Elementary, My Dear Watson

Here's a question or two for you:

Why is someone who considers every human being truly equal considered "fringe" or "radical"?

Why is something we are taught in preschool and/or kindergarten - that everyone is the same and that we should treat everyone nicely and with kindness - thrown out the window at a certain point?

Have It Or You Don't?

Compassion.

This question has been rattling around my brain for a few weeks now & it keeps popping up in unlikely places.

It first came to me as a topic for much heated internal dialogue, after Connor's conference.
(because I'm oh-so neurotic and analytical like that).
His teacher asked us what qualities we like most about Connor.
My answer was his heart - his compassion.
And his teacher agreed and then she said:
That's something you either have or you don't.

I thought this most interesting of a statement.
And quite honestly, it's not something that I ever stopped to really think about before.
It may be elementary, but I've missed out on many things/thoughts that are elementary.

I haven't missed out on it for lack of having it.
That is one thing I can easily say about myself - I am compassionate.
Probably to a fault.

But the idea that people are out there, walking around right now, with no ability or chance of ever having compassion boggles my mind.

I've heard the ever popular
that's how you have sociopaths.

Agreed. I understand that is what makes them so.
But my mind wanders to the possibility that there is more than the lack of compassion at work there.
That the lack of it is a symptom (for lack of a better word).

My bleeding heart self feels that everyone is born with some semblance of compassion, but it is our context, or our nurture, that helps to foster it.
And maybe that is simply just an idealistic way of looking at it.
From the informal "data" that I have collected thus far, I seem to be the only one who thinks this.

I look at my kids - who clearly have compassion for others - and wonder if it is something they have simply learned. And then I wonder how? They have not seen me hand umbrellas out to strangers on a rainy day, they have not been with me when I have handed food out to a stranger.
I realize my compassion extends farther than these two scenarios.
But I wonder if they already had it - and we simply foster it.
Or if it is a completely learned quality/value?

So what say all of you out there?
Do you think compassion is something you either have or you don't?

While I Get My Thoughts In Order

I've touched on a subject that I feel, for others and myself, is relevant. It's a subject that I feel needs to be brought to the forefront for many reasons. And while I organize my thoughts for further posts this week, I just want to share a sampling of Connor's musings.




A few weeks ago:
{Connor} Mom?

{Me} Yes.

{Connor} Who is Al Capone?

{Me} (thinking) WTF?!?!


Some weeks ago:
{Connor} Mom?

{Me} Yes?

{Connor} Who were the Vikings?

{Me} (thinking) GAH!!!

Sunday:
*as we're getting out of the car in the grocery store parking lot*
{Connor} Mom! I saw another green car just like our car. That car was a clone. Sometimes cars are clones.

{Me} Yes, Connor. Did you see a car that looked like ours? How do you know what a clone is?

{Connor} Because I'm smart.

{Me} Oh, yes you are. How do you know you're smart?

{Connor} Because I'm smart.

Last night:
{Connor} Mom? What keeps my brains stuck on the inside?

{Me}(touching my skull) Feel that hard part of your head Connor. Do you feel it? Do you feel how hard that is?

{Connor} Yes. I feel it.

{Me} Well, that is your skull. That is what keeps your brain inside of your head.

{Connor} Oh. Yeah! And my brain is BIG!


Today. About 30 minutes ago.
{Connor} Mom! I cast a spell on the sink and the dishes are being washed.

{Rav} Connor, please go downstairs and turn off the sink.

{Me} Connor, what spell was that?

{Connor} I don't know. I can't remember.

(he comes back up the stairs from turning off the sink)

{Connor} Mom! I cast a spell and it turned on the TV!

{Me} Oh yeah? What spell was it?

{Connor} Turnonmagora.

Put A Fork In Me

Somehow. And don't ask me how. I've missed the articles and news regarding Magnetix being recalled.
And Connor just loves playing with his Magnetix.
In fact, last night as I was preparing Miso soup for dinner for Rav & I (I was desperately craving comfort food after the events of last Friday and cramps rolling in), as I'm stirring the bean paste into the boiling water I hear a sound.

A choking sound.

I drop my wooden spoon and run in the direction of the choking sound.
And Connor is running toward me.
Grabbing at his throat.
Red as a beet.
Choking.
That horrible choking sound.


