FAQ

Q: Why is your spacing all goofy on your posts? Back and forth between double and single spaced, what is up with that?

A: No idea. A computer ghost?

Q: When are you going to learn to add pictures and other fun things to your (boring) posts?

A: Soon! My blog is getting a make-over! My address may change, but my faithful readers will not be left without good directions to the new one!

Q: Still don't have any readers in Africa?

A: Still! Hey, you faithful readers, what can you do about that? I am DESPERATE to get Africa! I can't concentrate on all the continents that love me, I'm obcessed with the one that doesn't!

Q: When you and your husband go away, how are you planning to cope with the caffeine/Wi-Fi double addiction?

A: Priorities! I made sure when booking our hotel room that it has both Wi-Fi and easy/frequent access to GOOD coffee. Check, check!

Some of you asked for more, so here goes...

PRE, DURING AND

POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS

I thought the “fight or flight response” was just the normal way people felt, every day, all day long, their entire lives. The gun to the head, hurry, hurry, hurry, panic feeling was my regular mode of operation. Looking over my shoulder, obsessively, for danger, walking on eggshells, always, I don’t remember a time in my life that that wasn’t “just me”.

Motherhood only exacerbated my natural tendencies. By the time I was a mother of a toddler and an infant, the infant being high, high needs, the toddler being, well, a typical toddler, I was running on nothing but adrenaline. Knowing alcohol was a slippery slope for me, genetically, I preferred to remain in my constant state of high-anxiety, than to try to self-medicate.

Year after year of this state began taking a toll on my health. I developed “issues”, we’ll save for another post, the point was I knew I couldn’t live like this forever, but saw no alternative.

When my son was six and in school half-days everyday, my daughter in school full-time, my life began to calm down, dramatically. I didn’t know what to do with this relaxed schedule, so chose to volunteer over 1,000 hours at the kids’ school that year. Had to keep that roaring fire in my belly burning on high.

I started getting weird physical symptoms, numbing in my arms and fingers, pounding heart, ringing in my ears, actually was “seeing stars”, cartoon style. I had excruciating, frequent headaches, blurred vision, nausea, etc., etc., etc. I was a mess. The more I worried about these physical symptoms, the worse they got. I was so super aware of them, they were all I could focus on.

One wintry Sunday returning from a visit to my mom’s in Sisters, Oregon, I was driving both kids home when a snowstorm hit in the mountain pass we were trying to get through. No shoulders on the road, two whited-out lanes of narrow mountain road, out of cell phone ranger, car struggling to stay in its lane due to the road conditions, I started feeling like I was having a heart attack. My son, in the backseat, sensing my panic, turned up his needs and demands a few more notches. My daughter, sensing my panic, began asking every two seconds, “Are you OK?”
“No, I am not OK,” I thought to myself, “I am going to have a heart attack, kill us all, and God knows who else, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it!”

Each inch bringing us closer to safety, I began to calm down a bit. We eventually made it out of the mountains and on to a highway, where at least I knew I could pull over if I had to.

“I’ll get us to Salem, then I’ll drive to the hospital, call and have someone come get the kids,” I told myself.

Approaching Salem, only one more hour until home, I thought, “OK I’ll just keep driving, every minute closer to Portland is that much closer to safety, and that much closer to people that can help me.”

I continued this self-talk all the way to my in-laws house. They weren’t expecting me, but I knew they’d be home.

I parked in their driveway, grabbed the kids by their hands, made it up their front steps and rang their doorbell. One look at me and my mother-in-law said, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m having chest pain, “ I whispered.

“Don! Stay with the kids, I’m taking Carrie to the hospital.”

Never had I seen this woman act so surely, so quickly, so in-charge of a situation. Never had my father-in-law been left with the kids. Never was I more grateful to not be the one in control.

My mother-in-law, Doreen, drove me the couple of miles to their neighborhood hospital. We walked into Emergency, she yelled out, “She’s having chest pains!” so uncharacteristic of her to make a scene, to demand attention.

The nurses and technicians quickly attached an EKG machine, took my pulse, my blood pressure, and had me lie down. Just knowing I was in a hospital had a tremendous calming effect. My numbness, pounding, and panic all began to subside.
The EKG determined no heart attack, nothing going on there at all. The symptoms were so real, though, how could that be possible?

The kind doctor explained that my symptoms were real, but they were not caused by my heart, I’d had a panic attack.

“But I didn’t feel panicky until the symptoms came,” I tried to reason.

“That’s how panic attacks work, “ he assured.

You felt you were going to die, then you feel the panic, not the other way around.

He released me from the hospital with the caveat that I see my doctor first thing Monday morning. My mother-in-law took me to her house, had me lie down, then when I was ready to go home, she kept the kids so I could go home to a quiet house. My husband was out-of-town, I would be alone. Alone. Just the thought of being alone brought peace.

True to my word, I saw my doctor first thing Monday morning. He told me he doubted it was anything serious, but he wanted to run some tests just in case. I wore a heart monitor for 48 hours, we did blood and urine tests, that kind of thing, before concluding that indeed, “nothing” was wrong with me.

During the time between taking the tests and waiting for the results, I researched like crazy. By the time I met with my doctor again, I had myself nicely diagnosed.

“I think I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” I announced.

“Actually, I do too. How very ‘in character’ to have come up with your own diagnosis, “ he answered.

“I know! That’s what I’m saying! It is physically impossible for me to relax, to not live in a state of heightened alert and anxiety. I’m ready to face disaster every minute of the day. Always prepared for the worst!”

We talked about all that was going on at home, and actually came up with very little. For the first time ever, things were stable. Nobody was changing jobs, we weren’t moving, I wasn’t pregnant, we were on a good groove with both kids, our marriage was actually better than it had been.

He explained to me about the psyche, and how it is not able to process all the stress it endures during the time(s) of stress, that it “waits” until things are calm enough for the mind and body to deal with it. That was what was happening to me. In a way, it was the psyche’s back-handed compliment. I was strong and ready to deal with all the times I’d been perhaps too strong and ready.

My doctor started telling me my options, I interrupted to tell him, “I already know my options. I want to try meds, the SSRIs (Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors), Paxil in particular.

He agreed that was a good place to start, and it certainly was. Although he warned I may not see positive changes for four to six weeks, I swear I felt better after the first dose. By the third day I caught myself whistling. By the third week I was able to sleep again. By the sixth week I started to forget how awful I’d felt, and to revel in how well I was feeling.

Four years later I’ve declared myself a “lifer.” My state of constant anxiety claimed 39 years of my life, it isn’t going to own one more day.

KATIE

pt.2

Katie is sixteen now, Bob is nineteen. Even though her curfew is 11:00, they still have plenty of time to have sex. I can’t even believe Mom and John are so dumb they don’t realize that. They really think that if she is home by 11:00, she won’t get pregnant.

