Thank You Donors

I like to read blogs. Mostly because I am nosy. (If I were a stay at home mom, I would know every danged thing that goes on in my neighborhood within a ten mile radius. The CIA should recruit me.) However, I also enjoy reading about people in blogs. Not idiot celebrity blogs, but genuine people. It is entirely likely that some of the blogs I read are written by fake people who are really trying to sell things, but that's the risk I am willing to take.

In my reading, I came across this blog post last week, on I've Become My Mother! There is a girl named Haley who has a disease that requires bone marrow. The blogger, Kelly, is asking people to find out if they are a match with Haley(the test involves a cheek swab), and for those people to consider donating bone marrow.

Charity is defined by Merriam-Webster as benevolent goodwill toward or love of humanity. It is also defined as generosity and helpfulness especially toward the needy or suffering. We are taught from an early age to practice charity towards others. One of the ways we do this is through donations.

We donate food.

We donate time.

We donate money.

Whenever there is a catastrophe, such as Katrina, the earthquake in Japan, or the tornado that hit Joplin, people all over the world open their hearts and give. Whenever there is someone in our own community who is suffering, who is in pain, or who feels alone, there are many people who want to reach out to them. It's this sort of ideal that defines us as human. For in that moment, I believe, we are all one family, no matter where we live or what our circumstances. Giving isn't about the self, it's about that connection we all have with each other.

This girl Haley is a person in need. You can help her.

If you are squeamish about donating blood or bone marrow, that is okay. I certainly won't judge--donating bone marrow can be a painful process, even under the best of circumstances. And some of us are not physically able to donate blood or tissue. However, you can donate in other ways that don't involve needles and hospital stays, and I am not necessarily talking about money, but encouragement and prayer. Go over to the website and give what you can, even if it is a few words of prayer.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

Most people see this day as a day off, a chance to kick back, pound a couple of cold ones, and throw cow parts on the grill. Still other people see today as the beginning of summer, and tourists are flocking to rivers and water parks to soak up some sun(wear sunscreen!).

There is no holiday like Memorial Day. This day is to honor the people who died to protect that which we hold dear, our liberties. We in this country have the right to pursue happiness because soldiers protect that right. We are able to kick back with beer and cow parts and float down a cool river because of those soldiers.

My father served in the Army for 28 years. He went to Viet Nam. My father-in-law, who recently passed away, served in the Pacific during WWII. I have uncles and cousins and second cousins and some third cousins who have served in the military, past and present. Almost everyone I know is either in the military, going into the military, or related to someone in the military.

Whether you like it or not, soldiers are vital to our identity as a country. We are the country we are because those soldiers are/were willing to die to make it so.

Today, before you toss back those beers, stop and think about those people who have died protecting your right to stand next to your grill.

Don't forget.

An F-Bomb?

Remember way back when I posted about the church that sent out postcards saying that we should "Bring Sexy Back" to church? Those people? They're at it again:



Yep. The F-Bomb. We ALL know what is meant when someone says that phrase. The F-Bomb is a phrase that is used in order to 'say' a particular curse word without actually saying it. It's not really a word that you need to say aloud in church, is it? Maybe if the sermon is really long and your butt has fallen asleep and when you stand up you fall over onto the little old lady in front of you and ruin her best "Sunday Go To Meetin'" hat? No. Not even then.

A random person seeing this postcard would be lead to believe that the pastor of this particular church is okay with the use of the 'F-Bomb'. This might lead a random person to think that it might be entertaining to attend a church service to hear an actual, real-live, preacher man use a curse word in a house of God.

Entertainment is what this church appears to be all about, with these type of titillating post cards, not spiritual growth. The back of the post card announces that the church will be giving away an iPod or iPad(all Apples look alike to me) immediately following the service, which just emphasizes the entertainment aspect, not the spiritual one. Did I mention that all this was to have occurred on Easter Sunday?

The F-Bomb the pastor of the Revolution Church is referring, by the way, to is Forgiveness. Not quite the same thing as what we know about the F-Bomb, is it? This particular pastor chose to use a form of bait-and-switch propaganda to sucker people in. Even if his reasons for doing so are noble(to encourage people to come to church), this man(or whoever designed the postcard) is essentially lying. Should we forgive him for his false advertising?

Forgiveness is a powerful thing, an excellent topic for a pastor to speak about. I have heard many uplifting sermons about forgiveness over the years, and I am sure to hear many more. Forgiveness is a glorious thing...so why does a pastor, a spiritual leader of his flock, feel that he has to advertise using such a scurrilous tactic? What does that say about a church? What does that say about the members of that church?

All that aside, I can't wait for the next postcard. What does that say about me?

The Things My Son Learns at Daycare

WARNING: this post may be viewed by some as offensive, due to the topic. If you are this type, don't read this post today. Also, don't read this during breakfast. Or lunch. Or afternoon snack. Pretty much any sort of eating. Actually, this post might make a great diet aid, since it might make you lose your appetite and not eat that giant piece of yummy cake that's sitting on the counter in the kitchen.

Zane and I are heading to the grocery store.

"We don't eat poop, Mama," Zane announces.

"Uh...okay. Good to know." What else was I supposed to say?

At first I thought that I would talk to his teacher, maybe get some context for that comment. Was this a playground conversation? If so, ick.

There's probably a perfectly logical explanation as to why my son would hear that sentence during his time at daycare. And polite society frowns upon poop eating, at least in this part of the world, so this little gem is definitely a good piece of knowledge to acquire. We don't eat poop*.

But a significant pillar of childhood involves exploration. Kids, even kids with special needs, have to be able to look with wonder at what is around their house, their yard, their community, and the world. They must experience the world with their five senses, including taste. Children learn their world during those first critical years by sailing into what is for them uncharted waters. Part of that exploration involves risk.

If you pick up that bug, it will sting you.

Eating that green apple may make you sick.

Poking your sister with a cattle prod will get you sent to bed with no dinner.

Many children have anxious parents(*raises hand*) who want to shield their kids from risk, if they can. This is understandable. Risks hurt sometimes. But risks can also reap some pretty badass rewards, too.