Of course, I panic.
Rav tells me to call 911.
My hands are shaking so bad it takes me what feels like 10 minutes to dial those three numbers.
As I'm doing that, Rav is working on Connor who is still choking away. Not breathing.
After what feels like minutes, Rav gets the culprit dislodged from Connor's airway.
And there on the carpet is a shiny ball from a Magnetix set.


My five year old, all of a sudden feeling the need to put things in his mouth, sets his sights on a magnetic, metal ball.



The ambulance comes and checks Connor's breathing and says he sounds great.

After they left, I think Rav & I finally took a breath.
We both weren't sure if we could eat after that.
Our stomachs were in knots.
My hands were still shaking...again.
And I'm left wondering
What in the hell is going on?


Last week, Connor felt the impulse to try and swim on his own.
And we had a near drowning incident.
This week, Connor felt the impulse to pop a metal magnet ball in his mouth.
And he damn near choked on it.


All I have to say is that I just cannot take anymore.
My nerves are shot.
I feel like I am failing. Horribly.
I've also noticed that his ADHD is off the charts. He is literally bouncing off of the walls.
Thus his impulse control is out the window.


My boy. I don't know what to do with him.

The only thing I do know is that I threw away the whole bucket of Magnetix.
And I warn you...if you have any in your home
Throw them in the trash!!

Mind Trap

I don't know how to share what happened.
Because the outcome could have been so much worse.

I don't know how to share what happened because
I feel like I'm exploiting my son, my feelings.

I don't know how to share what happened when
it so desperately needs to be put out there. When something takes up every corner of my mind, the feelings, thoughts, and emotions so raw, it makes it even more difficult for me to put into words. You think it would be the exact opposite.
My mind becomes such a trap sometimes.

I don't know how to share what happened because
I feel like it would have to be broken down into at least three posts.
The before.
The during.
The after.
And again, with feeling like I'm exploiting something - namely my son.

I don't know how to share what happened because
I don't want to disturb anyone with my words, my description of events.

But then.
Something inside says that I need to acknowledge each and every emotion that I'm having.
Avoidance is not the answer here.

Maybe this post is just Step 1.

Reeling

The other night, Rav & I watched that movie, Jesus Camp.
Wow.
Whoa.
Holy Moses, Batman. That's scary, scary stuff.

In fact, I'm reeling from it. We both went into this knowing that we'd have issues with it. And quite frankly, we were expecting to have to shut it off 1/4 of the way through it.
We were strong.
And we watched the whole freaky thing.

There are simply not enough words to describe the fear and astonishment upon watching this.
Despite the fact that I have a close family member who belongs to that branch of faith.

I don't want to risk offending anyone who may (or may not) be reading this.
And I certainly don't want to give anyone the impression that I denounce religion all-together.
I guess I shouldn't really care what anybody thinks. At least, that's what people tell me. But the thing is, I do.
Really the fact of the matter is, I'm so scared by this documentary that it has temporarily paralyzed my mind. Rather, my ability to speak. Because my mind races with several hundred thoughts, but I just can't find a way to get them out.

All I know is this: Based on what I saw from this thing, this documentary.....Global Warming is the last thing we should be worried about (though it is something that I feel is of utmost importance, so for something to bump that is pretty big). There is a large - very large group of people out there that are doing here to our children what we claim to be defending ourselves and the world against in other countries. And they are hell (or heaven, not sure after seeing this) bent on spreading a pretty un-Christian message, of recruiting children pretty damn early, and brainwashing a huge amount of people.
We are and will be forced to fight an irrational, self-righteous, and tenacious soon-to-be enemy within. I shouldn't use the word enemy, because that makes it sound like War.

We've been on a kick of watching documentaries.
Supersize Me freaked me out a bit.
Fahrenheit 9/11 got me thinking.
Born Into Brothels made me want to fly to India and rescue children in droves.

But this. This just has taken hold and won't let go. This group, this movement has grown to numbers I had no idea, so quickly, so silently - almost undetected. And maybe it's me with my head in the sand. I knew it was out there, as I've said someone close to me is in it.
I don't know how this nation can do a massive deprogramming.
I just don't how we could find a way to stop this thing.