They were wrong, though, Katie is pregnant. Right away Mom tells me she doesn’t think it’s Bob’s baby. For about two minutes Katie broke up with Bob and dated a guy named Jack. They both worked at Sears in the shoe department. Apparently they did more than help ladies find shoes that fit.

Katie and Bob make-up, she then “gets pregnant”, and next thing you know Bob and Katie are married. Katie has no job, no high school, but a baby coming. She belongs in Prineville.

One kid turns into two and shortly after that Katie leaves Bob. She’s moved on, he’s not enough man for her.

Katie eventually takes off, no one knows where she is. She leaves both girls with Bob and his new wife and their two boys. Nobody knows if Bob realizes only one of these girls is his. Nobody wants to take the chance that he might not raise someone else’s child.

Katie has another daughter, we hear, nobody knows who her father is. Nobody actually knows where Katie is. What we do know is Bob isn’t the one we should have all been worried about all those years ago. Bob raises Katie’s daughter, their daughter, and his two boys with his wife. He and that wife of his stay together for years and years, and provide a stable, loving home for all the kids, while Katie is God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what, with God-knows-who.

***********************************************************************

My mom calls, John has died. They’ve been divorced for years, but Mom still keeps in touch with Lori. She knew he was in the hospital, no surprise that he died. The only surprise is he didn’t die years ago with all the drugs he took and mixed together.

“Will you go to the funeral with me?” she pleads.

Of course I will. That’s the only reason I’m here, right? To support you?

Bob comes to the funeral. He looks much the same way he did nearly 30 years ago, but he is softer, more handsome, more smiley, more self-confident. He has all three of Katie’s daughters with him. Don’t know how or when the third one got dumped on him, but no surprise that she did.

This daughter, this now fifteen-year-old girl, Jordan, looks exactly like her mom did at that age. Exactly. Same heavy eye make-up, same dangly earrings, same dirty blond hair, same blue eyes. In those blue eyes of hers is the same hesitant look, the same “I’m not a child. I’m fully grown-up. I know more than I should” look.
I grab Bob after the service and I tell him how sorry I am that we all judged him so harshly, so wrongly. I tell Bob that John should have kissed the ground he walked on, that really, he was the best thing that ever happened to Katie, the only one she could really count on.

Bob smiles, blushes, thanks me.

“You know, we think Katie is dead. We can’t call her ‘dead’, though, there isn’t a body yet. We’re pretty sure the last guy she was with murdered her. That’s why I’ve got Jordan.”

I look over to where Jordan is standing, alone, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. I walk towards her, right hand extended.

“Hi, I’m Carrie. Your dad said I should come over and meet you.”

Eyes raise slightly from their focus on the floor.

I guess that means we’ve officially met.

Another exerpt from the memoir... this is the first part of "KATIE", the rest is coming!

KATIE

“Hi, I’m Carrie. Your dad told me to come in and meet you.”

Slightly lifting her eyes from TV to me, I guess that means we’ve officially met.

I thought John was rich, and I was right. Katie has everything in her room, her own TV, own phone, own stereo. It’s just Katie and her dad living in the townhouse. Katie hates her mom and won’t even talk to her. She loves her dad, John. They are a pair that go together. When Mom marries John in a few months, she will be getting Katie, too. We all will, like it or not.

Even though I’ve always wanted an older sister, Katie isn’t really what I had in mind. We look enough alike to pass as sisters, both dirty blondes, blue eyed. As far as I can tell, that’s all we have in common. Only eighteen months older than me, she seems like she’s twenty, at least. Her eyes wear heavy make-up, her ears are pierced with long earrings dangling down way past the lobe. Nothing about her room says, “I am fifteen,” it all says, “I am all grown-up.” There are no posters on the wall, no teenage decorations. It is the room of a grown-up with a serious boyfriend. There are pictures of Bob everywhere.

My mom and John hate Bob, and are hoping that they can break them up, I’ve heard them talking. Bob is eighteen and a high school drop-out. He has some “dead-end” job, no ambition, and John and my mom are sure he is having sex with Katie. John even has thought of suing Bob for statutory rape, since Bob is technically and adult, and Katie is only fifteen. My mom is trying to let John handle the Katie and Bob thing as long as possible, she’s not ready to take-on Katie any sooner than she has to. Me neither.

Besides Katie there is Matt and Lori, John’s two older kids. We know for sure Matt won’t be living with us when Mom and John get married, he’s already living with some loser girlfriend in a trailer park somewhere. Matt’s been in and out of jail, and John’s given up on him, Mom says.

Lori is the one we don’t know about. We are getting a big house, six bedrooms, one will be an office for Mom and John, right next to their bedroom downstairs, and four will be upstairs for Mike, my brother, me, Katie and maybe Lori. Lori is nineteen, so she can really do whatever she wants to do, and right now she thinks she’d rather live with a guy named Rick in a trailer home. Not the same trailer home her brother Matt lives in, a whole different one. Two out of three kids of John’s living with people they are not married to, in trailer homes, is not something Johm is proud of. If you ask me, it’s only a matter of time until Katie and Bob move into a trailer home, too, but nobody’s asking me.

Nobody ever asks me, they just tell.

By the time the wedding is over in March, and we finish school in Prineville in June, it is time for Mom, Mike and me to move back to Eugene, where our dad and old friends still live. We’re happy to see our old friends, not so happy about being closer to Dad. It’ll be way harder to avoid him in the same city. Being three hours away is about the only thing nice I can say about Prineville.

“Prineville is just not your cup of tea,” Mom tells me. The question for me is, how could it be anybody’s cup of anything? There is not one good thing about Prineville. Not one good thing. In Prineville we are poor, Mom works all the time, I have to babysit Mike everyday after school because he is only in elementary school, and I’m in Junior High. I have to ride my bike everywhere I need to go, Mom never gives me a ride, and even if it is raining or freezing cold outside, I am stuck on my stupid, ugly bike.

I am good in school, all A’s, and have a few decent friends, but they aren’t real friends, they don’t really know me, or seem to even try to get to know me. Every kid in Prineville is “going with” some other kid. They start going out in fifth grade, at least, and from what I can tell, not very many of the girls make it out of high school without a baby and a husband. Then their husbands go work in the mill, or at Les Schwab, and that’s it for them. They stay in Prineville for the rest of their lives with a bunch of kids, no money, no college, no nothing. Just Prineville. Everyone thinks I am the freak for not wanting a boyfriend, for getting good grades, and for planning already for college. There is no possible way I’m ending up like these people. No possible way. If John weren’t planning to get us out of here, I’d figure out another way.

Me and Prineville, we don’t mix.