Riding a bike.

Writing an essay that wins a contest.

Hitting a home run.

Raising a hand in class and getting the correct answer.

Scoring a goal.

Parents want the good stuff for their kids, but there needs to be a balance--kids have to learn to problem solve so they can use those skills when they are not with adults. This may mean that your child experiences something that you may find undesirable or inappropriate or just plain weird.

That's when a parent may need to take a deep breath, and roll with it. After all, there will be lots of moments, when the child becomes and adult, when they will encounter people, places, or things that are undesirable, inappropriate, or just plain weird. Sometimes MY child might be the one who fits these descriptions.

It will be better for my son that he is not blindsided by these situations, that he is willing to take some risks and explore the world. It may kill me to watch him climb to the top of the playground equipment or get his heart broken by a girl, but I have to let him do this. I have to let him find his own way. I know all this, I believe all this, but...

I really hope that he didn't eat any poop at daycare, that he acquired the knowledge that "we don't eat poop" vicariously. I don't think this makes me a bad person.


*Unless you're talking about that extremely expensive coffee that is made from beans that have been eaten by a particular type of cat and then pooped out. Well, in that case, poop-eating is okay. For those people. Not for me.

Red Writing Hood: Drowning

Prompt:Write a short piece - 600 words max - that begins with the words, "This was absolutely the last time" and ends with "She was wrong."


This was absolutely the last time, she thought.

She slammed down the phone, grabbed her purse, and stormed out to her car. She clicked on her seatbelt, backed out of the driveway and began the drive to her ex-husband’s house.

She had been asleep, cozy and warm. It was ONE in the freakin’ morning, fer cryin’ out loud!

Why was she doing this? She asked herself one more time. A little sob escaped. Why was she dropping everything, yet again, and driving over to clean up yet another ‘mess’ for him? He hadn’t even waited until his new hair plugs were 24 hours old before packing up and leaving her, off to find a new life.

Yet she was still required to rescue him. He did this on purpose.

He knew that she would never dream of leaving him to deal with this kind of situation.

He wasn’t prepared. He never had been, even after all the classes she had dragged him to, all the books she made him read. Nothing had ever prepared him. And so he foundered.

Some people just weren’t made to handle stress, she decided. It rolled over them like a tidal wave, pulled them deep underneath, and they just can never make it back to the surface to find their breath. She inhaled deeply, and let her anger go.

She pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. Her ex was waiting at the door. She could hear, through the open door, the wailing and screaming of her autistic daughter, in the throes of the violent tantrums she always had whenever she stayed with her father. They shared custody.

She glared at the man, intended to say something mean and hurtful, but stopped when she saw his face.

He had a black eye.

He had been crying.

He looked so lost. Drowning.

Candace thought that her heart had broken completely the day her husband had walked out on her. That there were no more pieces to shatter on the wall of reality.

She was wrong.

The Surprises That You Find On Your Patio, Part Two

I love cacti. They are the ultimate survivors. Even with me. I just bought this nondescript cactus at the Home Depot. I was angry that some idiot had glued crappy yellow flowers onto the top of the cactus, because this is what the REAL flowers on this cactus look like:





Aren't they gorgeous? I love that red!

The Surprises That You Find On Your Patio, Part One

Zane and I were in the backyard the other day, when he came running, yelling "Cad-err-pee-yar!" or something else that sounded like 'caterpillar'. (Some things Z says well, and others, not so much) And indeed there was a caterpillar:



He/she was racing across the yard like it was on fire. I scooped it up, since my son likes to grab things. He's at that age, and normally I indulge him, but on this day, I wasn't sure if this particular bug was the kind that sting.



We watched it in the insect cage until it hatched into a butterfly. No, not really. We let it go after a bit, because after all that racing about, I thought the caterpillar should get to complete the mission.



Look at that caterpillar go!



I still don't have any idea what kind of caterpillar it was, but my son still goes to the fence to see if he can find it!

RemembeRED: Tickle Monster

We played a lot of games when I was a kid. That is what kids did back then, of course. There was no Nintendo, or Playstation, or Xbox. Children actually had to use their imaginations to come up with ways to have fun. Short of imagination, we just ran around until it was dark.

One of my favorite memories is being at my grandmother’s house during the summer, back when my mother and her siblings were all still speaking to each other, before dementia dragged my grandmother off to her singular hell. I was in high school. There was lots of mischief to be had on a farm, if you know where to look, and when it was just my brother and I, we had lots of things to keep us busy.

My grandparents still did not have air conditioning, so the windows would be open to catch any stray breezes that happened along. There was one television, and it got exactly two channels, neither of them cable. Consequently, all of the grandchildren played outside as much as possible, whenever we visited. When there were family gatherings, all the grandchildren were put together and expected to amuse ourselves. On this particular occasion, it was my grandparents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, so everyone was expected to be there.

I am the oldest grandchild. This had never been brought home to me so forcefully before that summer; I found myself surrounded by what seemed to be thousands of children under the age of ten. This age gap at first appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle to good family relations, but I soon overcame their reservations with my improvisation skills. I made up a game.

It was called Tickle Monster.

The game was simple: I was the Tickle Monster, and I chased little kids. When I caught them, I tickled them. I caught a few of the slower kids as an example. The game was a huge hit. All of my cousins scattered to the four corners of the farm, to hide from the Tickle Monster. Soon I was standing next to the vegetable garden all alone.

I went inside the house, picked up the book I was reading, and dove in. Twenty minutes later, I could hear my little cousins calling for me. They had no idea where I was, and were searching for me near the tool shed.

I put the book down, quietly opened the screen door, and snuck up behind them.

“RARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!! I jumped out from behind the water tank. Little squeals, followed by laughter, and they all scattered to hide once more. I waited until I was alone, then went back inside to read my book, until I heard them calling for me again.

This cycle repeated for a good two hours, until the sun went down, the fireflies came out, and it was too dark for the little ones. When it was time for everyone to leave, my cousins hugged me and cried. I was, for that summer, their very favoritest relation.

And The Academy Award Goes To...