Merces

Last week, there was a story on our local news station about an 18 year old "man" who murdered his girlfriend's 3 month old baby girl. The baby girl was left in his care while she (the girlfriend) worked. He brutalized that baby. He panicked. And left.
The girlfriend came home, found a blood stain on the bed. And no one home. No boyfriend. No baby. She panicked. I believe she called the police and/or the hospitals in the area. A short time later, the baby was found dumped somewhere like a tattered, tired mattress or an old, shredded tire.

You hear stories like this all of time (sadly enough) if you watch the news on a regular basis.
And when I heard this one, I shook my head, felt sick to my stomach, and said to Rav, "I feel absolutely no mercy for someone like that." To which he replied, You shouldn't.
I think he saw through to what I was really trying to say which was I wish that I could find it within myself to have the capacity to show mercy to this young man, who probably has never had mercy bestowed upon him.

And this is what has gotten my wheels turning about mercy.
And how I like to think that I am a compassionate and forgiving person.
But at the root of it all, I must not be.
I have come in contact with what I believe to be closet sociopaths who probably can't help themselves - or they are at the very least chronic assholes. And though they are quite obviously ailing and hurting, I cannot find it in myself to forget. Let alone forgive them entirely. I cannot find the well of mercy that I know is buried deep within myself.
Quite frankly, if they are not the sociopaths that I think them to be, and if they have any ounce of human kindness, the punishment I hand over by withdrawing from them is nothing to the punishment they inflict upon themselves.

It is quite difficult to define and discuss mercy without bringing religion into it. And the only way I really can discuss it is by using the modern English definition which is to say that mercy involves compassionate behavior on the part of those in power and authority over another. Pardoning someone. It is wisdom tempered with compassion. In the Qur'an, Allah says, "My mercy prevails over my wrath". And in Mahayana Buddhism, mercy is the special kindness shown to those who suffer.

Mercy is offered by a government, a governor, a policeman (authority) to an offender.
Mercy is granted by a citizen to someone who has damaged their property by not asking for restitution.
And we can get into a whole gamut of things like mercy killing or mercy drugs....but that is not what I intended here.
It can also be something as simple as walking around the block with your two children in their wagon, on what is supposed to be a lovely spring evening, who are fighting with each other, screaming at each other and a stranger/neighbor sees/hears you threatening your kids with your teeth clenched and as "quietly" as possible that they need to stop or you're going home, from where they sit in their front yard and yells Wait! We have something for you. We love to spoil other people's children.
And they walk out of their home with two lollipops which now occupy both sets of fighting hands and yelling mouths.
They have bestowed mercy. They have something (lollipop). You have nothing (a lame threat).

It seems that mercy is a distribution of power. Power that many (including myself) are reluctant to give. For whatever reason, when we feel we are wronged we often lack the wisdom to look beyond ourselves. We lack the wisdom to, rather, search deep within the other person and the circumstance and past the act. Instead, we wrap ourselves in our blankets of anger and power. Despite the fact that you (not you or we, but rather a collective) have been the recipient of mercy along your journeys. Despite the fact that you are no more or no less worthy than anyone else. I think many of us are so reluctant to give it because it possibly "costs" you something. We, at times, feel that we have so little control over various things in our own lives/world. And given the chance to execute mercy, we choose not. And this is especially true of those who have suffered (and we all have in varying degrees). Those that have been so degraded, minimized, and treated so poorly. The only ounce of dignity that they think they have left is within the power they think they possess over another. And some of us just choose to dangle our power, in an attempt to elevate ourselves while we kneel and dig our knees into someone else's back.

It's all about claiming these small little victories for ourselves. The world outside our homes (and even inside of some of our homes) can be so cut-throat. And we are no longer teaching ourselves and our children mercy. And we lack the wisdom to carry it out.

Now granted that when we're talking about bestowing mercy on a criminal, that could mean giving them life in prison rather than the death sentence. But the thing is, has anyone offered that criminal any mercy way back the line? When it really mattered to them? Some of these people are so incredibly broken to begin with. And if I were to ask Rav about offering his clients mercy, he would probably feel like, "What's the point?" When he sees destructive behavior time and again. - Though I know he does offer it in varying degrees, to the best of his ability.
In the end though, that's not up to our ultimate judgement. That is up to someone/thing else.

