Friday, June 30, 2006


I was raised a bit of a Bible banger. My mother is a P.K., preacher's kid, and although she had us attending an Episcopalian church, the Baptist in her never quite worked itself all the way out. Lots of things I wanted to do as a kid were "the devil's work". Rock music, painted fingernails, astrology, Tarot cards, all were paths that would lead me straight to hell. The Catholics were bad because they worshipped Mary and prayed to saints, "false Gods", a commandment breaker. Anyone that wasn't a Christian, actively proclaiming Jesus Christ as their Lord and savior, would not make their way into heaven. It was my full-time job to get their souls saved, and I was exhausted by the task.

Somewhere along the line I began to encounter people with vastly different views than mine, and I saw that they enhanced my spiritual life, rather than threatened it. Now when people ask me what I am, I say "everything". I am Buddhist, Christian and very interested in adding Jewish to my mix. I see only how they overlap and resemble one another in their precepts, their differences are slight, to me, compared to their universal messages of love, peace and compassion.

At this point I am willing to try almost anything. Crystals, burning sage, spreading tobacco, bring it on. I am all about getting the energy "right", and whatever works, works for me.
I was recently introduced to a tapping system meant to help clear trauma from the mind and body. It involves tapping on different touch points on the body to release the trauma held there. Since three people have told me I have rage issues, I am tapping like crazy to release the rage I hold. Now I have bruises the size of quarters on the outer edges of my eyes.
Hey, I didn't say I was an expert.

To find out more about the Trauma Tap, click here!
Tap Tap Tap!!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

  1. Don't call, write, e-mail, or in any way make an effort to contact me, then the minute I contact you, say, "Well, I wondered if I was ever going to hear from you again!
  2. Take everything I say or do personally. Not everything is about you. Say this to yourself over and over and over until you climb off my ass!
  3. Open 100 Otter Pops a day. Open each one in a different location in the house, cutting the tops off with scissors, leaving the oozy ends and sticky scissors scattered throughout the house and yard.
  4. Ask for cinnamon toast. Ask that there be extra cinnamon on it. Ask that you can sprinkle cinnamon on your hand and lick it off. Walk all over the house with said toast leaving buttery, sugary grit on every surface of the house. Repeat this activity 10 x a day.
  5. Remain in your upstairs bedroom with the door closed and your music on, while bellowing to me downstairs in the kitchen, "Mom! Mom! Mom!" , expecting me to not only hear you, but run immediately to find out the nature of the latest emergency.
  6. Walk in the door and remove your socks. Place them RIGHT where you take them off, but never in the same place twice. Don't remove the socks. Don't put the socks in the laundry room. Stomp your foot and act pissed when socks get moved three days later when you're ready to carry out your convoluted plan for them.
  7. Get the morning paper. Take off the plastic sleeve and drop it wherever you feel like it. Find the Sports, Business and Metro sections. Take them. Leave the classified ads and inserts in my chair like a little gift for me to deal with. Grunt when I ask if you are done reading the actual paper.
  8. It is hot. Grab a swimsuit, run outside and get wet in the sprinklers. Grab a towel. Get cold. Run in the house, dripping, drop wet swimsuit and towel. Repeat activity every hour on the hour.
  9. Call and don't leave a message. Why you are calling is not important enough to leave a message. Just keep calling every 10 minutes. You are sure I'll eventually answer. You are wrong. Now it's a war, and I will win.
  10. Tell me I have anger and/or rage issues. This will send me to the dictionary to sort through the differences between the two, only furthering my rage and anger issues.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

As I wait in line at Safeway with an over-flowing grocery cart, a man with one item starts to speak.
"This line isn't moving very fast. I'm just going to put my case of beer down here, by you, and run out to my car. I forgot my wallet. I'm still behind you in line, though, OK?"
"OK, I'll scoot your beer up with me if this line ever begins to move," I reply.
I look around and see two express lanes open. I am very clearly going to be taking a huge long turn when I get up there. Why does he want to be behind me so badly?
He comes back in, red faced from hurrying, from too much prior alcohol consumption in his roughly 55 year-old-life, and the 92 degree day outside.
"I'm back, I made it. Thanks for holding my spot."
"Yea, no problem. Really, since you just have the one item, and I have 3,000, why don't you go before me?"
"Really, it's not a problem, I'm just catching up on Angelina, Nicole and Britany Spears, anyway, I'm in no hurry."
He goes ahead, buys the beer, then turns with the most grateful smile in the world, and says, "Hey, thanks a lot, really."
I can't believe his largesse over the small favor. It is not until I get home and peel off my sweaty shirt that I see it, "love." The shirt has struck again.
To order your own "love." t-shirt, go to:
P.S. I think I've told approximately 200 people I'd get them a "love." shirt. Yea, about that, that's just not going to happen, sorry! My VISA card is full and my husband refuses to take out a second mortgage, the bastard.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