"My tummy hurts," Zane tells me, holding his hands on his belly. Like every good Mama, I know when my child is faking. Sometimes, however, my attempts at parenting are not as on the ball.

"Are you trying to win an Academy Award with that performance?" I ask my son, a bit sarcastically, looking pointedly at him.

"Yes," Zane replies.

Dang. I hate being the straight man on this comedy team.

It Pays To Look Up Once In Awhile

In case you can't see it, the way the clouds are shaped, I can see the outline of a dove in the sky of this picture.

I took it with my cell phone. I didn't think that it would come out, because this was close to sunset, but it did.

I think that sometimes we are so focused on what is in front of us, on putting one foot in front of the other, that we miss some of the beauty that pops up every now and then.

So my wish for everyone today is that you have the time, even if it is just a minute, look up and see at least one beautiful thing today, be it a cloud, a flower, or the smile of your children.

Not An Actor?

Zane was having a hissy fit, a conniption, a tantrum. There was the screaming and crying and the required throwing of the self onto the floor as a dramatic flourish. I think that there was some kicking thrown in for good measure***

He yelled that he wanted...

"Boy," I stand over him, interrupting. "You are not getting a single thing until you stop acting this way."

Zane stopped mid-scream.

"I not acting, Mama!" he said, with a completely straight face. Then goes back to his screaming and crying.

I developed a sudden coughing fit and had to go into the other room for a moment.




***I am saving up all these blog posts about my son for blackmail purposes when he's a surly teenager. I am sure that this makes me a bad person, but if it gets him to behave with a modicum of respect when he is hormonal, it will be worth it.

Long Day

Zane is having another hissy fit about something and is rolling around on the floor, screaming. Larry and I, per usual, know absolutely nothing about why this tantrum is occurring. As far as we can tell, nothing was happening right before the meltdown. Zane was playing by himself, with his own toys, all alone.

We are perplexed, but were afraid to ask.

Larry subsequently lost the coin toss, and he asked Zane what was wrong.

"I am tired" sobs Zane. "I had hard day at school."


We all know how that feels!

Red Writing Hood: Sloth

NOTE: Another week, another deadly sin. Why not? For this week's prompt, let's talk about sloth. Emotional or spiritual apathy. It's not doing what we think we should. It is closer to apathy than it is to simply being lazy. This came to my brain just like this, because my brain will do just about anything to avoid actual work. It is sloth-y like that.


The alarm clock next to my bed rings, gently saying
"Get up! Get up! Get out of that bed! It is time,
Time to face this bright new day!"

I hit the snooze button.

The alarm clock that I set last night buzzes, saying
"Get up! Get up! Get out of that bed! It is time,
Time to start that new workout at the gym!"

I hit the snooze button.

The alarm clock that I now hate blares, yelling
"Get up! Get up! Get out of that bed! It is time,
Time to start your new job, your new career!"

I hit the snooze button.

The alarm clock screams, "One last chance!
Get up! Get up! Get out of this bed! It is time,
Time to live,
Time to believe,
Time to become who You were meant to be."

I hit the snooze button for the last time.
The clock is silent.
I burrow under the whiteness as the blankets
Smother any spark of initiative I may have once had.

Colorful Language

To recover from my natural tendency to curse like a drunken sailor on shore leave, I've taken to using alternative words and phrases. By doing this, I hope to steer my son away from acquiring any new words that might get him kicked out of daycare.

"Son of a biscotti" and "Jiminy Crickets" and "crap" seem to have become my favorites. I try to say words and phrases that just don't go with an angry retort, to snap myself out of being in a negative mood. I don't say "Fudge" like some people, because that sounds way too close to the actual word I am trying to avoid, and one day I might slip up.

So when Zane was playing in the living room the other day, I was gratified to hear that my efforts had not gone unnoticed. I heard a toy fall off the table.

"Jiminy Crickets!" Zane muttered.

I Am A Cat Enabler

I have a calico cat named Pounce. Pounce came to us straight from a box; she was the last kitten in a box that an 8th grader had brought to school, and my husband is a sucker for a cute face. He brought her home about a month after we got married, and she has been living with us ever since.

And she is insane. Crazy with Cheez-Whiz. Cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs.

Did I mention that she's crazy?

Pounce didn't start out insane. For a long time, she was just your average cat, but a bit more skittish than the others in the house. She wasn't all that keen about the outdoors, but she would head out there in the mornings with the other cats to eat some grass and check out the world.

Then something happened that was more than Pounce's brain could process.

She stopped coming downstairs at all. For two years.

She hissed at everyone and everything.

She spent days under the bed in our room, and only came out to eat and use the litter box.

Apparently Pounce's normal self is just plain crazy. We got used to it.

She still hisses at my son, Zane, like he's new to the house. Every day. Zane hisses back(I'm so proud), and Pounce runs and hides under the bed for several hours.

Pounce hisses, stalks, and chases Zena, our kitten. She randomly whacks Morris, my 16 year old cat, in the head. While she will come downstairs now, if there's any sort of strangeness, like a toy that wasn't there before, she will head back upstairs to hide.

And she will no longer go out onto the patio to eat grass. She will stand in front of the door and meow, but when I open the door for her, she just stands there, her pupils wide open with fear.

So what do I do, as a good kitty-mama? Do I get coax her outside with treats and reward her for her bravery? No.

I go outside and pick blades of grass and bring them back into the house. Then I hold them in my hand so Pounce can pretend that she is outside eating grass.

Yep. I am buying into her crazy.

RemembeRED: Smoking

Note: Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this ashtray full of cigarettes. Keep it under 700 words, please. And remember...Memoir means memory. It's all about you and your life. First person. NO fiction.

My grandfather smoked. Two or more packs a day, I remember hearing someone say. He also drank more beer in a day than most people can tolerate. This was back when cans of beer had pull tabs, and my grandfather had a beer tab chain that he hung as a garland all over the first floor of his house. My grandfather died in 1976, and to this day I wonder what happened to that beer tab chain. No one in my dad's family has ever admitted to having it or taking it to be recycled.

