt: Many of us remember life before the internet. We wrote letters instead of emails, used encyclopedias instead of Google, and went to parties that weren’t of the Twitter variety. For this week’s prompt, we want you to recall those early memories of being online. Also? No laundry lists. but...but..BUT I LOVE LISTS!!!! *sniffle* Try to focus on one small memory and share that with us. Tell us how it impacted your life and what it meant for you.

Comedy Central used to have a game show called Beat the Geeks. My husband and I used to watch the show to see if we could get the answers before the "geeks" did. Prior to that show, my internet experience was limited to surfing and a horrible chat room episode. However, I loved Beat the Geeks so much that I went exploring the Comedy Central website for information about the show, and I found a message board. A message board that was all about Beat the Geeks!

At first, all I did was lurk and read threads. There was so very much to learn! How does one join a message board? How do you post on one? What if you want to start a thread of your own? What if a person posting on a thread is a complete moron and doesn't know it?

I decided to jump into the pool fully clothed, and joined up. This very first act presented me with a frustrating dilemma: choosing my message board name. Your online name, if not your own, must suitably reflect some part of your personality. There were people going by the name of Labrat, Juleska, Jillsmo, Goddess, etc. Really cool names!!! I had to at least think about a decent name!

I admit that I became vexed; the first fifteen names I tried were already taken! Finally, my love of slips of the tongue led me to the name FreudianSlip. Nobody else had that name. I was ridiculously happy about that, I am embarrassed to admit. I posted my first response to a thread. I had never done anything like this. What if they hated me?

Fortunately, I did not attract any trolls my first visit. I spent quite a bit of free time on the message boards after that first foray into the wild. I learned not to feed the trolls, which was a very valuable lesson that I could apply to my real life as well. I made some online friends, too. When Comedy Central deleted the Beat the Geeks board due to a troll infestation, a bunch of us migrated to a new board. We still wanted to hang out together, so as a group we made it happen.

We've been together, for the most part, ever since. We come from all walks of life and all parts of the world with the common goal of just hanging out together. We share our experience, our wisdom, and our ignorance with each other. I've said things to these people that I wouldn't dream of saying to anyone else, especially around this part of Texas. The language alone would curl the nose hairs of a sailor, but it's usually all in good fun. We don't all get along all of the time, but some of our discussions are quite lively. The closest comparison of this message board and what came before the internet is a pen pal. I have had about thirty pen pals for ten years, without the postage fees. I have learned quite a bit from these people over the last ten years, things that I wouldn't have discovered on my own. I have even learned an excellent recipe for mango salsa!

Over the years, some of the people from the message board have met up in person in Vegas, at weddings, and on various other occasions. We've shared pictures of our children and have grieved over the deaths of family members as if they were our own. We have become a family of sorts, in a weird Jerry Springer sort of way. I like that.

Batman Saves The Day

I was an all-or-nothing child. Things were either perfect or horribly defective. There was no in-between. There were no shades of gray. My worldview was formed by a need to survive. We moved often, and every time I made friends, I had to leave them and make new ones. My little ego had to form some sort of outer shell to confront the world, because rejection of some form was always just around the corner. If I was perfect, then all would be right with the world. If someone hurt me, I cut them out of my life completely. This does not make for a great social life.

I found solace in books. Lots and lots of books. I read until my head hurt. It was safer to escape in a book like Half Magic or The Secret Garden than to try to make new friends. After I had read every single book in the kid's section of the library on base, my parents started buying me comic books to read. Those were cheaper, my mother said, and I didn't seem to mind reading them over and over.

That's where I found Batman. I adored the Dark Knight from the very first issue I read. He was the only superhero I knew at the time who didn't actually have any superpowers. By sheer will, Bruce Wayne made himself into a hero, the World's Greatest Detective. He was intelligent, but in a way that I had never considered before--he was street smart. Bruce Wayne understood the heart of darkness that is in all of us because it was in his heart as well. He IS the heart of darkness. Batman knew what was out there, and he was ready for it.