THE LONG AND WINDY ROAD

Nine years ago the renowned pediatrician and author of many books on children with special needs, Stanley Greenspan, was coming to Portland. He wanted to see Portland's "finest", the most puzzling, hard to diagnose kids. He was working with another renowned behavioral and developmental pediatrician here in Portland to coordinate his efforts. This doctor would bring him kids, the kids would be videotaped, then Greenspan and this doctor would work with a team to determine what in the hell was going on with these kids. They'd videotape these kids over months and years to mark their improvements. A study would be underway. They would use the most cutting edge therapies and the think tank of some of the finest minds, to see what they could do about these kids, that were beyond anyone else's capacity to "heal".

Ring... ring...ring...ring...

"Hello?"

"Hello, Carrie, you don't know me, but your son has been recommended for a study..."

I nearly hung up on this man. I had no time for a "study". I had no time, nor energy, for a shower, much less anything as big-sounding as a "study". Plus, I had never heard of either of these two men, and wasn't planning on buying whatever it was they were selling.

Fast forward nine years...

Yesterday my husband and I were in this loveable doctor's office, a man we've grown to think of as a friend, a savior really. My husband and I each greyer, heavier, more wrinkled than when we all first met, but with smiles on our faces, instead of perpetual frowns and frequent use of profanity.

This doctor had a visiting pediatrician sitting in his office. He asked if we were OK having our appointment with this woman in the room. Hell, we'd been videotaped at our worst for years, we could certainly handle a gentle listener off in the corner.

As our savior filled in this young doctor, my husband and I looked at each other with an "Oh, shit!" look. For five full minutes he rattled off all the issues our son had dealt with/is dealing with. THEN he moved on to our daugher. Another five minutes and lots of fancy/scary words were thrown out.

Dyspraxia

"Presented on the 'spectrum'"

Sensory Intergration Disorder

Anorexia

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Debilitating anxiety

Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity

Auditory Processing Disorder

Pectus Excavatum

Global Motor Planning issues

Poor muscle tone

Ambliopia

Severe regulatory disturbances

Brain is disorganized

Mood disturbance

Communication disorders

etc...

etc...

etc...

The doctor turned to us when he was done and said, "Was that pretty accurate?"

"Yes," we both nodded, before piping in that he had articulated our "story" better than we ever could, and man, oh man, was it ever a hard one to articulate.

Last night, trying to recap the conversation at the doctor's office, my husband and I both were simply struck with how much we've been through, and how far we've come. We aren't far enough out of the woods to have the perspective this doctor has, but still far enough to see that we're sitting in a much rosier place today than we have been, ever, with our children.

Wednesday my husband and I are sneaking off for a three-day mini-vacation, early fifteenth wedding anniversary celebration. Working out the childcare for our now 10 and 12-year-old is now possible. We are finally at a point where we can both be gone, together, and feel good about "what" we are leaving behind.

What lies ahead is not as frightening, not as anxiety-ridden as it has been for so long. We are older, wiser, more skilled, and much more realistic than we were when we began this parenting odessey.

Tomorrow is promised to nobody, but next week three days are promised to "us". It's a miracle in and of itself that there's still an "us" after the constant assaults these special needs have hurled at our union.

A BRICK TO THE HEAD

Not sure how it got started or why, but I always know Rojo is up and ready for me to "wake him up" when his red and blue car-shaped decorative pillow leaves his bed and lands at my feet. No matter where I am in the house, he finds that pillow, then finds me, and hurls it before running back into his bed and faking sleep.

I then am to loudly pound my feet as I approach, while saying, "WHO IS AWAKE IN HERE?" Meanwhile, he continues to "fake sleep." He lies in a ball under all his covers, Mr. Magoo eyes popping out when I turn the comforter slightly back.

"What time did you wake me up?" he asks each day, while both of our eyes flick towards the digital Mickey Mouse clock on his dresser.

"5:45, " I answer.

"No, 5:46," or 5:44, always arguing a minute in either direction.

Each morning I am torn between loving this ritual, and being annoyed beyond belief for his fixation on the exact moment we are experiencing.

Maybe it's not a pillow he's throwing me, but a brick to the head to be with him, in that moment only, for what else is there?

NOW IS THE TIME

Just home from Office Depot with my new printer, I am ready to install. I go through all the steps, even bothering to read the directions. Finally, the moment is here, I am ready to test it.

"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country," I type, automatically, without a thought. As those words appear before me I think, "What the hell?" I've never given them a moment's thought! My dad taught me to do that when testing type writers, or taking a typing test. He told me to do it, so I did it.

Anyone else out there know what I'm talking about? Am I the only one on this planet that has that bit of, perhaps useless, information lodged firmly in their grey matter?

It was one thing to type those words unconciously all those many years ago, it's another thing today, entirely. I am not going to get "all political" on you. I'd love to, don't get me wrong, but that is not what this blog is about. Besides, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about when it comes to politics, so you'd be wise to ignore me.

I'll say this, though, now IS the time for all good humans to come to the aid of their country. There's never been a better time. Come to the "aid". You can take that word and massage it all you want. However you see yourself coming to the "aid", I implore you to do it.

Thanks. Gotta get down on my hands and knees and pray now. That's my "aid" this morning.

Top 5 Things I Hate About Standard Time:

1) Rojo now wakes up at 4:30 AM
2) I wear pajamas 14+ hours a day
3) All I want to do is sleep
4) When not sleeping, all I want to do is eat
5) Day seems "over" at 4:30 PM, time for bed!

Another snippet of my memoir...

VIRGIN MARY

Eyes wild, third drink down, Dad sets his tumbler on the coaster, fresh cigarette in the plaid beanbag ashtray, rises from the chair and comes at me.

“You’re the next Virgin Mary!” he rants. The rant sends him into a coughing fit that will end only after the stack of used napkins he's taken from fast food restaurants comes out of his pants pocket. The napkins move to the mouth, the deep, disgusting phlegm urged up from his chest, to the mouth, out into the napkins, napkins re-folded and replaced in the pants pocket until the next attack, only minutes away. He pulls Vicks Vapo-Rub from the other pants pocket, jams his index finger in the jar, slathering the menthol ointment over both nostrils. He sits back into his chair, reclaims the drink and ashy cigarette, signifying our little talk is over.

Nothing precipitates this rant, nothing comes after. Just the rant, and then more nothing.

I am twelve and have had twelve years of hearing how he hates “The damn Catholics.” I can't imagine where this Virgin Mary comment is coming from. Nothing he has ever said or done before, helps me to make sense of this out-of-nowhere threat.

"The Catholics don't believe in birth control. The world is over-populated, and it's all because of those damn Catholics."

"Those damn Catholics think the damn Pope is God. They'll do anything he tells them to do. They're like sheep headed off to slaughter."