I can remember that my parents smoked, especially my dad. (No beer tab chain, though.) He smoked until we moved to Washington D.C. My mother had quit, and she didn't want any smoking in the house, so my dad had to go outside to smoke. Once the weather hit below forty degrees, my dad decided that he needed to quit smoking. And he did.

But he needed something to do instead, and he asked me to teach him how to crochet.

At the time, my father was working two jobs and going to school to get his masters. He rarely had time for much else. In addition, I was in the Surly Teenager phase of my development, ready to take offense at the slightest raise of a parental eyebrow.

Never mind that I had just learned how to do a granny square a couple of months ago and didn't know much else. My dad was actually asking ME for something!

We sat on the couch in the family room, each of us with our crochet hooks and our yarn. It was slow going, because I didn't really know what I was doing well enough to actually teach anyone. It was very frustrating for me, trying to show him and tell him and direct him to make the chain, loop it, and 'post'. Fortunately for him, my dad had already learned how to crochet from his mother many years ago, and just needed a refresher.

He didn't tell me that at the time, however. Instead, he let me feel a small measure of pride that I had "taught" him something, and for that my self-esteem is eternally grateful.

Swine Flu

Just for today, I has it. Swine flu. Really. It's a 24 hour case.

Way back when everyone was afraid of getting the Swine flu(which has nothing to do with swine, by the way), the school district that I work for totally freaked out and cancelled school for a number of days. (It really wasn't their fault that they freaked out--the county health department freaked out, and hysteria turned out to be more contagious than the actual flu.) It was a big deal that they cancelled school, and the kids rejoiced, and their parents cried.

While all the teachers got to stay at home, including my husband(who was positively giddy), everyone in MY office had to be at work. This went on for a couple of days, until someone realized that all of us in the special education department spend a lot of time with children and their germs and were therefore not suitable to be in the building. We were sent home, but told to continue working and to document our time. Overall, I accumulated five glorious days of 'comp time'--meaning that I could take five days off whenever and it wouldn't come out of my sick leave.

Some people went on vacation using their Swine Flu days. Other people did glamorous things like spa treatments or day trips.

What did I do with my five days? Stayed home with my child for four days during this school year, because he was ill. Glamorously vacation-y! Dealing with a cranky, sick, recalcitrant three year old is soooo relaxing!

But I kept ONE day. Just for me.

This is that day.

I did have plans to go have lunch with my sister-in-law. I was planning on treating her. However, she texted me last night to say that "something came up", which is universally understood to mean "I don't want to hang out with you." (I try way too hard to be friends with my sister-in-law, and she has to invent lame excuses. Sue me.) So, no lunch. My husband has the car, so no hitting the Sephora store armed with a gift card or hunting through stores looking for a bathing suit that covers enough of my butt without qualifying as a burqa.

That was the extent of my planning for today.

I sometimes feel like my life is over scheduled. There's always someplace I have to be, some task that must be performed, some chore to complete. I wanted to break out of that, if only for one day.

So I am just going to play this day by ear.

I could sleep all day.

I might finish reading some of the 42 books I have stacked next to the bed.

I have beads to make jewelry.

I have walking shoes that need breaking in.

I have episodes of Castle, The Borgias, and Supernatural on the DVR that must be watched.

I have blogs that need reading/commenting.

I have online games I would like to play.

I have a garden that needs weeding and pruning.

Wait, scratch that last one.

I Am Not My Son's Friend

The other day, I asked Zane to pick up his toys, and when he refused, we had words.

"I am not your friend, Mama!" Zane stomped off--to pick up his toys.

"Good," I fired back. "I am not your friend, either. I am your Mama."

Parents can fill many roles in their children's lives: coach, teacher, cheerleader, mentor, confidant, nurse, protector, and hug-giver. Moms can stand-in for Dads, and Dads can stand-in for Moms. The one role that a parent can never be, however, is a friend.

A friend is an equal. A buddy. A partner in crime, occasionally.

There is no equality in a successful Parent-Child relationship. At least not until the Child has become an Adult. Sometimes not even then.

A parent has the extremely important and powerful responsibility, however 'not cool' it may be, of providing a safe place for their children to grow. Children rely on the adults in their lives to teach them the boundaries in life, what is expected of them. If a child understands that there are boundaries, rules, etc., and that their parent is there to make sure those boundaries are respected, then the child feels safe. They need a parent for this, not a friend.

Parents are the Gatekeepers in their children's lives. Parents are the ones who have been through most of the things that their children are going through as they grow up, and know how to help. The ones who set the boundaries. The ones who must say 'No' to their children, and mean it. Sometimes that is not fun, or glamorous, or cool. Sometimes it means hearing some horrible things from a child, but that doesn't change the reality. Being a parent means making the hard choices for your children, not the easy choice. When you are a parent and are making decisions for your child, there can be no path of least resistance.

If you can't be the heavy, if you can't draw lines and consistently maintain the boundaries for your children to keep them safe as they grow, then DO. NOT. HAVE. KIDS. And if you already have kids and you can't do these things, grow the hell up and start drawing those lines in the sand. Be a parent.

It is as simple as that.

In Praise of w00t!

I was checking out my news feed on Facebook, and I ran across this video from a blogger/vlogger named Mama Kat. And it sort of bothered me, enough that I thought about it for quite a bit, especially during Bloggerocalypse.





For those of you too lazy to listen to the video(or those of you at work who don't want anyone to know your surfing habits), Mama Kat has a problem with some words that have entered the collective consciousness of popular culture. Specifically, she does not like the word 'woot'.

Ignoring the misspelling of the word 'w00t', Mama Kat felt that use of the word was lame(my word). She demonstrated several social occasions in which the word 'w00t' did not fit. Most of the comments on the Facebook page reflected the agreement of many. Some even made comments about how there were actual ZEROES in the word without realizing that the zeroes reflect the correct spelling.

With all due respect to Mama Kat and her readers/viewers, I must disagree. 'w00t' is a great word. It is an exclamation of celebration, just like "Yahoo!", "Whoopee!", "Yippee!", "Woohoo!", and "Hooray!", and it deserves to be lauded, not condemned.