Batman isn't really an all-or-nothing type of character, except that he never intentionally kills anyone. He doesn't always do the right thing. Sometimes he is willing to break laws to catch the criminals. He scares the bejeebers out of people on purpose. Technically he IS a criminal, a vigilante. Batman takes the law into his own hands on a regular basis, if it suits his purposes. For Batman, right is relative; the world is full of shades of gray. The ends, getting criminals off the streets, justify the means.

Batman wasn't perfect, but he was still a hero. He certainly changed my perspective. Maybe the world isn't black and white, I realized. All-or-nothing people don't live long in this world. Those comics inspired me: what was I doing hiding in my room? Just because someone I thought was my friend hurt me today didn't mean that they would do the same thing tomorrow. I needed to be out there. I needed to experience the world, learning as much as I could, so I could be ready for anything.

Like Batman. Except for the cape. I don't do capes.

Hard to Believe It's Been Ten Years

I still remember where I was on 9/11 when I first heard that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. I was late for work and in my car. The deejay mentioned that a plane had crashed. He didn't say it was a 747, just a plane. I remember thinking that it was a terrible accident. Then, right before I got to my office, I heard that the second tower had been hit, and my heart sank. The rest of the day seemed to be a blur of pretending to work and listening to the news. One of the techie guys put a television in the school board room and just left it on. I watched as the towers fell, and it was a shock that something that looked so very permanent could be reduced to dust in a matter of minutes. It was a visceral kick in the gut, watching the news from the Pentagon, not that far from where we used to live. Everyone I saw that day had a stunned, shell-shocked look. We were far away from what was happening, but it was as if we were right there. We were scared, heartsick, and horrified.

Did all that really happen ten years ago?

It all still seems so vivid, an open wound for many. I don't want to revisit any of it--it was too much, to see bodies falling, to think of people unable to escape, to find that the world wasn't as safe as I thought. It's overwhelming. How do we live in such a horrific world, where hateful people can take the lives of so many innocent strangers if others are not vigilant? How do we find justice for this crime without losing what makes us who we are as a nation? How do we thank the people who gave their lives to help others get out of those buildings? How do we offer solace to the people who lost loved ones?

I read somewhere that it is the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead. I think about that, and I hope that an answer will come that makes sense of all that horror. I will hug my beautiful son today, because children are a promise for tomorrow, and I will remember. It may take me another ten years, but I will try.

Explorers Ahoy!

Zane and I went to the park this morning! It was nice and cool, with a bit of a breeze. We walked through the middle of the park, venturing off the walking path to climb on rocks and sticks and creepy-crawlies.


Boys can't go exploring without looking for a big stick. It's a rule or something.


This is the web of a funnel web weaver spider. They build their webs on the ground and hide inside their 'funnels'.


We found some fake dinosaur tracks to poke with the previously mentioned stick.


There were 'huge-big' rocks for little boys to climb on, and Zane had tons of fun climbing to the top.


"I'm king of the world, Mom!"

I sometimes forget how much I like to walk through parks, exploring. It's nice that I have Zane to go exploring with me. I hope we find a snake next week!

Red Writing Hood: Jeans

Prompt: Jeans. They can evoke so much emotion in us: the hot jeans we wear on a date, the skinny jeans we can finally fit into, mom jeans we vow never to wear, the comfy jeans we’ll never throw out. The assignment this week is to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which jeans play a prominent role. You can even write an ode if you’re so inclined. This is fiction, except that I used the names of people I know, because it seemed to give it a flavor. Yes, I said flavor. I'm kind of hungry.

The sunshine felt great after sitting in a freezing room learning about the War of 1812. I lifted my face toward the sky as a gentle breeze whispered of the fall weather to come. My friends and I were sitting on a stone bench in the Quad, chatting before it was time for our next class. Cathy and Barbie were arguing discussing the Dallas Cowboys and Laura was occupied with picking hairs off of her new stunning black sweater. I glanced about, watching the people standing in groups around us or hurrying to class.