I'm sitting in a coffee house getting my internet fix, and having a chuckle over the difference between men and women. This particular place, Sisters Coffee Company, which gets a free plug in exchange for free Wi-Fi, is a gathering place for the whole town. There are locals, easily discerned from the tourists, people holding obvious business meetings, and people holding obvious bullshit exchanges.
The men that come here to meet come in, get their simple coffees, sit down, and discuss business after 2.5 seconds of "check-ins". The women come in, stand at the counter, slightly behind, indicating the "we're still deciding" phase of the process, order long, complicated, oxymoronic drinks like non-fat mochas with whip, then sit down. The check-in process lasts approximately 2.5 hours. When everyone eventually realizes they've yet to get on to the subject at hand, they quickly focus, have their meeting, then disburse with words like, "So, we'll get together next week to follow-up, right?"
Both sets feel their meetings were very successful and fully realized. Both are right.
Imagine this scene...
I am in a bath of kosher sea salts, I am cleansing, purifying, getting my energy right. There are candles aglow all around. I am alone in the house. I am listening to Jack Kornfield's "Mediatation for Beginners" CDs. I am determined to learn meditation. How hard can it possibly be to quiet my mind for FIVE fucking minutes? Hmmmm... way harder than I ever thought.
I do the breathing, I am trying so hard, I am soaking in sea salts in a quiet, peaceful room for heaven's sake! Jack keeps bringing me back. He tells me, "It is OK if the mind wanders, it is normal, treat the mind like a puppy. Put the puppy on the newspapers, when the puppy walks off, pull the puppy back, over and over again. Be gentle with the puppy, DON'T BEAT THE PUPPY!" That was the last straw. I dissolved into laughter. C'mon, don't beat the puppy? How can one meditate after an image like that? Not that puppy beating is in any way funny, it's not, it's pathetic and depraved, but nonetheless, I am finding it hysterical. I've got a whole "Don't beat the puppy" rap going on in my head to the tune of "Who let the dogs out." "Don't beat the puppy, bam, bam, don't beat the puppy, bam, bam..."
I'm pretty sure this in not what Jack Kornfield intended. I'm pretty sure quieting the mind did not mean invent new words to already annoying tunes. I'm pretty sure I'd better lower the bar and set my intent to meditate for 1 minute. Rome wasn't built in a day, and my restless mind won't quiet in a day, either.

Monday, June 26, 2006

I just know you're all out there identifying your preferred spouses, ever since my official coining of the phrase on this blog awhile back. I know you are, because I've had no fewer than 5 people speak to me recently, tell a story, then add, "you know, my preferred spouse." Oh so happy to have started a trend. Well now I have two friends thinking of taking this idea one step further...
These two wonderful women, with multiple children between them, ex-husbands in the scene, but the lion's share of the parenting going to them, they are thinking of becoming a family. Remember the old show "Kate and Allie"? Yea! Like that! It makes such perfect sense to me. Every wife knows that what they most need, is a wife, or a highly evolved husband (I hear they exist).
Together these women will each work from home, share in the household duties, parenting duties, chaffeuring, etc... We know that money and sex cause the most fights in a man/woman marriage, this one won't even have to touch those issues. They will each have their own money for "their" families, and will work out a wonderful plan for sharing household expenses. Any men that come into their lives will exist beyond their family circle, not within. There will be no overlapping of circles for these women, no Venn Diagram, none of that stuff that makes everything weird and icky for everyone.
I can't wait to come to their "wedding", or whatever it is they do to celebrate their new beginning. Long may they last.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