It is not, however, meant to be 'woot'. It is 'w00t'. It is a word associated with 'l33t' or 'leet speak', a language(orthography and morphology and syntax, oh my!) created for use primarily on the internet, on message boards/forums, and in gaming by people who are way more computer literate than me. 'w00t' has been in usage since 1994, and it was one of Merriam-Webster's Words of the Year for 2007. It is a legitimate word, unlike ROFLMAO and LMAO, which are acronyms of idioms that people are too lazy to say or type.

Totally different vegetables.

Our language, our words provide us with something that binds certain groups together and gives them a common ground upon which people can communicate. People who speak Spanish(or German, or Chinese, etc.,) share a group of words as part of a specific group. Usage of that group of words identifies them as part of that group, and confuses those who aren't part of that group unless those words are translated. Similarly, people who surf share a group of words that identify them as surfers to other surfers, a language that confuses non-surfing types unless it is translated--by a surfer. Some of those words have entered popular usage.

'w00t' falls in that same category.

That there is a word from a language created by ASCII users floating around in popular usage is simply a reflection of the greatness that is the English language. I think that is simply terrific. English, or at least the Americanized branch of English, is truly the great melting pot of the world. We find words that we want to use, and it doesn't matter if the word belongs to another language--if we want it, we take it. We make it our own. The result is a breathing, belching mix of good, bad, and ugly words that change constantly, sometimes in the course of a couple of months.

Does anyone still use the word 'hella' anymore, for example?

Think about it.

When was the last time anybody heard these words?

Or these?

These?

Bueller?(Give yourself bonus points if you get that cultural reference!)

Some of those words have stuck around, but most of them are considered to be antiques, because as the times have changed, so has the language we use to describe them. Ties that bind us together, as a nation, no matter where we,or our parents, were born.

w00t!

Mother-Son-Daddy Conversations

We are driving home from daycare.

"Zane, how was school today?" I ask, glancing in the rear view mirror.

"I don't spit." comes the answer from the back seat.

"That's great, but what did you do at school?" I try again.

"I don't spit." is the response.

"I am so glad, Zane." I keep at it. "Did you do anything fun at school today?"

"I don't spit." Zane is firm on his spitting behavior.

"Hey Zane! Did you go outside to play today?" Larry tries his turn.

"I don't spit," Zane replies. "I don't kick."

At least he is consistent.



NOTE: The post that I was going to make today was delayed by blogger being down. I am going to try and have it up for tomorrow instead! Thank you for your patience!

Mother-Son Conversation

Zane is being difficult. He won't get into his car seat, and we are late.

"Child." I finally said in frustration, my tone meant to convey my Authority as a parent.

"Mom." came my son's response, in the same tone of voice.

"Arrrgh!" I growled.

"Arrrgh!" Zane replied.

He smiled.

I smiled.

And we went about our day.

Mother-Son Conversation

Zane is in the living room. I am in the kitchen.

"Mama?" Zane calls from the living room.

"Yes, Son?" I am in the kitchen, my hands in the sink, waging my daily war against a never diminishing pile of dirty dishes.

"I not the Sun, I'm Zane!" comes the outraged response.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" I forget that Zane does not understand homonyms yet. "Yes, Zane?"

"Mama, I want the Spiderman book."

"Which Spiderman book?" Zane has several books with Spiderman on the cover, and I try to think of where they all might be located.

"That Spiderman book," came the reply. At this point, an extremely snarky response popped into my head, but I kept it to myself.

"What does it look like?" I said instead.

"I don't know," said Mr. Helpful.

"Well, if you don't know, how do you know that that is the book you want?" I tried logic. Silence from the living room as this question was processed. I got back into the groove of dishwashing.

"Mama?" Zane called from the living room.

"Yes?"

"I want the Spiderman book."


For the record, it was a Marvel Superheroes Look and Find book. Spiderman was indeed on the cover.

RemembeRED: Benediction

Note: This week, we want you to write about sand. Yes...sand.

It doesn't have to be summer-related, but the impending summer and my proximity to Lake Michigan and it's glorious beaches are what inspired me to tell you to write about sand.

So.

SAND.

GO.

Oh, and come back Tuesday, May 10 and link up.

SAND.


It was my first overnight trip without my parents. I was almost eighteen, and three of my friends and I had packed up the car and driven to Ocean City. We dropped off our stuff at our cramped hotel room, changed into swimsuits, and hit the sand for four days of summer fun. The sun was high in the sky at that point; the group of us never could manage to leave for anywhere on time. But it didn't matter, because we were at the beach! On our own!!!! Squeeeeeee!!!!! I remember that we had a wonderful time. We sunned, we walked the boardwalk, we flirted with cute boys, and were just girls for the last moments before we all went off to college.

Yet I have never been a person who enjoys moving among the crowds of people and music and noise that is the summertime at the beach. My senses quickly became overwhelmed trying to keep up. So I woke up early on the second day, quietly dressed in some shorts and a t-shirt, left a note for my friends, and walked the two blocks to the beach while it was still dark.

At that time of the day, there wasn't yet another soul out here: it was just me, the sand, and the implacable vastness of the ocean meeting the stars...it felt sacred.

As I first stepped onto the beach that morning, the sand felt as cool as water as my feet melded into it. The sand was fluid, sliding over my feet and slippery between my toes. I walked toward the ocean, just to the edge of where the waves carried the water up onto the beach. I took one step more, hesitant, and the tide of water rushed over the top of my feet, carrying the sand that I was standing on away from me. It was as though I was sinking into the ground, my feet yearning to be rooted here, a tree to bear witness to my insignificance. I felt uplifted by the moment; uplifted, and sanctified. I watched the sun rise up above the water, and then I walked back to the hotel room, marveling at what I had seen.

My friends were still sleeping when I crept back into the room. I locked the door and lay down on a bed. As I drifted off, I tried to hold onto the emotions, that blessing, that I had experienced out on that beach, but they flowed away from me like the cool sand had slipped between my toes.