And then I saw them.

They walked leisurely right past me, a little higher than eye level, but arresting just the same. They were Levi's 501s with the button fly that everyone wore at the time. Except these were so very much more.

"Holy S***!" was all I could say.

All rational thought left my head, and every last hormone surged through my bloodstream. Barbie and Cathy noticed my face, stopped arguing talking, and turned to see what all the fuss was about.

"What are you three going on about n--" Laura turned, saw my face and looked toward the object of my transfixed gaze.

"Oh my!" was all that she could manage.

We all stared at the jeans. The sounds around us faded into silence, and the jeans seemed to move more slowly, almost teasing.

They were filled out, firm and rounded, and moved with an almost catlike grace. The muscles were fluid, just under the surface of the denim, and my hands tingled with the urge to touch those muscles. Muscles that flexed when they walked. Muscles that appeared strong enough to sweep a girl off her feet. And keep her there, if she were so inclined. There seemed to be some wear on the inside of the thighs; could these jeans be worn from riding a horse? I wondered vaguely. The jeans flowed downward and ended, a bit frayed, at a pair of black cowboy boots. Those jeans called to me, like the song of the Sirens, as they made their way up the stairs and into the Arts and Literature building. I am a bit dangerous and very wild, they seemed to say, what can I do for you?

For just a second, I thought about chasing those jeans through the Quad, just to fling myself around them.

I sighed heavily, remembering that I had Botany in ten minutes and there was a test.
Three other heavy sighs sounded in unison with mine. I whirled around, the spell completely broken.

We all shared a girl-moment of giggles, and a little embarrassment at being so obviously taken, as we went our separate ways.

My Brave Boy

My normally thrill-seeking son has suddenly developed fear. He's afraid. I have no idea where/if he learned this somewhere or if it's just developmentally appropriate. He hasn't had any traumatic experiences involving stairs. All I know for sure is that he is afraid to go up the stairs by himself. My husband and I have wondered what we can do about it.

Is it better to face your fears or avoid them? I've always felt that it is best to face your fears, and I have learned from experience that when you face your fears they often disappear. Except for cockroaches. I try to avoid those on the general premise that they are icky. But that is my way of dealing with my fears, formed from many years of freaking out. How do young children decide what to be afraid of and how to deal with that fear?

The other day, Zane had left a favorite toy on our bed upstairs. All he had to do was run upstairs, walk into the bedroom, and grab the toy off the bed. He just stood there at the bottom of the steps, and whined that he wanted his toy. I told him that if he wanted the toy he would have to get it. My reasoning was that if Zane really wanted the toy, he would go upstairs; if he didn't really want the toy, he would drop the subject and find something else to play with. Zane whined some more, but would not move from the bottom of the stairs.

I then did one of the hardest things I have ever done. All I wanted to do was hold Zane's hand while we walked up the stairs to get the toy. All I wanted to do was hug my boy, keep him safe. Instead, I made Zane go upstairs by himself. If he is ever going to be an independent person, my son is going to have to solve some problems on his own.

I hugged him tightly, reminded him that he was very brave, but that he would have to go upstairs to get his toy by himself. I promised that I would wait at the bottom stair for him. I rehearsed it with him: up the stairs, into the room, grab the toy, and back down the stairs. I told him that he could do this, that I believed in him.

Then I watched him walk up those stairs, and every time he looked back at me, I encouraged him. He got to the top of the stairs, ran into the bedroom and back out with the toy. He ran down the stairs, and as he hit the bottom stair he started crying. It may have been relief; I was crying too. I hugged him again, told him again that I knew that he could do it. I was very proud of him.

I was also proud of me. Of course, after all that mama-trauma, I had to have some chocolate.

Smacks Served Up: Work Edition

I really like this idea of ranting. Air out the dirty sheets in the sunshine, as it were. If it were up to me, I'd call it Smack You Upside The Head, er, Saturday. Yeah, I'm not so good at naming things. Bear with me, while I get a few things off of my chest here at the beginning of the school year.