I think about the mercy that is bestowed upon us everyday in regards to the sun continuing to shine despite the thick layer of toxic cloud that hangs in our atmosphere. The fact that the trees continue to grow and produce oxygen despite the fact that we harvest plentiful forests, farmlands and greenways. Not to mention pollute the soil. The fact that we are able to eat and drink despite the fact that we continue to pollute drinking water and the soil our crops grow in.
We are repeat offenders.
Just like many that are behind jail cells.

I'm still struggling with my instant feeling of rage against that young man who committed that sick and brutal crime. And quite frankly, while what he did is horrible, I am not in a position to offer him mercy. Rather I need to keep in my mind my own feelings of rage and to quiet them. I need to stop and think wisely. I am sorry though for whatever wrong that has happened to him to force him to make such a horrid decision. I am not saying that we should all play victim - and not take responsibility. Quite the contrary.
But what I'm slowly trying to come to grips with is that handing over mercy is not necessarily handing over power to someone else. At the basic root of it all, it's simply sharing something. And we should give each other the chance, when we can...to see what that person will do with it. If they will take it for the gift it is and pass it on to someone else. (I am constantly reminded of the Bishop and Jean Valjean). In the end giving it should not be looked at something that will hurt us or take away from us. Instead we have done well by offering it to someone who needs it. And save the everybody's bill comes due part for the higher power to do that.

This is all a great lesson to me. And I thank you for letting me try and work it out on here. I'm not even sure that I've touched on anything that I had intended to. Maybe this is just a starting point.

Overuse Of The Word Asshole

Jen once again has got my mind racing with a million thoughts. She's got me thinking about assholes and getting by on assholery. Her perspective is good. And after thinking about it, she's probably right. That if we stop and think about the assholes we encounter in life, there is probably a good reason for why they act the way they do. And that they probably are meeting some need by acting that way. Their actions have served a meaningful purpose for them.
However, what I can't reconcile in my mind is, at what point does an asshole become accountable for the feelings they hurt or their actions that cause pain in someone else? Why do they get off with being an asshole and having hardly any capacity to worry about their actions? Or is the non-asshole's job to steer clear of them once the asshole has been detected and defined? Again, in my mind, if we dismiss the asshole's actions as being a survival technique, basically, and keep practicing compassion and mercy, yet all the while, the non-asshole is getting ripped to shreds. Crazy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
While I think compassion is important, self-preservation and having respect for one's feelings are important, as well. I wish that I could compartmentalize my feelings enough so that I could stow them away somewhere else when confronted time & again by an asshole. However, I know that I'm not that strong. (So there is my crutch.....).
I think this might open another can o' worms though. The run-in with a random asshole and the run-ins with chronic assholes. There is a definitely a difference. For instance, the asshole you encounter in Target while shopping (who may very well be a chronic asshole, but since you only encounter them once, god willing, they are just your standard, wild run-a-muck asshole). Then there are the assholes you encounter on a regular to semi-regular basis, be it a co-worker, a family member, a friend of a friend, etc. And wouldn't it be rather egotistical of myself to think that by my mere compassion alone I've turned an asshole into a non-asshole? If they are adults, surely by now they should understand or have some knowledge of what is appropriate or not. Saying and doing hateful things just because he/she is an asshole is a rather pathetic excuse. That opens the door for those people to say and do whatever they want with little or no regard to anyone else.

I think the chronics are the ones I'm struggling with in this post.
And maybe the lesson in dealing with this is that I need to learn how to better handle my emotions. I know I can't change their behavior.
Mercy is something I struggle with too.
In fact, my intent with this post was to discuss mercy.
That might have to wait until tomorrow.

Push, Pull

Lately, I've been thinking about things we want to do versus things we are supposed to do.
And I mean in a grand scheme. Not in terms of we want to eat ice cream, but we're supposed to eat dark greens.

This same theme has been recurring throughout different aspects of my daily life. I heard a dear blogger friend of mine refer to what career path she would have taken if she had it to do over, it has been a recurring theme on a few TV shows I've been watching, and it has been something that I long have struggled with.