Book Review: Big Daddy's Tales

Before I start, a disclaimer: I actually bought this book. Yep. Paid for it with my own money. Big Daddy did NOT give me any incentives, cash or otherwise, to review his book, although if he chose to send me chocolates, I would scarf them down immediately.

I eagerly anticipated the publication of Big Daddy's Tales: From the Lighter Side of Raising a Kid with Autism, by F. Lewis Stark, who also goes by the name of Big Daddy Autism. Mr. Stark has a blog, Big Daddy Autism, which I have been reading for some time. Big Daddy and his wife Mrs. Big Daddy, have a son with autism, and the blog describes many of the ups and downs and all-arounds of raising a special kind of special needs child.

Because each child is an individual, there are as many 'kinds' of autism as there are stars in the sky(actually, that applies to any and all disorders or conditions, but we are speaking strictly of autism today). In his book, Big Daddy references the old story about a person preparing for a trip to Italy(aka the birth of a NT child), and ending up in Holland(aka the birth of a child with autism). He, and his wife, have determined that spending time in Holland, admiring the windmills and tulips, is a better perspective than spending a lifetime wishing to be in Italy. They have chosen to find the humor in as many spaces of their son Griffin's autism as they can.

There was a point in my son's development that a developmental psychologist used the 'A' word, and that was a very scary time for my husband and I. So I have a very general, incomplete idea of what the parent of a child with autism might go through in the early stages prior to diagnosis. When you have a child with autism, sometimes it must be incredibly difficult to find something in the disorder to laugh about, something that can make you feel uplifted. I think that Big Daddy does an excellent job in accepting his son as he is and finding the joy in that. His is a realistic viewpoint, with no sugarcoating to wash it down, but it is an often hilarious pill to swallow.

This probably should be required reading for anyone in education, but it's also an ideal book for anyone who knows a child with autism. I work with kids who have autism, and my husband occasionally has a student with autism in his class. I have found that kids with autism are a fun bunch. Even when they are having a 'bad' day, there's just something about them that I adore. I just like 'hanging out' with them. Reading about Griffin, with his elevators and his Weather Channel, made me laugh out loud. It also caused me to say to my husband, "You've gotta listen to this!" and read parts of Big Daddy's Tales to him. I just don't ever do that, because my husband and I don't have the same taste in reading material, but Larry laughed along with me, and that is a testament to Big Daddy's writing.

Happy Mama's Day!

I was going to be a Mama. I knew this in my bones when I was just an itty-bitty. This thought was granite in my heart, unchanging over the years. I would be Mama to as many little boys and girls as I could, and we would live happily ever after.

There was only one time that I lost faith in that Dream of Mama. That was on December 8, 2003, when I miscarried at nineteen weeks. A beautiful, perfectly formed girl that I had already named Zoe, because that name means life. In another cruel twist, my daughter, whose name means life, almost took me with her.

As I recovered, my Dream of Mama seemed to be nothing but ashes covering me and my whole world. All was gray, for I had fallen into shadow.

But that Dream of Mama was not dead. It was still whispering to me, still written in my heart. The ashes in my life blew away and faith in the Dream of Mama was somehow renewed. Much would be required of me this time, and much could go wrong for this Dream of Mama. Somehow I knew this pregnancy would be successful, and it was. Well, until two days short of 32 weeks, when both Zane and I almost died again. But the Dream of Mama was not to be denied, but fulfilled. And now I have my beautiful child, my boy. My Dream of Mama came true.

Would I love to have more than one child? Yes, I would. Very much. But my body will not survive another pregnancy, somehow I know this. It's not likely that someone will give me a child, either. So I just have to learn to accept it. Because I truly am happy with what I have: a loving husband, a ridiculously healthy and happy son, and a family that is there when it counts. All I need is to win the lottery and then I am set!

When I was younger, I would be fascinated by pregnant bellies, I would imagine one day being pregnant, my belly full of dreams.

Now that I am wiser, on this Mother's day, pregnant bellies make me think of who I've lost...and who I have gained. My life is richer now that my Dream of Mama came true.

Okay, I am sitting here bawling my fool head off, so I am going to stop all this for now. I promise to try and be funny tomorrow.

It's Thorsday

My husband is a HUGE comic book superhero geek. While I know who some of the bigger names in the Pantheon, my husband can recite the superhero family tree in minute, exacting, detail. Without looking anything up.

He's been excited about seeing the new movie Thor. Very excited. What he's been most excited about has been the idea of seeing the movie with his son. Which I happen to think is very cool.

However, I had to be the rain on the proverbial parade. I had concerns regarding this particular field trip.

Concern about my son's age and the resulting attention span of 1/10000th of a second.

Concern about the darkness of the theater once the movie starts.

Concern that Zane will raise a ruckus because he doesn't want to sit still in his seat.

Concern that the other patrons attending will smite us for ruining their viewing experience when Zane throws a fit.

Concern that the loud volume of the movie will scare Zane.

Concern that there might be inappropriate language, or worse...boobies.

Concern that some of the 'monsters' in the movie would scare Zane.

Concern that in the dark, Zane will fall down the stairs if he runs off.

Did I mention that I had concerns? I am the party pooper in my family, sad duty that it is.

Larry listened to all of my concerns very attentively and thoughtfully. Then he told me that he still wanted to take Zane to see Thor. I was incredulous.

Did he not hear all of my completely logical reasons for not taking Zane to the movie theater?

He will eventually be going to the movies at the theater, Larry pointed out, so why not get him started now?

I countered with my final fear that if we had to leave the theater with Zane because of his behavior, we would be out the money we had spent on the tickets.

Zane himself has been ambivalent much of the time. Sometimes if you ask him if he wants to see Thor, he says that he wants to see it. Other times, he says that no, he does not want to see Thor.

Larry stuck to his guns, and he had a plan. He would keep an eye on Zane during the movie, and if Zane becomes rambunctious, he would be the one to take him out of the theater. We will go to the earliest possible show, so there won't be 400,000 people in the theater, Larry told me. That was before we found out that many theaters would be showing the film in 3D. No way would Zane wear the glasses; he doesn't like anything covering his face. Finally,Larry found a movie time that wasn't 3D, at 11:30.