A smack to parents who enroll their children in school without letting anyone know that they have special needs, "just to see if we'll notice". A special smack to those same parents who then pitch a fit when we aren't providing services for their child, because YOU DIDN'T TELL US. They did not cover mind reading in grad school, people! Not every special needs kid looks like they are special needs!

A smack to the person or persons who made over a hundred thousand copies of something on the xerox machine...using the special education copy code. You took money out of our budget that should have gone to the kids. That was pretty heinous. Now we have to fill out a piece of paper asking permission, and a secretary has to make copies for us. The cost of all that paper would have bought a whole lot of new supplies, maybe even a new wheelchair. If we catch you, you will lose a limb.

A double smack to the parent who put ELEVEN different wrong or disconnected phone numbers on the parent contact card for their special needs child when they registered for school. Even the freakin' school nurse didn't have any correct phone numbers! What the heck do you think we do--sell your personal information to bill collectors? (actually, that's not a bad--focus. Focus.) We want to talk about your CHILD, not YOU. I don't care if you're an axe murderer on parole, as long as you show up to the IEP meetings and provide the school with the CORRECT phone number.

A smack to the dozen or so people who only choose to talk to me when I am listening to something, like a tape recording of a student. They won't talk to me all day, not a word, but the SECOND that I put my headphones on or get on the phone, there you are, standing in front of my desk.

A smack to people who rush to my desk to ask me to do something, then stand there, waiting for me to do it. I could be buried under a mountain of paperwork, typing furiously, but they stand there and expect me to immediately drop everything that I am doing to meet their needs.

A smack to people who tell me a list of seven or eight things to do and expect me to remember all of them. I have repeatedly asked for anyone who wants me to remember something to put it in a email for a reason. I won't tell anyone this, but most days I don't even remember anyone's names.

Finally, a pox upon staff meetings. I hate sitting still for so long. I can't ever hear the person talking because there are fifteen different "whispered" conversations going on as well and my brain tries to hear them all. The woman next to me needs hearing aids and every five minutes or so she will say "WHAT?" very loudly and expect me to fill her in(while I am missing what is currently discussed). We will finish a topic and move onto the next one, and twenty minutes after that someone will bring up what we had discussed earlier. It is all just unbearable! And don't talk to me about the 'synergy' of meetings--this is education. We don't have the budget for freakin' 'synergy'! Everything worth mentioning at a meeting can be put into an email. That would be much easier on my sanity.

Okay, I feel better. Thanks for listening. Er, reading. You know what I mean.

RemembeRED: Childhood

I miss my childhood. I miss the little explorer that I used to be, the one who was never afraid. I miss the feeling that the world was mine, that everything was waiting for me to discover it over the next hill.

I miss walking home from kindergarten. By myself. Without being afraid of a single boogeymen. Without even realizing that boogeymen existed.

I miss the MPs bringing me home when I wandered too far afield. I do regret peeing on the backseat, but I was five and I had to go.

I miss pedaling my big wheel as fast as I could so I could spin out. I miss swinging so very high...and then jumping out of the swing. On purpose.

I miss sneaking out of the playground during sixth grade recess, just outside the fence near the back, where there was a tree that was perfect for climbing...and quiet.

I miss spending hours with absolutely no adult supervision, building forts, fighting 'wars', playing on the hospital helicopter pad, and climbing the fruit trees on the army base to eat all the fruit we could.

I miss popsicles made with one packet of Kool-aid and 14 tons of sugar.

I miss completely making up a cookie recipe off the top of my head, making said cookies with my dad, and finding out that they tasted hideous.

I miss eating so much candy on Halloween that I didn't think I could eat one more piece...until I did.

I miss using a curling iron on my Barbie doll's hair. I miss trying to flush all that "food" out of my Baby Alive. I miss trying to surgically remove the tape recorder in my Mrs. Beasley doll.

But I think that I miss believing in fairy tales the most.