I remember feeling so panic-stricken in high school because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. And the idea of following suit with every one else freaked me out. On many levels. The idea of locking myself into something for four years & then spend the rest of my life doing it freaked me out. I had done a work study with MBNA my senior year in high school - and corporate life scared the living piss out of me. I'm sorry, but nothing - and I mean nothing is scarier than corporate America. So, I knew that sitting behind a desk for 40 years was out of the question. I was constantly plagued with what it was I should be doing, what I wanted to do, what I was supposed to be doing (i.e. my "calling").

My grand desire - my ultimate life goal would have been to become a photographer with National Geographic (hardy-har-har - like that would ever happen). So, I settled on becoming a Marine Biologist. I spoke with a teacher at my high school who had worked within the field & he basically told me that the jobs were hard to get, funding was always a problem. In other words: pick something else. And then the realization that I would have to move away from a cancer that I was dating at the time - and I can call it a cancer now because I'm not in it - stopped me from pursuing the Marine thing.

I knew that I had something itching, screaming, fighting to get out. But whether or not I was ready to handle it, or just didn't have the extra support and confidence I needed to listen to these screams that were inside of me, I don't know. I just know that I was afraid. I was hiding. I was afraid of thinking that these things I wanted could be mine. I was afraid to show people how passionate I felt about issues, I was afraid to let people see how other people & their struggles would bring me to my knees. That kind of stuff wasn't cool.

I've lived aimlessly. I've wandered with the tides, but never roaming too far. I've tried many different jobs, I've had tons of life experience, I've been in & out of college. And never knew what it was exactly that I had to offer, where I would fit, because everything (almost) lit my fire.
Here I am, approaching my third decade and trying to pick up where I left off at 17. I now feel ready to listen to what I've been hearing inside my head for years. Sometimes, it's freakishly scary. And other times, it's frighteningly exciting. I can't wait to see what the road is ahead.

But the questions begin to arise about what I want vs. what is meant for me. Am I forcing something that I want, but not necessarily what is meant to be? And how do we listen for it? How do we know when we're pushing a bunch of useless boulders uphill with no progress or we're actually moving those mountains? Why is it so hard to stop, to listen, to hear, to see what the signs are that are right smack in front of our nose?
And then the trap of all traps: measuring ourselves against others - our peers.

I wish I knew the answers to the questions. I wish I had peace of mind.
I hope it's not too late for me - or any others out there. Who do feel a push, to give in to the pull, and find where it is they should be and......get there.

A Thin Slice of Humanity

OK, look.....I try not to get into religion. With anyone. Let alone on here.

Yeah, I know I rant about politics or the state our country is in (or not in). But that's just because I think we all need to be more aware.

I just received an email. And despite my better judgement I began to read it. I haven't even gotten 1/4 of the way through it and before I became so infuriated I had to immediately begin a blog post about it.

This email began with this woman in an airport who is reading her bible. And how she is sooo happy to be living in The Spirit. I'm sorry but these kinds of things scare me & I don't even know why I was entertaining this email. She looks up and sees a man sitting in a wheelchair who is obviously sick, old, hungry, tired and/or all of these. She keeps looking at him and wondering what his story is. And this line...this is what has my panties in a bunch:

There I sat, trying to concentrate on the Word to keep from being concerned about a thin slice of humanity served on a wheelchair only a few seats from me.

I'm not going to rant. I'm not going to rave. I'll let these words speak for themselves.
All I really want to say is that this absolutely, definitely, with-out question defines and puts quickly into words the last 7 years in this country.
Can I get an Amen?

Time Out Of Mind

So everything went OK this morning....and things are settling down a bit. I just wanted to share a little something.

Is it just me or could Adam Sandler play Bob Dylan in a movie?

Is it just me? Does anyone else see it??

Maybe I just need some sleep?!

Living More By Living With A Little Less

I took Jess' advice, and have started reading "Middlesex". I had to put Barack Obama in the bathroom book bin for now. I'm not in a clear enough state of mind to really give that book it's fair shake.

I'm in the very beginning stages of the book and I'm already enthralled as to where this thing is going to proceed. And it just so happens that the chapters I have just finished have coincided with something that has been rattling around this noggin of mine. I'm going to attempt to tackle this in a somewhat clear, lucid manner. We'll see how it goes.