Today is the day. It has been officially deemed "Thorsday" by my husband, and Zane has concurred. Keep your fingers crossed that we at least make it through the opening credits.

Jealous

Note:Aaah...jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it.

And now we'd like you to write about it. We'll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.

And it can be fiction or non-fiction. This is Fiction! Although I probably am the Neighborhood Crazy Lady. Word limit is 600.




As I stood out in my front yard, watering my roses, there they were. It was my next door neighbor's daughter, home from college, and a friend of hers. Two young, lithe bodies sunning themselves on the front lawn of my neighbor's house, where everybody and God could see them. Of course I stared. That's what they wanted, I realized. Why else would they have been out in the front yard, instead of in the backyard with the privacy fence? I stared.

Those long legs, smooth and evenly tanned.

Glutes that were almost granite.

Breasts, perched upright and proud way above tiny waistlines.

Flat, washboard abdomens.

Svelte hips.

Blistering white smiles and full, pouty lips.

Long hair radiating gold in the sunlight.

All that beautiful, luscious, ripe youth, stuffed into tiny bikinis that left nothing at all to the imagination.

Who wouldn't stare? They were wearing the kind of tiny scraps of cloth that I used to wear when I was their age. When my body looked like that. Only better, because I had the benefit of hindsight.

The two not-yet-women-but-no-longer-girls finally noticed me, the Crazy Neighbor Lady, standing next to my pink roses in my front yard, staring at them. They leaned toward one another, and one girl put her hand over her mouth to hide what she was saying. They giggled at the old neighbor lady staring at them while she watered her flowers. I turned away from them and moved toward my yellow roses.

I thought about my varicose veins, which make my legs look like a map of the interstates.

The thighs so covered in cellulite they looked hail damaged.

The breasts stretched oblong from breastfeeding and age.

The hips misaligned from carrying children on one hip.

The arms that jiggle so much they are recorded as seismic activity.

The dull, lifeless hair.

The double chin. The jowls. The feeling that my face is slowly sliding down into my cleavage from the gravity of my years.

A feeling came over me. An urge to run over to my neighbor's front yard and grab those two girls by the hair and pull every last strand out. To throw them out of those lawn chairs and into the hot street where the asphalt had the same temperature as the sun. The urge to claw that smooth, flawless skin to ribbons. My stomach clenched, and I could almost feel my fingers piercing soft flesh.

What was the word I was looking for? Then it hit me. Jealous. That was the word I was looking for. I was jealous of those two girls because they were young and beautiful. I am not either of those things, not anymore.

But I do have a petty side to my personality.

I turned and squirted both girls with the hose.

My Friend Kimberly is a Freakin' GENIUS!!!

We've had issues with Zane's behavior. He's a three year old with plans for world domination, and we are his parents. We would be happy if he picked up his toys. Or went to bed without a fight. Or brushed his teeth. We were using a sticker chart for these behaviors, but the boy started gaming the system. Then he got bored with the whole sticker concept. Particularly at bedtime.

Zane is very adept at the delay tactic when it comes to bedtimes. We get him upstairs and he has to get his pillow, which he took downstairs that morning.

Then he has to have his blanket. Next it's juice.

Then it's the Toy Du Jour, which must be found.

Then we must read How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night?

Then Zane announces that he has to go to the bathroom.

When we finally get him into bed, he must be completely covered with the blanket. Then he must be completely uncovered. On and on and on.

One evening, in the middle of a particularly frustrating battle over bedtime, I told Zane that if he didn't get into bed this minute, Santa wasn't going to bring him a present. Zane heard his very favoritest word, 'present', and he jumped right into bed and was out five minutes later. Eureka, I thought. I told my husband what had happened. He was as shocked and amazed as I was, but skeptical.

"Santa Claus?" Larry said. "That sounds weird. I hope that you are not blogging about this. People will point and laugh when they see us."

"They point and laugh at us now," I responded. "Do you have a better idea, Brightest Star in the Sky?" When I start using elaborate endearments like this, Larry is smart enough to detect that I am being sarcastic. Since he couldn't come up with a better idea, we added Santa and his present to our evening routine. After Zane was asleep, we would go and get a small toy and put it under his pillow for him to find the next morning. If Zane did not go to sleep within a reasonable time, no Santa.

Then my friend Kimberly, who is over at The Only Child Chronicles shared on Facebook that her son Lex would do a lot of things for a poker chip.

A poker chip? I had an idea rolling around in the back of my head about using Chuck E Cheese coins to 'pay' Zane for doing his chores, but some jerk broke into our car and stole all the CC coins out of the glove box. And that was that.

A poker chip. How can we make a poker chip something that Zane would be interested in? I talked to Larry about this.

"What if we put stickers of super heroes on the poker chips?" Larry said.

"Brilliant!" I yelled, which you probably shouldn't do in church. We found some poker chips at Walmart and some sticker paper. Larry found some pictures of superheroes on the interwebs. He printed them out and we painstakingly cut the stickers out and applied them to the coins. We also printed out some stickers with the letter Z on them. Z-coins, we call them.

We told Zane that Santa had decided to start giving Zane these Z-coins because he couldn't always get here on time. He bought it. We started handing out the poker chips very liberally at first.

Zane LOVES it. He will do anything for a poker chip. Kimberly was right!

After an adjustment period, we started telling him that he could use his chips to "buy' toys. Yay us, for getting it.

Fear This

Over the past month, I've become afraid of the elevator in the building where I work. This should not be odd. People acquire anxieties over the years. I've worked in the same building for twenty years, however, and I've ridden that same elevator at least once every day that I've worked there. Ridden that elevator, which only goes up two floors, with no anxiety whatsoever for twenty years. And now all of a sudden I am afraid of the damned thing.

I am afraid that the elevator will break down with me inside it, even though the elevator has only broken down ONCE in the twenty years I've worked there. Once I start thinking that the elevator might break down, that thought is stuck in my head. Like white on rice, the saying goes. This triggers my latent claustrophobia, even when I am not actually IN the elevator. The claustrophobia makes me feel like there is no air in the elevator, even when I am not IN the elevator. That's right--all of my thoughts and fears about getting stuck on the elevator all occur when I am not actually ON the elevator.