I admit to being smug in the past about not having addictions to drugs or alcohol. I admit to having had very little compassion towards those that do. I admit that I have even felt rage over the people in my life struggling with such addictions.
I admit that I now have two addictions so strong, so powerful, and so entwined together, that I can finally relate to the drinker that simultaneously lights up a cigarette, the couch potato that turns on the TV while grabbing the snacks. The fortunate/unfortunate thing about my addictions, is they are universally accepted, they are mainstream, they are strongly encouraged. I am fully addicted to my morning coffee and internet connection. I must do these two things before my day can officially begin. I'd sooner skip a shower than this critical and symbolic start to my day.
Two days in a row I have poured the coffee, the perfect first cup, in the mug that calls to me from behind the glass-covered cabinet. The exact right amount of cream is poured, the color is perfection. I am giddy with anticipation. This is a part of my day over which I have full control, and that first cup never fails to disappoint.
I tiptoe from the downstairs kitchen back upstairs to my office. My laptop is permanently muted, I don't dare wake a soul. This is my time, at the first sound of "Mooooooom" my day will be relinquished to my kids.
The computer comes to life, I click Internet Explorer, my icon reassures me that a wireless connection has been established, then..."Page cannot be displayed." I am sure this is a fluke. I am still sure it is a fluke twenty-five double clicks later.
I slide into the nearest pair of shoes and leave my house, camisole, no bra, boobs and belly button meeting in the middle, dirty pajama bottoms and hair in an unfortunate arrangement on my head. I drive like the possessed woman I am. I barely slow at the stop signs. My fix has not been had, I will drive anywhere, under any conditions to get it, now.
I find myself behind "Philly's", in a deserted parking lot, reminding myself, again, at how low I will stoop. It is 6:20 AM on a sunny Sunday morning. I look and behave exactly how I am feeling, absolutely single-minded to get my fix. "Philly's" is touted as having free Wi-Fi. I need Wi-fi. Problem, must have a "key". "Philly's" won't open for hours, I was hoping to just be adjacent to the Wi-Fi, it looks like a more invested relationship is now required.
"Starbucks! " I think to myself with relief. I know that somewhere I have a t-mobile card, shit, probably at home. I try to log-in anyway, who the hell knows their password in the state I am in? I am wild with need now, and the fix just won't be mine. I am fully-aware of my lunacy, while concurrently defending it.
"Hi, my name is Carrie, and I am an internet/coffee addict." They say that's the first step, right? Only 11 more to go.

Friday, June 23, 2006

  • stick his wedding ring in his nostril, and command me to "look"
  • wear clothes, nor shoes, that are held together with duct tape
  • drink directly from the juice container
  • make a PBJ sandwich on the morning newspaper under the guise of "saving a plate"
  • wear his pants up to his neck
  • attempt to arouse me by saying, "You know what you need..."
  • lose interest in hearing me bitch and whine
  • tell me I'm not smokin' enough refer
  • be a heterosexual

Thursday, June 22, 2006

"Goodnight, Rojo," I say as I tuck him into bed. "Sleep tight. I love you, I'll see you in the morning."
"No, you'll see me at 9:52, remember?"
"Oh, yes, 9:52, see you then."
"Don't forget, OK?"
"OK," I assure.
Each night we have this same conversation, with the time I am to wake him changing occasionally. Nonetheless, each night he has big plans for when I wake him up. He will play basketball at the neighborhood school, by himself, he will get to be the boss of me, and he will get to play on my computer, all things verboten during his normal waking hours.
Somehow each night I "forget", and each morning he berates me before beginning the whole routine again.
"Tonight wake me up at 9:52. OK? Don't forget. OK? Promise not to forget, OK?"
We have this conversation approximately two million times between the time he wakes up, and the time he goes to sleep.
"Mom, can I have an Otter Pop while I watch TV on your bed?"
"Can I have an Otter Pop while I watch TV on your bed at 9:52 tonight when you wake me up?"

"THANK YOU! You are the best mom! I love you! You let me have Otter Pops at 9:52 on your bed! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now don't forget, OK?"
"Mom, will you please stop being so bossy?"
"No. I am the mom. My job is to be the boss."
"Will you please stop being so bossy at 9:52?"
"THANK YOU! You are the best mom...."

And so on, and so on, and so on....