That's it. The birth control and the Pope. His two biggies. I've heard about the birth control and Pope problems before, but never more than that. It's as though every twelve-year-old should just automatically know the significance of those two arguments against Catholicism. If not every twelve-year-old, certainly this one.

At fourteen I tell Dad I am going to go to Marist, a Catholic high school. I have held off telling him this until the last possible moment. I know I am handing him a loaded gun with this confession.

I don't know which one of us he is more likely to shoot.

His eyes, instantly mad. His hands shake even more than usual. His voice, rigid.

"That's it! Now you're going to go off and marry one of them. I'd rather you marry a BLACK than a Catholic!"

The Virgin Mary memory surfaces. Not sure if I'll be marrying anyone, if I'm going to be the next Virgin Mary. Besides, I am under-weight, under-developed and over-anxious. Getting married is about the last thing on my mind. I can't even imagine dating.

We have never discussed that night and his threatening words, but not a day has gone by that I haven't been haunted by them.

~~~

I am sitting in the small, back room of a bookstore, Healing Waters and Sacred Spaces. As well as books, there are crystals, CDs, incense and all kinds of other wonderful things to create sacred spaces. I have been here before, as a customer of the bookstore. I didn't realize they did more than sell what is in the store, but they do. They have all kinds of psychic readers that operate in the back room.

I am here to see one that has been highly recommended, I am nervous and excited. I don't even know what my question will be, perhaps I will just let her tell me whatever she wants to.

As I look around the small room at all the lovely things placed tenderly, I am certain I am safe. There are flowers, candles, incense, statues and a fountain. Lovely art hangs on the wall. Surrounded by beauty I am calmed.

The clairvoyant is lovely, normal looking, sweet, her words gentle and loving. She tells me lots of things, all fascinating. I take copious notes. After 45 minutes of rather surface level information, I tetatively ask if there's anything she can tell me about my son.

"My son," I say. No more. Not his age, not his multitude of diagnosis. Nothing.

She describes my son to me exactly as I would describe him to someone else.

She gets it.

She gets him.

Shivers run through me.

“Your son has the soul like that of the Dalai Lama. It is nearly pure. He has no ego. He is here to teach.”

At 43 now, I have been holding the words my dad spoke for 31 years. Never understanding them, always fearful, always confused. Always both worried he was right, and worried he was wrong. The conversation pops into my mind, fresh, not scary now. I hear my dad's words juxtaposed with what this woman is now saying.

Her words are a balm. She beautifully articulates what only my own soul has felt. but my voice has not dared to speak. For the ten years I have been this boy's mother I have known he is like no other. If nothing else he has freed me from my father's curse.

Maybe that is all.

Maybe that is enough.

Let's Re-Define "Abuse"

I'm up on my high horse, again, but the view from up here is cloudy. I'm all for abolishing abuse of all kinds, but I think we need to be clear about what abuse is and isn't. I would say that anytime another is treated without respect and dignity, they are being abused. What would you say? Of course the severity of abuse varies greatly, but mis-treatment is mis-use of another, or ab-use.

If a child is raised to think they are "golden", is that a good thing? What happens to that child as they grow into an adult, having lived their entire childhood revered, praised without exception, almost worshipped. What if not once in a child's life the parent(s) says, "What you did was absolutely unacceptable and you need to atone." Or, God forbide, "No. I don't agree with that decision."

I know people that grew up thinking everything they did was wrong, that they were nothing but failures. I know people that grew up thinking everything they did was right, and guess what, they grow up thinking they are failures, too! I think both are forms of abuse. So what gives? I think the answer is in what we believe about ourselves, without regard to the external "voices".

SUFFERING

My sweet son, Rojo, just came into my office to see what I was doing. He came with his smile and a song. His song, "We're Suffering", is one of our favorites. We don't like to suffer, but we love the suffering song.

I was working with Rojo and another "special" friend of his, trying to make math facts more fun. Everytime they got one right, we'd "high five" and I'd say, "Oh, yea, who's on fire?" Like with everything, I beat that dead horse silly, until finally the friend said, "Can I not be on fire anymore?"

"Sure, Sweetie, you don't have to be on fire, but how come?"

"Because I don't like to suffer!"

Realizing, too late, the literal thinking both these boys had, I apologized for suggesting we celebrate their suffering. They both forgave me, and suggested we just switch the chant to, "We're suffering", instead of "Who's on fire?" We decided to "go big" with that. We stood, invented hip movements, a whole snapping of the fingers component, and a bit of a head swirl.

One year later, the three of us are still "suffering", and loving every minute of it.

It's Fun with Fonts Day!

I'm still happy, happy, happy, and mostly because not enough has been made on how fun FONTS can be. (I really mean colors, but fun with colors just doesn't have the right "ring" to it.)

ORCHESTRATED HAPPENSTANCE

I was fortunate to meet the lovely and talented YOUNG Amanda Berlin at a writing workshop earlier this month. Her blog is fantastic, please do yourself a favor and check it out!

http://amandaberlin.blogspot.com/

"There is no duty so underrated,

as the duty of being happy."

Robert Louis Stevenson

I'm happy.

Happy, happy, happy.

Problem? I think not.

My daughter is not happy, I made her walk six full blocks to school on a perfectly gorgeous fall morning.

My son is not happy, he wants Hot Tamales for breakfast, and I would prefer he eat from one of the four food groups.

My husband is not happy, apartments have leaks he must repair, deals must be re-negotiated that he thought were "handled".

I am happy, though.

Happy, happy, happy.

Just doing my duty over here.

My list for today says, "Be happy!"

Check, check.

STORY TELLER TURNS
STORY WRITER

It is my honor, and sincere thrill, to introduce my new favorite blog! My friend, Terry, the world's best story teller, has been persuaded to write, and she's unbelivable. Terry, a.k.a. "Toeless in Philly" to my readers, started a blog after attending Jennifer Lauck's writing workshop in Connecticut a couple of weeks ago. Take a look, tell all your friends, and keep coming back! Her writing, and her story, will hook you from the start!

http://www.separationanxieties.blogspot.com/

Is it just me, or is Blogger being umbelievably tempermental and frustrating when it comes to posting pictures? I've been trying for HOURS to get this darn thing "up".

Here's my Rojo with his BFF, Big Bird.

THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY

We all know (and can't get unstuck from our heads once we hear it) the song, "The Little Drummer Boy", right? The poor little boy has nothing fit to give a king, except the song in his heart, from his little drum.

Ba-rump a bump, bump, rump a bump, bump, rump a bump bump.

I've got me a little drummer boy, too. My little guy isn't poor, he just has absolutely no need, use or appreciation for money. There isn't a "thing" this guy wants/needs/asks for.

Ever.

We celebrated my mom's birthday yesterday, and my daughter made a banner, baked a cake and wrapped presents we had purchased.

My son wanted to give Grammy something, too. He took from his bed his most favorite thing in the world, Big Bird. He put Big Bird in a gift bag and gave it to my mom 2.5 seconds after she walked in the door. This Big Bird has a soul, almost as big as my boy's, and is seldom far from him. He loves his Grammy more than he loves himself, he wants her to be happy and feel celebrated, more than he wants his own happiness, at least for 24-hours.