Sometimes I Have Trouble Sharing

I love gummi bears. Not just ANY gummi bears, but the Haribo gummi bears that are made in Germany. Whenever I see them, I buy them. Those bears are edible reminders of happier moments in my childhood. I treasure them, and eat only a handful at a time, so as to savor them.

I sort the bears by color, of course. I have to eat them in a certain order. Because I like the green ones the best, I eat the white ones first so as to get them out of the way. Then the beloved green ones, the red ones, the orange, and I finish with the yellow. I have no idea why I like the green ones the best; that is a memory deeply submerged in my subconscious. It does not diminish my enjoyment.

When I got married, I worried that my husband would consider my gummi bears to be community property. When he informed me that he ONLY liked the orange gummi bears, I knew we were meant to last. After sorting, I could part with the orange ones. I would even occasionally share some of the yellow ones with our yellow Lab Sandy. No problem sharing the yellows. Now, my son feels ready to experience the joy of gummi bears. Except that I don't want to share.

That's right--I don't want to share my gummi bears with my only son. My instinctive reaction is to hog the bears. I know it is childish. I have to acknowledge my feelings, however. I feel a bit guilty about not sharing, since we teach Zane that sharing with others is very important. I have my reasons for not wanting to share.

The boy doesn't follow the rules! He eats any old gummi bear that he happens to grab! No sorting! No ordering of colors! The horror!

Maybe he is too young for gummi bears. Maybe he hasn't acquired the concept of sorting by categories. He's only three. They're only gummi bears, right? That's what I have been telling myself, in the hopes that I can get over my reluctance.
But I have a feeling that my wanting to hog the bears is deep-rooted within my psyche. I may need therapy to begin to let go of the bears, but where the heck do you find a therapist specializing in gummi bears?

Saluting the Divinity

A long time ago, I read about a monastery in Tibet. Probably Tibet; it seems like all monasteries you hear about these days are in Tibet, so why not this one? The monks in this particular place would greet each other in passing by bowing.

"I salute the divinity in you," they would say to one another, the story went. For some reason that has stayed with me all these years, when the book has been forgotten.

These monks pay tribute to the idea that all proceeds directly from God and is therefore divine. Whether that is true or not, that is pretty cool. What if we all did that?

It's not just the people that you like who proceed from God, those monks seem to be saying. Lowly mortals cannot pick and choose who is godly and who is not, no matter what that preacher on the television says. We are not God, and cannot make His decisions for Him. We must salute the divinity in everyone because that is what He told us to do when He said 'Love one another'(there is some variation of that command in just about every religion I have ever read about, not just Christianity).

A worthy goal, but I struggle with that every day. I have no trouble at all seeing the divinity in all children. There are people out there who are just plain good people, who make us smile, and there must be tons of divinity in them.

There are some people, however, who are so very evil, who have done such heinous things, that it is impossible for me to even consider the idea that there might be a spark of divinity within them. People who behave selfishly, doing everything for money or sex or drugs or power--how can they be divine?

But what about the people around me every day? The man who cuts me off in traffic. The special needs teenager who has a fit and throws poop at me. The woman who stands in front of the Blue Bell ice cream section and will not move. People who wear florescent yellow pants for no reason. People unintentionally do lots of little annoying things to each other all the time. Are they less divine just because they momentarily got on my nerves? And am I less divine for momentarily thinking less than charitable thoughts?

Am I depressing you? I'm depressing myself, a little. That goal, to salute the divinity in every body, seems like an impossible mountain to climb. I may be able to control my actions and not say what I am thinking when I am irritated. My thoughts are another matter. All I can do is try to think more positively about the people I encounter, no matter what they do or say to me. If I screw up one day, I can try again tomorrow. That is my way of saluting the divinity in my sometimes less-than-divine self.