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

I live in a Dick and Jane neighborhood. The neighbors all know one another, many are even third generation natives. This is supposed to be a neighborhood that is "safe", where children play outside, where nobody locks their doors, and where we are exempt from the problems of urban living.
You can imagine how disturbed I was to read then, in our neighborhood association's newsletter, that some neighbors have been having their garbage stolen by identity thieves.
Well, let me tell you a thing or two Mr. or Mrs. Meth Addict! First of all, you've made ME feel like the criminal everytime I want to buy Sudafed, and need to show picture ID to do so, while my "information" is carefully logged. Now you're stealing my garbage? Maybe you don't understand what is in my garbage. My garbage is full of GARBAGE! There are icky things, smelly things, and let me just warn you, there are poopy Pull-Ups in my garbage, so ha, ha, ha, who is laughing now?? My garbage does NOT contain personal information, my mother's maiden name, nor my Social Security Number. It is garbage, I tell you, garbage.
If you STILL want to steal my garbage after learning of its high-garbage content, let me tell you what ELSE to take. If you are going to try to steal my identity, you can steal all that goes with it. I've comprised a list, and if need be, I will be happy to laminate and post this list adjacent to my stinky, smelly, garbage-filled garbage can, just as a friendly reminder!
  • My mother
  • My debt
  • My responsibilities
  • My list of things to do
  • My neurosis, psychosis, compulsions, obsessions and addictions
  • My droopy boobs and menopausal symptoms
  • The wrinkles, grey hair, age spots and unwanted facial hair
  • My husband and both kids

You can take all the people that are on my last nerve, too, I'll just keep my favorite people, my magnetic personality and quick wit. Maybe I'll swing by and pick up your back stash of Sudafed, too.


Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Part II
A. Feelings
1. Anger
#1. "I have a resentment for you, will you hear it?
#2. "When you do or say ___________, I feel ___________."
#3. Nothing! No discussuion except: "I hear that you are angry."
2. Fear
#1. "I'm feeling afraid, will you tell me what is true about my fears?"
#2. "What is true about your fear is this ____________"
#3. If the fear is only party true, give a reassurance: i.e. "I don't feel angry. I was disappointed but I know you would have if you could."
3. Strokes
#1. "I have a stroke for you, will you hear it?"
#2. "When you do or say/did or said, ___________, I feel/felt _______"
#3. Nothing! No discussion except: "I hear you."
B. 100%
"I will tell you what I would really like from you, and I want you to tell me what your 100% from me is." "I want to negotiate so that both of us can get what we need."
OK, try them out and tell me what you think! I'd love to hear from you!

Monday, June 19, 2006

I wanted to share with all of you what I believe are the essential rules of life. They are called the Rules of Cooperation. They are so powerful in their simplicity. They can easily be taught to children, and are highly effective for solving conflicts with adults, as well.

Rule #1: NO SCARITY - "I agree to act on my belief that there is enough of what we all need if we cooperate."
Rule #2: EQUAL RIGHTS - "I agree to respect your rights as a person, as equal to mine." Everyone has an equal responsibility to cooperate.
Rule #3: NO POWER PLAYS - "I agree not to use power plays to get what I want." Power Plays - hitting, yelling, withdrawing, slamming doors, threatening, staying angry, refusing to talk, refusing to cooperate, etc.
Rule #4: NO RESCUES - "I will not do for you anything that makes me angry."
Rule #5: NO SECRETS - "I will tell you what I am feeling, especially when I am feeling angry or afraid."
Tomorrow I will detail the process for stating anger and fear, cooperatively.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

To my husband on Father's Day,

I read an interesting statistic today, men who have sex 3-4 times a week are significantly less likely to have a stroke or heart attack.

I hope you enjoy the baby aspirin and treadmill I got you for Father's Day.

Your wife that loves you, but come on, 3-4 times a week?
Father's Day, 2006

Dear Dad:

Ten years ago this month,
You slipped from life on Earth,
Your time here had been hard,
You struggled with your worth.

We knew you always loved us,
Although you didn't say,
Your soul now rests in heaven,
At least that's what we pray.

I want to say I'm sorry,
For wanting more than you could give,
I want to say I'm sorry,
You just didn't know how to live.

It's a shame you aren't here now,
To marvel at my kids,
They would have given you some value,
For more than just what you "did".

We'll bow our heads in prayer today,
And ask that you feel loved,
We'll ask that what escaped you here,
Is what you've found above.

Friday, June 16, 2006

SABOTAGE: The damaging of property or procedure so as to obstruct productivity or normal functioning.

RETALIATE: To return like for like, especially evil for evil.

WIN: To achieve victory over others in a competition.

RELINQUISH: To surrender, renounce; release from

FORGIVE: To renounce resentment against; to absolve

PEACE: An agreement to end hostilities

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Dear Loyal Blog Readers:

Thank you so much for reading my blog! I cannot tell you how much it means to me, and how rewarding it is to hear things like, "I can't start my day without you!" I love and appreciate all of you! If you've got something that you'd like me to blog about, let me know! Just post a comment below. If that's too scary, send me an e-mail:!