My mom teared up when she opened the bag. "Really? You're giving me Big Bird?" she asked.

"Well, kind of, for 24-hours, and then you give him back, OK?"

"OK."

Ba-rump a bump bump, rump a bump bump, rump a bump bump.

TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE

My husband jokes there are two kinds of people, those that pay rent, and those that collect it.

I say there are two kinds of people, too, those that always have a pen on them, and those that never do.

For years I was a pen person. "What do you need? I'm sure I've got it in my purse! Kleenex? Advil? Band-Aid? A pen? Do you prefer pencils? Got that too!"

I have deliberately taken all that shit out of my purse (well, not the Kleenex, gotta have that). I am choosing to believe that whatever I need, the Universe will provide, and I'm trying the theory out with pens, first. I am choosing to believe that there are always people around willing to help, and my life will have more pens coming into it than I can shake a stick at!

So far, so good. I'm even getting "right" with all the different colors and ink-flow issues going on in my checkbook register. Big for a recovering OCD-er!

Now you try:

The Universe will provide me with everything I need, and then some.

People are kind and willing to help me.

Repeat until you can say it and mean it.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mom's birthday, 76 and looking good. Born 9 years and 3 days after my dad.

My mom is a P.K., Preacher's Kid, born between two set of boys and forever affected. My grandparents had three sons, my mom, three more sons, then my aunt. My grandmother always joked that she would have loved another daughter, but wasn't willing to have three more sons just to get one.

"The Boys" went on to make names for themselves. In a town where four of them lived, as well as my mother, when giving her last name she was repeatedly told, "Oh! I didn't know there were any girls in the family!"

In the small studio apartment my grandmother lived after being widowed, she had but one surface to display photographs of her huge family. Above the dresser she hung the high school graduation pictures of all six boys. On the dresser, behind all the other pictures, my mom's and aunt's sat. Forever a bone of contention with my mom, she never got a satisfactory answer out of my grandmother as to why the girls "didn't make the wall".

I recently spent time with an astrologer. She told me it was in my charts that I would do the work my grandmother and mother had always wanted to do, but didn't, due to societal and family pressures.

It feels good knowing I am not doing just what is right for me and my daughter and possibly generations to come, but for generations that have come before, as well.

Happy birthday, Mom.

"Not one of God's children can be evil.
At worst, he or she is hurt.
At worst, he or she attacks others, and blames them for their pain.
But,they are not evil.
Yes, your compassion must go this deep.
There is no human being who does not deserve your forgiveness.
There is no human being who does not deserve your love."

Paul Ferrini American Author and Inspirational Speaker

From the site: www.inspirationpeak.com, home of the love. t-shirts.

P.S. Go check out my pal, Michelle O'Neil's blog at: http://www.michelleoneilwrites.blogspot.com/

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, lived a man. The man lived within the kingdom and was known by all, but to himself, he was but a stranger. Everywhere the man went he was greeted by the others in the kingdom. He was a friendly sort, and proud of the fact that he had so many acquaintances.

Whenever the man sat with just himself, he was disturbed. He befriended amber liquids in bottles a plenty. With his friend, Amber, by his side, he was never left alone with just his thoughts, and the man felt "better".

One by one people tried to get to know the man, but Amber was a jealous and possessive friend, and she always won the heart of the man. Men, women and children came into the lives of the man, but Amber made sure the man stayed alone, impervious to the love of others.

Many people tried to convince the man that Amber was not a worthy lover, that Amber did not have the man's best interest at heart. The man would not listen. Time after time after time the man chose Amber over others.

Eventually the people that loved the man gave up. They knew the hold Amber had on him was stronger than their love. They tried to understand this, and not take it too personally, but it was hard for the people that loved the man. "How can something in a bottle, be more important than me?" the people thought.

With lots of help from books and wise advisors the people grew to understand Amber, and she at least lost some of the power in their own lives, if not the man's.

The man eventually died, with only Amber by his side. The man would have been 85 yesterday if he'd lived.

If he'd lived.

If he'd lived.

SLEEPING BEAUTY?

It's 5:08 AM and I am fully dressed, FULLY. Hair? Check. Make-up? Check. Clothes? Check. Belt? Check. Just one teensy weensy problem, these are all yesterday's. Yea, funny thing, stretched out on my son's bed at 5:30 PM yesterday afternoon, and well, you know the rest. My husband and I had plans last night, I went into our bedroom to chat with him about them and he was cat napping, "Good idea!" I thought. Not wanting to listen to the snoring, nor give him any funny ideas, I ran for my son's totally unmade and stretched out "for a minute".

Just one question. Who sleeps in a BELT?

THE SECRET

There is a movie everyone ought to run out and see, actually, "boot up" and see, you can watch it on your computer. It is called "The Secret". I will just go ahead and tell you what the secret is, but you have to promise you'll still watch the movie, OK? Promise?

The secret is the law of attraction. Like draws like. What you put your mind towards, you draw more of. It's very much like the power of positive thinking "fad". It's very simple.

Like all things simple, it can take many lifetimes to master. The Dalai Lama says, "Let love, peace and compassion be your religion." Simple. Go ahead and work with it for awhile, and you'll see why he is the enlightened one, and we're all mere humans.

The key to "the secret" is to tell the Universe what it is that you DO want, not what you DON'T want. If you keep telling the Universe what you don't want, you'll keep getting it, and vice versa. See? Simple!

Examples: Keep telling the Universe you "don't want debt". The Universe hears "debt" and you stay locked in debt. Tell the Universe you want prosperity, you'll get prosperity. Tell the Universe you want your husband to stop being such a giant pain-in-the keister, and guess what!? Tell the Universe you want your husband to adore and appreciate you, you'll change the entire dynamic of the relationship. Tell the Universe you want to lose weight, you'll actually stay or gain weight. Tell the Universe you want a fit and healthy body, you'll start to attract that.

All right now, People, get out there and don't keep The Secret a secret! Promise?

www.thesecret.tv/

NOT ENOUGH HAS BEEN MADE

While galivanting across the country, my wonderful husband more than kept the home fires burning. He grocery shopped, cooked,cleaned, changed beds, did laundry, checked homework, had a kid home sick for two days, got everyone to all their appointments and extracurricular activities, and managed to work a few hours each day, too. When I got home he said the sexiest thing I've ever heard him say, "Your job isn't a one-person job."

I'm in love.

OK, FIXED! Take a look now!

WTF??? I have spent 4 hours, count 'em, trying to get the before and after photos to f'ing upload. Nothing. The Universe is completely uncooperative, and I've about had it with the Universe. Just who does It think it is?? When the Universe loses the attitude, I'll try again. Until then, stare at the before picture, and let your imagination run wild.