This thought started the other day when talking to a friend of mine about the people that she services at the preschool that she owns. The preschool that Gracie attends. The preschool that I previously worked at. In fact, think for a second what I'm saying.....preschool. It operates for 3 1/2 hours a day. That's it. This is not a daycare. It's a preschool. A preschool where 98% of the mothers are stay at home moms. Stay at home moms that have bodies I would die to have. Dress like they have no budget. Stay at home moms who drive vehicles that most P.I.M.P.'s would love to own. Homes that probably would take Rav's whole monthly salary to heat in the winter.

That being said, the fact that my friend, who owns the preschool is my BFF, the Godmother to my two babes, my kid goes for free. Aaannnywaaayyy.....

We got to discussing how they appear to take their circumstances for granted. How they are lucky that they get to stay home, to be so fortunate to have all that they have. To which I replied, Well, then, how can one really be grateful? How does one truly act that way? What is it that sets this person apart as being grateful, but another not so much? To which she replied, Well, I think of you I guess. You and Rav are struggling. You don't have a lot for extras. But you are always there to help someone out. You give whatever it is you have. (Jen, if I'm not mistaken, you were tackling this same question a few weeks or more back?) This made me feel embarrassed. But coming from the person I admire so for her giving spirit, her large heart, I took this as a supreme compliment. Granted that, I can always find ways to do more, I do donate to different causes. But seriously, this post is not intended to pat myself on the back....I'm going somewhere with this.

The other day, I was listening to the latest Dixie Chicks album that I just downloaded. And I listened to their song called "I Hope". At one point, the lyrics stating something about 'having more than you could possibly need...'. And this got me thinking back to the original thought..

And today, I'm reading "Middlesex" and these first few chapters being about refugees, fleeing a country with so much death, disaster, and fire. And this thought added to the ones before it.....

I got to thinking about my own grandparents. How hard they worked. How little they had. I got to thinking about my grandparents, and their 6 kids (one of those kids, my mother) living in a 3 bedroom house. A small 3 bedroom house. But does that need to be said? Most 3 bedroom houses are relatively small.....

I got to thinking about the house I currently reside in. 3 bedrooms. And no damned storage space. Barely enough closet space.

People then, Back then did not own the amount of things we find ourselves owning in today's times. They weren't concerned with "things".
I had to do a little research on poverty in America. And what I read was pretty interesting. If you think about poor people in America. Just the average working poor person. And much to my surprise, we don't fall into the "poor" category. But anyway....the average poor home has at least one TV. Quite possibly, a computer. A car. Possibly two.

I think of what people did during WWII, The Great Depression. The struggles.
Like most things, it is what you make of it. What you walk away with on the inside. What you do while you're in it.

I think back to what it was like to be so poor growing up. The things we did without. Eating at my grandmother's house every day. Thinking back to how broken everything seemed to be. How broken everything was. A broken family, a broken mom, a broken kid, a broken car, a broke bank account, broken heaters in broken apartments. Being sent to bed early in your mom's broken bed wearing your coat and hat and mittens. Being sent to bed early because you had so much body heat, you warmed the bed for your mom by the time she wearily crawled into it.
Those broken times made the times I have now with my kids a little sweeter.

Rav & I struggle. Our bank account isn't setting the world on fire. We have it a tad bit better than I did when I was growing up. And my growing up certainly wasn't the worst there was. But it made me who I am today. Those times were times I buried myself in books, in music, in school, in thinking.

I came to the realization that we don't need so much. We may want it. But we don't need it.
I have come to the realization that older generations that have come before me are strong, and colorful, and wise because of struggles. Because of their hard work. Because things weren't easy.
It seems that so many people out there think that they are exempt from a struggle. That everything should be so damned easy. And for some, they somehow miss the struggles. And everything is easy.
But they are at a disadvantage, I think.

I'm not saying struggling means that you need to have a down-trodden attitude. It doesn't mean that you can't be happy. It just means that when you step out of the big mug puddle and are met by another one that is a tad bit smaller, you know that you'll be alright.