P.S. Click over to this FABULOUS new blog. If you want a laugh, read me, if you want to read beautiful writing, read this:
Dear Hallmark and every other card maker:

I'm wondering if you can help me. I'm looking for a Father's Day card. While finding rows upon rows of cards is not difficult, finding an appropriate one seems to be impossible. Maybe you could point me towards the cards you make for the gay father. How about the alcoholic chain-smoker? My father doesn't watch TV, have a dog, fish, golf or work with tools. I don't even like him that much, where are the cards that don't say how great he is and that I learned everything from him? I am not looking for a sweet card, a funny card or one that is sentimental. Am I asking too much? I just need your basic no-frills "Happy Father's Day" card. Could you get to work on that, please?

With many thanks,
Carrie Link

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

This is for you, you smug moms with the non-children, and don't tell ME you don't know what I mean "non-children". You're the ones with kids that wear what you set out for them. They eat what you put on their plate. They sleep when sleeping is appropriate (i.e. past 4:45 AM). These children take group swimming lessons, they play nicely with other children, they are helpful around the house. In other words, they are too fucking perfect to even be called children, for God's sake, not that I have any problem with that.
Here's the big news, WE ALREADY KNOW OUR CHILDREN ARE NOT LIKE YOURS! You can just skip the snide remarks, the butter knives (insults that are dulled enough to be taken as possible compliments), and the helpful hints! We know exactly what you think of our kids, we used to think the same thing of other people's children, until we became the mothers of these children! So do us all a big favor, take your perfect little kid and stay the hell away from me. And don't start on me, either, I already know I have anger management issues, and you reminding me might really piss me off!
I have friends, that I'd really like to keep, on each end of the abortion issue. I would like to bring up a question that I am hoping does not further alienate each other, but just makes us think...
Let's say you have become pregnant by choice, perhaps even at great expense. You take an amnio., and there are several positive markers for Down's Syndrome. Your doctor, and many others, advise you to abort. You do. Welcome to America. You are amongst the vast majority that agrees with you. 95% of all babies that test positive for Down's are aborted. Only 5% of all Americans faced with this issue decide that this is a child they would like to raise, that this is something that they can handle, that this is a human worth bringing into the world, that this person, no matter their intelligence, no matter their life span, no matter their capabilities, this person is of value.
Perhaps if I had "normal" children, although we prefer "typically developing", I might not feel so strongly about this issue. What concerns me most is the precedent. With further advances in testing, eventually we may be able to determine which children show markers for schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, alcoholism, and the list goes on and on. At what point does it end? At what point do we, using the same scenario, decide to remain pregnant, no matter what? What makes a baby, a child, a human, "OK"?
Sorry, but that about sums up my accomplishments as a parent. I can honestly say I've never struck my kids with my hand, nor my words. I've never said or done anything that horrifies me to this day. Period. That's the sum total of my wow factor. I hope it's enough.
Everyday I hear about some incredible thing a mother is doing with or for her children. Coverting their garage into an art studio and conducting world-awareness art projects. Taking kids to incredible places to see and hear amazing people and sights. Playing on the floor for hours with Barbies or Legos. Camping for days on end with one child and the mother, alone, quality and quantity bonding time. I do none of that, don't pretend to, and have no plans to start.
Not a bruise on them, though, I tell myself. I truly believe that given my children and their special needs, this may be more super-human than it first sounds. There may never be a statue of me proclaiming my sainthood, or any other of us mothers in the trenches, year after long year, day after tantrum-filled day, minute by excruciating minute, but there should be.
Not a bruise on 'em. That's saying something.