love.

BEFORE AND AFTER

Best thing I ever did was impulsively swerve the car into the Supercuts parking lot several weeks ago.

The best.

Not the best haircut, but the best setting off a chain of positive events I've had in a long, long time. Supercuts in Portland, Oregon led me to Richard Penna Salon in New Haven, Connecticut, 3,000 miles away. A friend and fellow blogger, Suzy, was so disturbed by the Supercut revelation, she worked over her best friend and famous hairstylist, Richard, to do a "do" for me. Richard began the whole TV makeover thing with Sally Jessie Raphael. He is the king of the 30-minute before/after looks. We had met the night before, and I assigned him the task of staying up all night to determine my new look.

Richard delivered. The next morning, 6:00 AM "my time", fully caffeinated, I sat in his chair as he outlined the plan.

"We're going for a little less Junior League, and a little more 'now'," he said. "Your hair is too heavy and too dark. It's not at all 'you'."

As the old me was colored and cut away I felt the internal change as well. Loving the new hair and new attitude, feeling a life-long dream had just come true, he took it up another notch. "I'm sending you upstairs for complimentary make-up," he said.

The pictures are worth more than a thousand words, and a thousand words of gratitude will never fully express all that I feel towards Suzy, Richard, Diane and Janine, the artists that made it all possible.

Thank you.

love.

OUT OF NOWHERE NOW HERE

Once upon a time there was a woman and she had a shitty childhood. Horrible and torturous, this woman detailed it all in a book and called it her memoir. The book found its way to another woman. This woman connected so deeply with the author that she knew the two would one day know each other. She felt it was only a matter of time, and she patiently waited. Little signs along the way provided her with hope that she was indeed, on her way to knowing someone her soul already knew.
She first learned that she and the author lived in the same city, on the same side of the river.
Handy.
Time went by and the woman poured herself into the lives of her children and the school community around them. The woman found herself working side-by-side on an auction with the author’s husband.
Serendipitous.
Three years later the woman found herself again doing an auction with the husband, but this time he was the ex.
The woman, having always fancied herself a bit of a writer as well, screwed up the courage and coughed up the money to take a class from the author, in the author’s home. The woman didn’t know which she was more excited about, meeting the author, or seeing her house.
Toss up.
The woman entered the author’s home and at first glance knew she was in good hands. Candles, spiritual symbols, icons and signs of practice were everywhere, not in a creepy way, in a warm, loving, peaceful way.
Immediately the woman was asked to write. There would be no warm fuzzy get-to-know-you activity. They would write.
Period.
As the group began to share what they had just written, the woman knew this would be a gathering like no other. Stories emerged that touched the woman, tickled the woman and disturbed the woman.
The weekend progressed, and by the end the woman felt she knew these former strangers better than she knew many of the people she saw everyday. Masks were off. Secrets were shared, souls revealed. They had seen into each other’s closets and psyches, each other’s pain and wounds, each other’s joys and passions.
Some of the writers stayed in touch. While not seeing each other again, they offered support and motivation to persevere, long after the glow of the workshop had worn off. They grew to know each other deeper, darker, lighter and softer.
The woman and the author stayed in touch. An event was planned by the woman, featuring the author. Details of the event planning led into discussions of life. Discussions of life led to deeper understanding and connection between the woman and the author. Mutual admiration and a love for profanity took them to the next level of their relationship.

In just a few months’ time the two women’s lives became enmeshed. Their children, their writing, their relationships all got into the vase and a lovely bouquet was manifested.
Before the woman knew what had hit her, she was leaving on a jet plane with the author on her left and a John Denver song in her heart. The two traveled all across the country. Their agenda included a talk to psychologists, a panel discussion with three fellow memoirists, meetings with agents and a three-day writing workshop.
This three-day workshop on the other side of the country would bring many different worlds into collision for the woman. Colliding worlds was something this woman had carefully avoided in her life. Colliding worlds put this woman into a state of anxiety, formerly, but the events from the past six months had changed all that in the woman. She finally understood that people are supposed to meet when they are supposed to meet, and the most choreographed dance that the woman had constructed in her head, would not stand up against the one that the Universe had in mind. After 43 years of being in control, the woman was happy to know she wasn’t. She was more than happy.
She was relieved.

She was
She was grateful.

START SPREADING THE NEWS

Blah, blah, blah, don't remember the next part, "New York, New York!" You know that song, right? "I want to wake up in a city, that never sleeps!" That one! I'm going there! ME, it's going to be some funky Carrie Link meets Carrie Bradshaw kinda thing, minus the sex, the Cosmopolitans and Manolo Blahniks. Actually, come to think of it, it will be NOTHING like Carrie Bradshaw's New York, darn. Nonetheless, it's going to be a far cry from Portland, Oregon, mothering, wifing, and all the other domestic bliss that is my life.

Don't get me wrong, I love my life, love, love, and a little more love. I also love total escape from it now and then. I love the chance to be "Old Carrie", the Carrie that doesn't worry about how and what everyone else is doing and what they need all the time. The Carrie that meets new and exciting people with new and exciting viewpoints. The Carrie that accomplishes more in a day than laundry and dishes, that can lie down at night and say, "Wow, I can't believe I'm here and this is my life."

Six months ago I was a different person. Six months ago I felt like a lone voice in the world, today I feel like part of a choir. A choir of women all across the country and world that want women to be empowered. A choir of women that want more for their lives and for other women's lives. A choir of women that understand synergy and synchronicity and the power of the human mind and spirit. I feel part of a collective of women that is making a difference in their own homes, neighborhoods, cities and states. Together we are doing what we can to make a difference in the world. We may never be famous nor go down in history, but the future will be markedly different for at least a few people, anyway, because we were here.

When I get back from my adventure the domestic life will resume, and it will be more rewarding, as well. Having gotten some of that other "stuff" out of my system I will be able to feel the deep satisfaction that comes from worrying about my family, and if everyone is where they are supposed to be, and if they have everything they are supposed to have. One extreme will bring peace to the other. The two extremes may help me find the balance in the middle. That's my plan, anyway. I'll keep you posted.

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW
I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN

I love that poem, book, motto. It is so true.

One of my favorite people in the world is a kindergarten teacher. She has two rules posted in her classroom.

Two.

1) Be safe.

2) Be kind.

When someone comes up and tattles, she asks, "Is that safe? Is that kind?" If it is both, there really isn't a problem, and vice versa.