Obsessions Aren't Nearly As Bad As Compulsions

I hate hearing babies or small children cry. It's a visceral response that probably means that my Mother Meter is on overload or something. I probably shouldn't analyze it too closely, since I am not Dr. Phil. Whenever, wherever, I hear kids crying, my response is immediate: I want to find the crying child and do whatever I need to do so that they stop crying. Picture me following some poor woman around Wal-mart because her toddler is screaming bloody murder, and you'll get a little idea of my compulsion.

This urge of mine is always an issue when I am at my son's daycare. There's always at least ONE crying child there in the mornings. Sometimes it's mine. I have to grit my teeth so hard that my jawbone cracks, but I walk in there, make sure that an adult knows Zane is there, and walk out as quickly as I can. It's like I am holding my breath underwater, and I can't breathe again until I am outside.

But yesterday, I did something that, in retrospect, was not a good thing.

There is this adorable little girl in Zane's class, and she is usually just as perky as only a three year old can be. As I walked in with my son clinging to my chest, this little girl was crying.

"I want my mommy!" she sobbed, looking straight at me.

I snapped. Anything to distract her from her tears!

"Your mommy has to work so she can buy you toys!" I said.

It worked. The crying stopped, and her eyes got wide. My statement also got the attention of every other three year old kid in the room. Their eyes lit up with a barest hint of that avarice that kids get around Christmas and their birthdays.

"Really?" This came from several different directions.

"Uh...yeah! Bye!" I smiled my biggest and cheesiest, kissed my boy, and got the heck out of there as fast as I could without running.

The idea that their parents might be working JUST to buy them toys probably dug deep into their brains during the day and carved out space for a futon. Small children NEVER forget anything that is going to get them either more toys or more candy. Small children do not have the time concept of anything other than NOW when it comes to toys and/or candy. Try talking to a three or four year old about Santa and his present-giving ways in June. They will immediately start looking around for Santa, asking where he is, wanting to know when he will be there, and what is taking him so long to get here with presents, etc., until you drop to the floor and play possum just to stop the questions.

Instead of running to their parents with smiles and hugs, the parents of the children in my son's daycare will be greeted with demands to see the "loot". Some kids will believe that their parents are actually paid in toys instead of money, and will search the house looking for them. There will be much wailing and crying when those children can't find any of the toys their parents have worked so very hard for. Their poor parents will be shaking their heads and wondering what the heck has gotten into their darlings, and it will be my fault.

I hope there's not a lynch mob waiting for me next time I drop Zane off.

Red Writing Hood: The Ritual of Changing

Prompt: For this week’s prompt, write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical. I am trying to continue what I started here. I apologize in advance for any spelling errors; it was late when I wrote this. Concrit is appreciated!

My time came upon me, and the urge to create life became too strong. It pulsed through my blood in rhythm with my heart, until I could not sleep. I must mate.

How?

There were no other dragons, just me, I thought bitterly. I lay in my cave, despairing, and then remembered a story once told by the clan Seer about the Ritual of Changing. I had only heard the story once, and could barely recall the name of the Ritual, much less the story. Now I had hope.

I searched through what archives I could find, traveled from cave to cave. By day I read the rocks. I could find nothing! Until my eye spotted something gleaming on the side of a lonely spire nearby, I was growing desperate. A forgotten dragon lair, with the bleached bones of a human outside its entrance. The gleaming was a sword and shield. Daylight found me poring over dragon archives that were hidden away deeper in the mountain than I ever knew possible.

It was here that I found the answer, in the ritual magic of the dragons. I carefully copied what I needed on a rock of my own; I did not want to disturb this lonely place by removing the secrets it had held close for so long. I took the sword and shield with me, and dropped them as I flew over a pasture on my way home, reasoning that if I had been able to see their gleam, other humans might also.

I prepared for my own Ritual of Changing. I would be unable to eat while in my temporary form, but I would only be changed for a short time. I gathered the required materials; emeralds, obsidian, the bones of a deceased human, a knife made of silver, a small Aspen tree, a plant called rosemary, and a snow-fed lake.