Monday, June 12, 2006

to WIFE #2
  • He can complain, you cannot.
  • Your methods of relaxing must look identical to his, and coincide perfectly to his work/relax rhythm.
  • He can fart in bed, you cannot.
  • He can be moody and pout, you must remain even-tempered and delightful at all times.
  • Remain patient and calm as each new day you tell him where he left his keys, cell phone and wedding ring.
  • Prepare a lot of meat, but make sure there are no cooking odors associated with the preparation.
  • Prepare three hot, well-balanced meals a day, and keep them varied. Just make sure they all resemble the five dishes he is willing to eat.
  • If he empties the dishwasher, throw him a parade.
  • Appreciate that he does not do anything in excess.
  • Appreciate that he is always where he says he is, and will always be where you tell him to be, and never late.
  • Appreciate that he loves you, and even though he doesn't say it, he knows he "scored" when he married you.
  • Appreciate that he is trustworthy with his time, attention, money and decisions.
  • Appreciate that he is worth far more dead than alive, so when you're ready to kill him, make it look like an accident.
  1. Your hand will not unclench after spending your day wiping counters
  2. Your molars are mere shadows of their former selves from all the night-time grinding
  3. You have three more wrinkles today, than you had yesterday
  4. You have your dominant arm in a sling, but you vacuumed today anyway
  5. You save all your receipts, enter all your spending on your computer and have all your sales records for the last fifteen years, just in case
  6. You iron your sheets
  7. You could lick the floors in your house, they are that clean
  8. You have organizing systems for your organizing systems
  9. You wouldn't dream of sending your children to bed in un-ironed pajamas
  10. You have your Christmas cards ready to send

Sunday, June 11, 2006

I attended a gathering with a friend a couple weeks ago, and the two of us were tring to describe this gathering to a group of people. We just weren't painting the picture until I said, "It was the lesbians adopting children of many races crowd." Then everyone jumped down my throat. Why is that an insult? Why does saying that imply that I have a problem, or that anyone should have a problem with that? Finally, I assurred them, "God, how I wish I'd been adopted by lesbians!"
I just want to be on the record as saying, I wish I'd been raised by two loving, centered, functional adults, whatever that composition looked like. Two men? Two women? Varying degrees of homo and heterosexuality? Bring it on! So why is it, when I said what I did, that everyone assumed it was a put down, rather than what it was, just a description?
If I describe someone as black, am I racist? If someone describes me as a WASP, should I be offended? That's an accurate description of my ethnicity. That does not say anything about me as a person. They aren't judgment words, they are adjectives!

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Bad news for all you women out there that delivered your children in the "regular" way, and since time, have had issues with, you know, dribbling. I thought I'd figured out how to get through life with laughing, coughing and sneezing, but guess what I didn't know about, trampolines!
My husband, alternately the love of my life and bane of my existence, bought a trampoline for the kids. Every red flag I shot up, he shot down. The kids do love it, though, and maybe Rojo can cut down on his occupational therapy if he jumps in the backyard on the darn thing. That would pay for the trampoline in no time.
But I'm telling you, I just had no idea that I would like it, too, and now I can't even jump without having taken proper precautions! Everytime I try to act like a kid, my body reminds me that I'm not!

Friday, June 09, 2006

How embarrassing, my daughter had a bunch of friends over, and they all went digging in my closet. They found my secret, a small, hand-held, battery operated vibrating contraption... YES! You guessed it! My Sonicare toothbrush! Now they all want to know what it was doing in the closet!

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Don't worry, this is not going to be one of those articles about the evils of TV, and how we are "dumbing down" our kids, and it is our electronic babysitter, blah, blah, blah. You won't hear that from me, no way, I'm the one that gives my kids drugs, remember?
Well, today I had to run my daughter to an appointment. My son had to ride along in the car, and he did not care to do so. I believe his exact words were, "I'm not fucking doing that. That is fucking stupid."
In my good mother voice I explained that as he was not ten, he could not be home alone, so basically, tough shit, he was coming with us.
"The TV is ten years old (true). The TV will babysit me!"
He did have a point, but nonetheless, I dragged him to the car, kicking and screaming obscenities. Our nice old neighbor (90 if he's a day) got to see and hear all the fun. If that won't kill him, nothing will.
By the way, I'm not the only parent that has taught her kids to swear, check out this wonderful blog: and her f'ing fabulous article at:
Our children take medication for ADHD. Go ahead, sue me, tell me the evils of Ritalin, and all the other things of which you really know nothing about, do you? Unless you've LIVED with children with true ADHD (and I want that H in there), I don't want to hear about your fabulous wholistic approaches that are miraculous. You want miraculous? Pharmaceuticals, baby, little pills, those are miraculous.
But that is really not where I'm going with this. Where I'm going is this...
Our children's doctor does not believe in "drug holidays". In other words, he believes kids with true ADHD should be medicated all day, every day, just like any other condition. The reason being, when kids have a medicated way of being, and a non-medicated way of being, or school way and home way, that begs the question, "Which me is me?"
"Which me is me?" I see how that would be very confusing. I don't think, however, that that phenomenon is limited to the use, or non-use, of stimulants. Most of us go around saying, "Which me is me?" We are many things to many people, and with every changing of the hat, different aspects of our personality move forward, or backward, depending on the need.
I practically had to arm wrestle my husband to get him to tell me what he thinks of my blog. Finally, he said, "You use a different voice for that, it's not the one I am used to." Hmmm... not exactly what I was hoping nor expecting him to say!
So, now he's got me all worked up asking, "Which voice is my voice?"