I have frustrated some of my faithful readers with my "control" of the delete key. I assure you, if I thought what was being written was safe and kind, I'd let it be. I welcome disagreement. I don't accept unkindness nor danger. There is a person stalking blogs with the sole purpose of being unsafe and unkind towards someone I love, and the people that love her. That is unacceptable.

If I am full of hot air, you are encouraged to kindly and safely express that to me. I will not delete such comments. When they become threatening and attacking, however, I will use my power to delete.

I think that is kind.

I think that is safe.

I think that is important.

I took a dear friend to lunch for her birthday. We decided to order a glass of wine. While looking at the expansive wine list, my eyes fell on "Les Enfants Terrible". When the waitress came to take our order I said, "I'll have a glass of the terrible children."

"That's our most popular wine," she replied.

Enough said.

GO ALONG TO GET ALONG

At this moment I am asking myself, when is it best to just go along to get along, and when must remain in the "fight" for what one so strongly believes?

I am thinking the answer is "it depends". Today I choose to be the Go Along Girl. I have hurt people. I have caused pain to those I love the most. That is not in alignment with the three tenents of love, peace and compassion on which I try to base my life. Perhaps greater love, peace and compassion will be the result, but for today I put down my sword. Today I choose peace at any price. Today I keep my eye on the smaller picture, and let the bigger picture grow out of focus. Today I want an immediate settling of the storm I've stirred.

Perhaps we will all see more clearly once the dust settles?

Perhaps we won't?

Perhaps it doesn't matter?

Perhaps being "right" is less important than being happy?

Rojo quote of the day...

"Mom, the next time I'm a baby, I want you to pick me. When I'm a 100, I'm going to turn back to zero."

"I will pick you every single time."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Don't forget?"

"I promise to pick you every single time and never ever forget."

"Good."

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING?

Nurturing, that's a good thing, right?

Not making a big deal out of everything, keeping it together, remaining pleasant, what's wrong with that?

If you asked all the women I know who they think are good mothers, they would describe the most nurturing, calm, pleasant, "nice" women they know.

Not the shrieker, she's a bitch.

Not the one that lets her kids figure out how to get out of their own problems, she's heartless.

I had lunch with a woman that has breast cancer. She told me that in the "energy world", the people involved in alternative health care, the belief is that breast cancer comes from over-nurturing or under-nurturing, and suppression. Usually over-nurturing our husbands and children, under-nurturing ourselves. Suppressing negative emotions, for years.

I can't get this out of my head. I know so many women that have had breast cancer, they are indeed, among the nicest women I've ever known. I'm not sure that had they been meaner, louder, more demonstrative and less nurturing to others that they would have had a different fate. I'm not sure if this belief can ever be studied and documented to the medical profession's satisfaction. I'm not sure it even matters. What matters to me, anyway, is that too much of a "good" thing, any good thing, can sometimes be worse than not enough.

Balance.

Moderation.

Self-care.

Self-awareness.

Do you ever hear anyone describing a "good" mother as someone that has these traits? Yea, me neither.

I'm Dead Serious...

I think I've found the solution to all my problems. I'm going to commit some kind of crime that automatically puts me straight into solitary confinement. How bad could that be? Three squares a day provided by Uncle Sam? S O L I T A R Y. Bring it on! How is that different from serious Buddhist monks that go off, alone, and contemplate for months/years on end? The only wrinkle is I'm really not that much of a criminal, so, I'm taking suggestions. I draw the line at murder, but maybe a nice little bank robbery? Would I have to be armed? Would I have to scare people? Don't want to do that. Could I just walk myself down to the police station and confess to a crime I didn't commit? What's a mother/wife/daughter/aunt/sister/friend/

volunteer/employee gotta do these days to get a little time alone?

Sorry - a bit distracted by the constant humming/recorder music, couldn't get the photo to go with the posting, I'm sure you understand.

THINGS TO DO TODAY:

1. Call doctor re: Rojo's meds - describe insomnia, incessant humming, defiancy, crying jags and constipation as result of new med

2. Address insomnia, humming, defiancy, crying jags and constipation for the FOUR day weekend he now has, after being in school for a full 6 1/2 days.

3. Try to not go cuckoo as he follows me around the house for 14 straight hours, four straight days, humming the theme song from "The Pink Panther" while blowing into his recorder.

4. Continue to do my work for which I am being paid to do, but must now do while accompanied by said "music".

5. Prepare 3+ meals a day times number of people living in/visiting home, since we wouldn't want anyone to have to eat what others are eating, that's so passe.

6. Keep up with laundry, house work, bill paying, phone calls, friendship crisis', etc., with said "music" 2" away at all times.

7. Don't forget I have a daughter, too, that is also home for 4 days, has plans, would like to be taxied back and forth to said plans, but boy with recorder doesn't want to go, so figure out how to pull that off.

8. Answer husband's requests sweetly and patiently, all the while enjoying the "music" and constant presence of beloved son.

9. Make plans to escape in my "free time".

10. Keep sense of humor. That which doesn't kill us, only makes us funnier.

BACK-TO-BACK DEVASTATION

Yesterday was 9/11, a day all of us that were cognizant five years ago, will never forget. Everytime I look at a digital clock and it says 9:11, I pause. Everytime I see the number to call for emergencies, 911, I'm saddened. That day forever changed our world, globally we will never be the same.

Five years ago today, 9/12, my own personal world was devastated. The two days are forever linked in my heart, my mind and my rage.

I was walking with Kathleen on the morning of 9/11, it was only 6:00 AM here in Portland. When I got back home my husband had the TV on and told me of the attacks.

I wondered how we were all supposed to shower, get dressed and go about our day after that. I called my children's two schools to see if they were still meeting, and yes, they were.

I held my five-year-old son's hand and walked with trepidation into his Pre-K class. I thought for sure I would detect something different in the air that day, but everyone seemed to have signed a covenant to pretend nothing was wrong. Who were these people?

For weeks I had been meeting with this teacher. I'd carefully gone over the facts of my son's special needs. I'd shared his IEP (Individualized Educational Plan) that qualified him for services with Portland Public Schools. I'd been very clear about his challenges, strengths and areas with which she'd need special help. We were set. They were ready for him. This woman had taught pre-school forever, there never had been a child she couldn't teach. She welcomed the challenge. I had even made the mistake of prematurely relaxing.

On the morning of September 12, 2001, only a few days into the new school year, the teacher called me and said this situation wasn't going to work afterall. His needs were too great. I needed to move him to a different classroom. She had thrown up her hands and was all done.

My first thought was not, "What am I going to do now?" but "Who dumps this on someone 24-hours after 9/11?"

I was in no way prepared to deal with this second level of loss, fear and anxiety. I was not in my right mind. How was I to make an educational switch for my son under these conditions, and this quickly? Placing him in her class had come after months of visiting pre-schools, interviews, meeting with doctors, consultants and therapists. Now I had to start over from scratch? She generously agreed to let him finish the week there, but by Monday, I was to have made other arrangements.