I don't know. I may not even be making the point I want to make. I think the point I'm trying to make is: It's OK that neither of our vehicles have DVD players in them. It's OK that "I don't hope for more than I could possibly need or use". All I want is to wake up to my Rav every morning. I want to wake up to Connor & Gracie's stinky, hot breath in my face, giggling. I want to eat breakfast at our hand-me-down dining room table. I want them to understand how good they are doing when they get excited by a toy that costs $.25 at The Goodwill.

The life I have now.
The things I have now.
The man I have now.
The kids I have now.
Are way more than I ever thought I'd have.
And that is seriously all that I ever want.
Anything else is a bonus.
And I need to pass that on.

Maybe this is the way I rationalize our situation.
Maybe not.
Maybe I'm just thinking idealistically - not realistically.
Maybe, inadvertently we're actually on to something.

But if we all just stopped and thought about how much stuff we don't need. That we can live with a little less.
Like so many before us have done.

That we might actually end up having so much more.



"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." ~Thornton Wilder


Jen, thank you. It's as if just by your mere presence via computer lines, I healed over enough to say something from my heart.

The artwork was taken from here.

To Spank Or Not To Spank? That Is The Question.

Yes, that's my big arse....Bry took this lovely shot in the summer.
Objects on your computer screen are larger they appear.

Growing up in the archaic 1980's, my backwoods, mountain-dwelling family thought it was ok to have a "stick" that was about 1 1/2" thick, with names written on it. The names being that of myself and my cousins. See, our moms were all single-moms, who dropped us off with my grandmother everyday, so we were brought up with our grandmother as a second mom & cousins who were more like siblings.
My grandmother always had it wedged way down deep in the space between the cushion and the side of the chair. If you saw her rooting, you knew you were in for it.
Anyway, that stick scared the bejeezus out of me. I avoided the sting of the stick on my little tooshie at all costs. Now, I wasn't the picture-perfect child/granddaughter/cousin/girl. But, the stick helped me to think more creatively, i.e. sneakily. Whatever I was going to do that was wrong or bad had to be done at just the right moment. And under the perfect circumstances so as not to be seen, heard, caught or inevitably, hit with the stick.
My recollection of events was that I got a "licken" probably once or twice. So, it obviously made quite an impression, as I can't recall for sure how many times I was struck. I was influenced more by the absolute presence of the stick. I'm not sure if that made me a little bit more smart, or a little bit more stupid.

I remember the first time I spanked Connor. I thought I was going to die. I was almost ready to call DYFS on myself. It was totally reactionary. And Connor was pretty little. He kicked me really hard, and without even thinking, I slapped his leg.
Yes, his leg had the tell-tale fingerprints, the redness, and slight welt. I have never felt so awful in my whole entire life.
That being said, I really try not spank my kids. I try to rely more on Behavior Modification and time-outs. I'm the type of parent, whose kid when standing on top of the coffee table, is warned that they may fall, but I'm not going to remove them or spank them. If they fall, they will understand. That's not to say that if something completely and utterly dangerous were going on, I wouldn't intervene. But I'm more of the school of thought that experience is part of the learning process.

It's been in the news lately, that spanking may be outlawed. I'm not really sure how I feel about this.

Take for instance Tuesday. I was speaking with the director of the preschool (who happens to be my dearest, best friend) at pick-up time. Gracie runs away from me toward the parking lot. I call to her to come back. Now she thinks it's a game. I run after her, which makes her even more engaged in the game. She starts to run into the path of an incoming mini-van. I grab tightly a-hold of her arm, give her little, diapered heiney a quick smack. I show her the van, the street, and explain that she could get hurt.
As I walked away, aware that I had witnesses to the spanking, they could see the tag number of my car, if they so wanted to report me.....that I just spanked my child in broad daylight. It wasn't a beating. It was somewhere between a love-tap and a full-on spank. But there were witnesses. And it is quite possible, that I could have offended someone enough for them to point authorities in my direction.

You think I'm crazy? Ravioli has people on his case-load for hitting their kids.

Why I don't condone beating for beatings sake. Or that spankings the main form of discipline, I do find that in the case of immediate danger, a light spank is, or can be, called for.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. I mean, I think the powers-at-be are trying to protect children who are in harm's way.
But what about the rest of us who are just moms and dads who love our kids enough to not want them hit by a car, to touch a hot stove, or to put their fingers in electrical sockets? Does that put us in the criminal category??