That night, I moved rocks into a circle next to the lake, and breathed onto the broken bits of Aspen in the center to start a fire. I picked up the rosemary plant and walked in a clock-wise circle three times, chanting the ancient words that were now embedded in my mind. I began to sense the bones of my Ancestors stirring in the earth below me. I then held the rosemary over the fire until it began to smoke, and walked the circle another three times. The circle closed, and suddenly my Ancestors were whispering; they surrounded me. Their power filled me, seeking, but I was determined and therefore unafraid. My chanting never slowed as I placed the human bones in the fire, then the emeralds and obsidian. The Ancestors took up my chant. The fire rose higher in response, and the flames appeared blue, indigo and violet. I picked up the knife, held it with both hands over my head. Then I used the knife and sliced open a vein by inserting the blade between the scales on my arm.

Bleeding heavily, I walked into the fire. The flames seemed to feed on my blood and rose even higher. I could hear my Ancestors screaming. Then the Change began; the sudden pain as my bones began to reform made my back arch as I screamed.

I fell, curling up with the pain, the seething pain, and the flames grew even higher, consuming me. I knew no more for a time. I came to myself with the flames still cradling me, and hurled myself from the fire. I staggered, crawling, and finally was able threw myself into the cool waters. I felt the hiss of the steam upon my body. When it stopped, I rose to the surface, stood on two legs instead of my four, and made my way to the shoreline. My scales were gone, and as I looked down my pale skin gleamed in the moonlight.

I would appear human for the next ten days. Now I could mate, and bear offspring.

Everyone Needs An 'I Don't Give a D*** Outfit'

I have never been what you call a fashion maven. I read the magazines and watch the shows. I hear all about how if I wear this outfit I'll suddenly be this hot woman with dozens of men swooning after me. Swooning men, generally, are so busy swooning that they won't do anything else, like housework. I have no use for swooning men, therefore, except maybe as foot rests or door stops.

I have a couple of dressy dresses that I never wear, but most of my outfits for work are just plain comfortable. I could dress up a little more, wear the shapewear to suck in my gut and make me sit up straight, but I can't do that very often. It is 4000 degrees here from April until December 23rd, and when it is hot outside, wearing extra clothing increases the likelihood that a person will keel over from heat exhaustion. (I cannot fathom how women survived here in the 1800s wearing 50 tons of petticoats and skirts and chemises and corsets and bustles; I would probably have just melted away into a puddle of sweat.)

My closet is all about comfort, and I am happy about that. I don't like to be indecisive about what I wear. I wake up and while I occasionally am indecisive about the color of my shirt, I know that I will be comfortable. That helps set the tone for the entire day. Occasionally, I wish that someone would take me shopping and pick out all my clothes for me, but that's mainly because I hate shopping for clothes.

But sometimes, I wake up, and just feel 'off'. They used to call it waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and I don't know what the heck they call it now. But there are days that I just want to stay in bed. Days when I would prefer to place orange cones around my desk to warn unsuspecting passerby. The fact that I am an adult with a job gets me out of bed and to work, but I don't have to be happy about it.

On those days, I have a uniform. I call it my "I don't give a damn" outfit. It's a loose-fitting black shirt with a loose fitting pair of pants, either black or green. It's comfortable, like old pajamas, without the teddy bear. It's an outfit that says that I don't care. It's an outfit that says 'leave me alone or else', but of course nobody does. Life goes on, even when I am in a bad mood, and I have to be professional even if nobody else is. Kids can throw tantrums, but adults throwing tantrums is frowned upon by polite society. Which sucks--I know that I could totally pwn a kid when it comes to tantrums, but it would probably be an unfair advantage.

So I let my outfit have the tantrum, which I don't think any kid out there has contemplated. I'm the only one who knows that the outfit is my tantrum, and that is enough. I may be smiling at my coworker, but if I'm wearing my "I don't give a damn" outfit, it's a safe bet that in my head I am laying on my back screaming "LALALALALALALALALALA!" It's perfectly safe, as long as I don't "accidentally" let what is going on in my head out.