I did.

I do.

Nobody is pulling that same rug out from me ever again.

Never.

The world may have been forever changed by 9/11, and there isn't much I can do about that. My son's world, however, is a whole different story.

CAN OF BEANS

Sorry, I just have to go one more round with the "Why does everyone cry except me?" question. I was at a gathering of women, all of us mothers of children with special needs. This gathering is ripe for tears, by nature of our common denominator. Some women shed a tear each time we meet. Some shed several, several times a meeting. Me? Dry as a bone. I mean I'm moved and all, even a tint of sadness at times, but no tears. I'm thinking there must be something wrong with me.

One of the best criers said that after she turned 50, she just cries all the time. Her friend told her when she felt the tears coming, to say to herself, "Can of beans." There was nothing emotional about a can of beans. They were completely uninteresting and would invoke no sentiment whatsoever. HA! I cannot imagine a can of beans without laughing now! I cannot go down the canned food aisle of the grocery store without giggling! Think about it, c'mon, beans, they're funny! See? You're smiling right now, aren't you, it's 'cause of the beans! Funny things, beans.

OVER WORKED AND UNDER PAID

A friend told me her teenage daughter had been bitterly complaining about "all" her chores. She had two. Take the garbage to the curb 1x a week, and to empty and re-fill the dishwasher 1x a day. The daughter couldn't even believe the demands on her time, the cruelty, the injustice.

My friend was seeing a parenting coach at the time, and the coach had her write down every single chore required to run a household. Each chore went on its own 3x5 card. Grocery shop, mow lawn, pay bills, cook, clean bathrooms, etc. The stack was impressively large. She laid them all out on the dining room table, had the family gather round, and pick up all the cards that represented the chores they routinely did (not just supposed to do, but actually did). Big surprise! The girl picked up two cards, the other children picked up maybe one card, the husband picked up a few, and guess what, the table remained covered with cards!

What does that tell us? It tells me there's going to be a run on 3x5 cards.

TO HELL WITH WELL

I like rules. No, scratch that, I love rules. Rules create order, order creates predictability, all things I thrive on, yet never seem to have. If you give me a rule I will follow it to the letter, forever. If someone tells me never to do something, that's it, I'm never doing it. Likewise, if told, especially by a teacher, that there is a right way to do something, I'm all about getting it right.

These tendencies served me well in school, especially in writing. I knew and loved all the rules of the English language. They were games to me to be played for fun. The rules made sense, there were inherent rewards for their adherence. Nothing was more satisfying than an A on a paper.

Since finishing school I've continued to write and to read. What I've discovered has been quite disturbing! Some of my favorite writers completely disregard my sacred rules! They begin sentences with "And"! They drop the "ly" on their adverbs! They have paragraphs with fewer than 3-5 sentences, some even have paragraphs containing only a single word! What the hell? And (it's OK to do that, I've learned), they are getting something much better than an A, they are getting published! They are making their way to the best-seller lists, they are even changing lives with their errant ways!

This has thrown me into a complete tailspin. If these writing rules cannot only be broken, but by being broken can possibly improve writing, what does this mean?Does this mean that other rules may perhaps need re-adjusting? Breaking? Abolishing, even? Oh my God, I just did it. I broke some rules. Where's the lightening? Where's the "F"? Maybe good writing doesn't have to be done well...

Ahhhhhhhhhh

I am a new woman, in only one day (really, 4 hours, but who's counting?). My new favorite holiday? Labor Day, People! Christmas Schmistmas! That's the holiday where I knock myself out for MONTHS, only to have it all over in 20 minutes! Not my Labor Day, Baby, no, my Labor Day comes after I knock myself out for months to be rewarded with nine months of bliss! Oh sure, I love my children beyond measure. I just don't remember ever signing up for the 24/7 365 deal. Where is the 40-hour a week mother schedule? Sign me up for that one! I could actually be a good mother Monday through Friday, 9-5, possibly even great, but WHO among us is a good mother all the live-long day/week/month/year after excruciating year?

Yesterday my kids began 7th and 4th grades. It was a teaser day, really, over at 12:00. By the time I did all the first day of school rituals, shared a cup of coffee with old and new friends at the hospitality reception, it was nine o'clock. I saw mother after mother with tears in their eyes. Tears. Please, would someone tell me what is sad about dropping your kids off at school when you are going to see them in three hours, now, and we just found out next week they have two days off already? I don't get it. One mother e-mailed me and said she'd be the mom at drop-off with Vodka in her coffee cup, and tears in her eyes. I told her to look up when she got there, 'cause I'd be the one dancing naked on the roof.

During our hospitality hour a few friends and I were discussing this, two with tears in their eyes, two of us with barely concealed glee. We decided that it was not so much sadness as easily expressed emotion. The two of us gleeful moms readily admitted we just weren't the crying type.

"Yea," said one of the criers to my fellow gleeful mom, "but you cry at "Snowdogs! You have displaced emotion!"

I've been chewing on that ever since. I am also guilty of displaced emotion, but mine comes in the form of rage, not tears. I can get outraged at the drop of the hat, but sad? Not so much. It takes a lot to make me cry, it's just such an exhausting and messy production. Rage, though, that'll fire you up! I'm thinking a tea/coffee metaphor is coming!

Rage is for us caffeine junkies, the ones that like to get "up". Tears are for the tea lovers, the ones that like to come "down". What do you think? Pure brilliance or pure b.s.? I'll let you decide, I gotta go now anyway, only one cup in me, and that ain't gonna do it for all I have to get fired up about today!

JUST TO GIVE YOU SOME INDICATION

I am so beyond ready for school to start, I can't even tell you. No amount of Top 10 lists can adequately convey the tenuous grip I have on my sanity. Just to give you some indication of how bad things have gotten, I've composed a little list of the crazy cuckoo levels to which I have sunk:

• I wrote with a blue pen in my checkbook register. I have had this same checking account since 1981, and have only used black, ONLY!
• I didn't iron the wrinkled balls of 100% cotton that used to be my pretty pillowcases, before shoving pillows into them.
• I went to bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. Again, something I have not done since 1981.
• I (briefly) considered buying the DVDs of "Alf" when I saw them advertised in the paper!
• I decided I needed a haircut and determined it couldn't possibly wait the 4 weeks remaining until my scheduled appointment. So while driving down the street and seeing "Supercuts" in my peripheral vision, I swerved the car in, had six inches chopped off, paid, and was back on the road in less than 1/2 an hour.
• I have declared war on alternative spellings of names. STICK WITH THE TRADITIONAL, People! C'mon! I'm fragile! I can't take it! These impossible to remember names are the last straw for me!

The list goes on and on, but I think you see what we're dealing with here. The scene here is not pretty, not pretty at all.