I know what you're thinking. You are thinking to yourself that that is just about the craziest thing you've ever heard. You are trying to think of a polite way to step back slowly and run away very fast. You are concerned that this kind of crazy might well be contagious. You are wondering if someone else is typing this for me because the strait jacket is too binding to type. The reason I know what you're thinking is NOT due to in any way to the hat that I made out of tinfoil, but because I have thought all of those things, and more. I am an anxious person by nature, but I usually have the low-grade type of anxiety running in the back of my head. Not the "OMG! Heart attack!" sort.

I have no idea why I am suddenly afraid of an elevator. Of this particular elevator. At this particular time. Is it because of stress? Is it a medication issue? Is it sleep deprivation catching up to me? Is it my hormones? Is it somebody else's?

I even went to my family doctor to talk to him about it. I told him that this was unusual for me, this being afraid of inanimate objects such as elevators. I told him that I was not an over-the-top anxious person. I told him that this sudden fear bothered me, because it is not the usual for me. I remarked that I was forcing myself to get on that damned elevator just to prove to myself that I can. I spoke for a long time about why this bothered me, and my doctor listened. He's good about listening. He listened, and then he gave me his opinion.

"Take the stairs," he said. And he wrote me a prescription for Welbutrin, which he said had helped people get over their anxieties, obsessions, and general weirdness.

Okay, so he didn't say anything about general weirdness. But I know that's what he was thinking.

A Born Leader

The assistant Director at Zane's daycare told us the other day that while she was speaking to another boy, Zane, my three year old son, approached her.

"Miss Theresa, when you get done here, come talk to me," He told her. He then walked off. Intrigued, when Miss Theresa finished, she went in search of my son. She found him playing with blocks. She pulled up a chair.

"No, you sit here," Zane told her, pointing to the floor. When Miss Theresa told us this, I pictured Zane telling her to "criss-cross applesauce", which is what he tells ME all the time. (Never mind that my legs don't DO criss-cross applesauce, and haven't done that since my wild and bleary-eyed college days.) So Miss Theresa sat with him on the floor and talked with Zane for a bit. He showed her what he was building with blocks. Then it was time for her to go back to her desk. Zane stood up with her, like a gentleman.

"Thank you for talking with me, Miss Theresa," Zane told her. Miss Theresa thought that was just so adorable. And it is.

The daycare has a new director these days. For the past week, Zane has been leaving his class to run up and say hi to Miss Georgia. Yes, he will run as fast as he can the twenty yards to her desk.

"Hi Miss Georgia," he will say. Miss Georgia will hear Zane's teacher yelling for him to come back, but she has to acknowledge Zane first. Then he runs back to class.

Yes, he is a polite kid. He says "yes, ma'am", etc. But in hearing these stories, the one thing that I keep hearing is that my son is pretty darn good at getting adults to do what he wants. He's bossy with the other kids, but he's flirty and complimentary and friendly to the adults, and they don't realize that he's bossing them, too.

Maybe I should have Zane negotiate my next pay raise.

Crouching T-shirts, Hidden Socks

Laundry is trying to kill me.

What else can I think?

I am very vigilant about laundry. Some might even venture to say anal, if they like to be smacked upside the head. Every Saturday morning, I militantly march through the house, collecting clothes from hampers and towels from bathrooms. I leave no couch pillow unturned in my efforts. I even look underneath the couch for random socks. Every single bit of dirty clothing ends up in various piles on the floor in the laundry room. All of it is washed meticulously in the correct temperature, then thrown into the dryer or hung up to air dry. Each sock is paired with a mate, and even the washcloths are folded. All clean clothes are placed into assigned baskets, depending on their ultimate resting place, and all items are returned to closets, drawers, and towel racks. Where they are supposed to belong.

Yet after the last tiny pair of Marvel Superhero underpants(not mine, thank you!) have been folded and put away, I'll turn around...

...to find an extra-large Green Lantern t-shirt stalking me from atop the bookshelf.

Coming downstairs bleary-eyed in the morning, I find...

...a mine field of tiny socks, man-sized shirts, and jeans, large and small, strewn in my path. Where do they come from? I don't even recognize some of these items!

The other day I found a tube sock stretched across the top of the stairs, waiting to trip me.

It's as if my home is a vortex where clothing is deposited, like one of those survival/hunting shows, to stalk human prey.

Cue the violin from Psycho.

The End of A to Z

April 30th marked the very end of the A to Z Blog Challenge. Many thanks to Arlee Bird at his blog home and his team of eager writers. I feel like I've run a marathon, at least mentally!

Not only was I attempting to use the alphabet as my muse for writing, I also continued participating in the Red Dress Club's writing prompts, so those prompts had to reflect the parameters of both challenges. That was kind of hard. A couple of times I had nothing to submit to the Red Dress Club, mostly this last week, because we had the horrific, vile, and completely useless TAKS test to administer to middle school students. Administering that test always makes me feel vaguely dirty, like I am participating in some sort of horribly random experiment in the mind control of children. I'll stop talking about it now, since that would only bring back the post-traumatic stress reaction.

Sometimes for the A to Z, I would look up a word or two that started with that letter, and try to build a post around that. Other times I had an idea of what I wanted to post, but I had to make the letter fit. Other times, like my post for the letter U, just flowed right out of me as fast as I could type the letters. Apparently that one had been rattling around in my brain for a long time! It was good to get it out.

What I have learned over the last 30 days? Well, the first thing I learned is that I CAN do it. I can write every day. I used to struggle with that, but the challenge sort of gave me a push.

Next, I've learned is that there are a LOT of very talented writers out there in Blog Land. I've gotten headaches because I've stayed up too late reading all the different posts. Published authors were participating, and they were wonderful in offering up advice about writing, poetry, and blogs. One blogger was gracious enough to feature some bloggers on his site that began with the letter of the day--clever AND helpful!

I have enjoyed every second of the A to Z Blog Challenge. I hope that I get to participate next year. I loved it.