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Sicker than a dog... too sick to blog.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Part 2 of 2 in the "Am I Bad" Series
I don't do a lot of:
  • cooking
  • bringing in "slippers, sherry and pipe" at 6:02 (think Mary Poppins)
  • Inquiring about what's new at work
  • second guessing
  • criticizing
  • applying financial pressure
  • nagging
  • bossing
  • making demands

I do a lot of:

  • trusting
  • supporting
  • running the house
  • anticipating needs
  • knowing what "bugs" and trying to avoid those
  • interpreting mono-syllable answers
  • taking care of things myself, rather than burdening him

I may not prepare three meals a day like some wives, but there is always plenty of food in the house, and zero requests to help with the grocery shopping.

I may not have on a sexy little number and be waiting at the door for my husband to come home, but I am plenty sexy.

I may not ask a bunch of questions and coo soothingly as my husband tells me about his day, but I do not expect that from him, either.

I may leave my husband with the kids more than some wives, but my husband knows anytime he wants to do something away from the house, my answer will always be "yes", and there will be no guilt trips, ever.

I may want support to pursue my dreams, but I fully support my husband following his.

I am not a traditional wife. I am not the wife most husbands saw their mothers being. Does this make me a bad wife?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

I don't do much:
  • cooking
  • "playing"
  • yelling
  • scaring my kids with angry words/moods

I do a lot of:

  • laughing
  • loving
  • caring
  • advocating
  • planning

I may not enjoy a family board game, but I have created entire school programs so that my children can function educationally.

I may not be out in the backyard throwing a ball, because I am in the kitchen making my kids their favorite snacks and calculating the medicinal needs for the following week.

I may not sit and watch TV with my kids, because I am using that time to develop a whole school that will meet their middle school and high school needs.

I may vent about how I'm dreading summer, but almost everyone knows there is nothing in the world more important to me than my children, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for them.

I may love my time away from my family, but that is because my battery gets below empty dealing with the health and psychological needs they present, and if I don't replenish, I will die, literally, and I don't want to leave my children motherless.

I may not be the mother you think I should be, but I am the mother my children need me to be. I am a mother that is doing everything she can to make the world "work" for them, helping them prepare to live in it without me one day.

Because I am not a "traditional" mother, does that make me a "bad" mother?

Like the old Crosby Stills & Nash song says, our house, is a very, very, very fine house. This is the first "fine" house I've ever lived in. I think it's because of the "energy" this house has, it has always been loved and lived in by good people.
The story goes like this...
In 1926 the house was built. The original family had a daughter named Hortence. She lived in the house her whole entire life. She never married, nor had children. Her "family" was the employees at Safeway, yes, "my" Safeway on Woodstock. As she grew old she told her "family" that she didn't know what to do with the house when she died. One of her favorite employees, Hattie, told her to donate it to The Sisters of Saint Francis, in Clinton, Iowa. Hattie's real sister was a Sister there.
So that is just what ol' Hortence did, with the provision that the house be used for the work of St. Francis for seven years.
Along came us. My husband had his eyes on this house all those seven years, and researched and discovered who owned it. For seven years he placed calls and sent letters to Clinton, Iowa. One day on a bike ride, his cell phone rang. The Sisters were ready to sell. The seven years were up, they needed the money, the house was ours.
The promise we made was that we would help the two Sisters relocate, and we would go on using the house to serve St. Francis.
That's what we did, and that's what we do. In the words of St. Francis himself, "Speak the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words."

Saturday, June 03, 2006

I made a startling discovery last night, not everyone understands dysfunction! Wow! I'm truly amazed. Even if you were fortunate enough to grow up in a functional family, you'd think with enough Maury Povich you'd eventually catch up. That not being the case, however, I am oh so happy to offer my vast knowledge on the subject:
  • ABJECT POVERTY: Banks? Money existing anywhere beyond their person? No.
  • BOOZE: Most likely a huge part of the problem
  • CREATIVE: What the lies are that dysfunctional people tell themselves, and are amazingly able to get others to believe
  • DRAMA: Count on lots of that
  • ENVY: What children of dysfunctional families have towards functional families
  • FRIENDS: The ones that know nothing about what really goes on behind closed doors
  • GAMES: The little things alcoholics and other addicts play to get their fixes
  • HUMOR: What you use to overcompensate for your pain
  • INTEGRITY: What addicts are willing to sacrifice for their habit
  • JUSTICE: What doesn't exist and you don't even know it
  • KINDNESS: What you receive from others that makes all the difference in the world
  • LOYALTY: What children have, fiercely, for their dysfunctional parents
  • MONEY: One of addicts' favorite tools of manipulation
  • NAIVE: What children of dysfunctional families are, surprisingly, in many aspects
  • ON GUARD: Always
  • PRIVATE: You want a secret kept? Tell children of addicts, they are bred to keep secrets.
  • QUIVERING: A normal state of being
  • RELAXED: A highly uncomfortable state to be in, unsettling and fought against
  • SECRETS: The tenets of the family, those which are never discussed but clearly understood
  • TROUBLE: What you never want to be in if you are the first born, and what you are always in if you are the middle child
  • UNDERSTANDING: That which you cannot fathom anyone has for you
  • VALUE: That which you have no appreciation for yourself, as it is so distorted by the families dysfunction
  • WALLS: That which must be erected to survive, emotionally
  • eX-TREME: A concept you do not understand, as "typical", "normal", "average" are not part of your vocabulary
  • YAWNING: The distance you eventually put between you and your dysfunctional family, if only emotionally and not physically
  • ZYGOTE: What you are hoping in your next life will result in a whole different set of outcomes

Friday, June 02, 2006

  1. When someone asks, "Got fun plans for the summer?" you quickly change the subject
  2. When someone asks, "Are you excited for the summer?" your throat tightens, pulse rate accelerates and you begin to sweat profusely
  3. You have ordered the back-to-school uniforms already
  4. You can't wait for the summer clothes to go on sale and the fall clothes to make their first appearance in the store
  5. The sunscreen and mosquito repellent displays at Target depress the hell out of you
  6. You've stocked up on coffee and alcohol and calculated the amount of each it will require to survive until September
  7. You've said goodbye to all your friends and told them you'll see them "next year"
  8. You've scheduled your appointments with the shrink
  9. You've said goodbye to your spouse, promising "Nice Carrie" will see him again in September
  10. You haven't turned your calendar to June yet

Thursday, June 01, 2006

I have had it with people. As Jerry Seinfeld says, "People, they're the worst." Why does everyone feel compelled to tell me what they're really thinking about raising special needs kids? Guess what? I DON'T CARE! Go sweep off the dirt on your own back porch! So, I'm going to make a deal with you people, if you won't tell me what you're thinking, I won't tell you what I'm thinking! Deal? Deal!
  • If you don't tell the mother of a child with Down's Syndrome that "at least she always dresses well," I won't tell you that you're a disgrace to humanity!
  • If you don't tell me that "God chooses special mothers for special children," I won't tell you about the ten other students in my son's Early Intervention class that were wards of the state because their mothers were crack addicts and/or child abusers.
  • If you don't tell me right after I tell you that my son has not gained a pound in four years, that your 3-year-old probably weighs more than he does, I will not tell you that your sensitivity level could use some fattening up.
  • If you don't tell me that, "God never gives us more than we can handle," I won't tell you that I'm not handling "it", and at the moment, I'm not handling YOU!
  • If you don't tell me that "The special ones are still with the angels," I won't tell you that you are the one that should seek help from the angels.
  • If you don't tell me that your 3-year-old learned to ride a bike without training wheels, I will not shove the $695 receipt from the occupational therapist down your throat.
  • If you don't tell me that your son is bored in school because he is just so darn bright, I will not tell you that your bragging is boring the hell out of ME!
  • If you don't tell me that you "don't know how I do it, you sure couldn't do it," I won't tell you that I did not choose this life, and right now I am not choosing to speak to you.
  • If you choose to smile at my child, I will be your friend for life.
  • If you choose to ask me a direct question, I promise to answer you directly. I appreciate your directness, it is refreshing, and easily distinguised from idle curiosity.
  • If you choose to let a child with special needs into your heart, I promise your heart will grow. I promise you will be forgiven everything if genuine care and concern show on your face. I promise.