Tearing Down The Walls From Within

Jen said something to me the other day. And it was a kind, little something. The impact, she's probably not even aware of. And I wanted to yell into my computer speakers, "Jen!! Hey! Can you hear me??? How did you know that this has been on my mind? Ohmygod. Let's talk! I need to bounce some ideas around..." But I can't yell into my speakers. One-way thinking, these speakers. So I just yelled inside my brain in Jen's direction. And made a mental note to take on the subject that I had been too scared to admit on here. However, her comment opened the gate & has made it ok for me to speak publicly about it.

Social causes and History are quite fascinating to me. (Bad)Politics and (Bad)Politicians in general, for the most part, leave a bad taste in my mouth. But I got to thinking awhile back about how to go about making changes. And that I hate to admit it, but one of the only ways to really make some permanent change, to actually hear people is to enter into politics. And then my stomach heaved a little bit & I began to feel a tad nauseous.

I don't see myself as a politician-type. And the thought of politics never entered my mind before. But lately I've been playing around with the notion quietly. You know, to myself.
You will by no means see my name on any ballot come 2008. And I'm not saying this is anything that will come to fruition. But what if it did?
What if?

Then I would be part of a process, a system that I have come to regard as smarmy and disappointing. That the things I hold so dear might disappear because then I would be a politician. Oh, I shudder.

But the thought that I come back to. The thing that I inevitably arrive back at, is that there has to be good leadership out there. There have got to be politicians out there who really do have honest intent and the greater good on their agenda. I mean, it can't be beyond the realm of possibility, can it?

I don't know the answers. I don't know that I would ever join the rank and file of beauracracy. But as I've said before, I do feel the need to become a part of something much bigger than myself that is ready to throw on their boots, toss their clinical, rubber gloves aside and get some grit under their fingernails.

But as I circle around again, I come back to wouldn't it make me a hypocrite?
Then I say to myself but that's where you can make some changes. From within the confines of those paper thin walls.

I just don't know.
What's your take?

Silently Singing Loudly

How is this possible? You ask yourselves. Oh, it is.
It so is.
Explain. You're saying to your computer screen.

Why, thanks for asking me to explain. Explain I will. Just follow me here.

Right now, I'm reading two books. Technically 3. These are just my pleasure reading books. I am reading The Time Traveler's Wife, On Beauty, and the curious incident of the dog in the night-time. I'm not too far along in The Time Traveler's Wife because I am reading the curious incident.... for a book club meeting on January 30th. And On Beauty has taken a backseat to the aforesaid books and to school.
I seriously digress.

As I have been reading the curious incident.... it has occurred to me that I may be Autistic. And I'm not saying that to be crude, mean, demeaning or insensitive. But I see some definite similarities in my lines of thinking. It also has given me great insight into some of Connor's thought processes. He was not diagnosed with Autism, but some of his Sensory stuff falls in the Autism spectrum.
I would like to share this book with my mom who works with an Autistic adult.

That got me thinking about what someone would think if they just walked off the street and into my house & caught me at the computer. See, the computer is in our livingroom. When I'm sitting at the computer, my back is to our front door.
When Ravioli is watching TV or playing Playstation and I am on the computer, I plug in the headphones, do my thing on the 'net & listen to my playlist.
I crank the music out. But I can't sing out loud. That would be embarrassing for me. And excruciating for Rav.
So I find myself rocking in a 'dancing' motion all over the place in the computer chair, grooving my head all over the place, banging my hands to the beat of the music, moving my feet in tapping motions and mouthing the words to all of the songs.
Quite a sight to behold.

So, imagine one's surprise if they didn't know me. And saw me gyrating like that. They would have to think that something is just not quite right.
And well, frankly it's not. I'm a certified nutter. I've made my peace with it. And obviously so have you....for you read my stuff. You visit me here and know that I'm a bit wonky.

But seriously....what a sight that must be. I almost wish that I could float above my body, to see what kind of spectacle I am making of myself.
And then I wonder what Rav must think as he sees me out of the corner of his eye, doing the Elaine dance in the computer chair. I wonder if he's scared, amused, bemused or makes a mental note to himself to call the local psych. hospital. First.thing.in.the.morning.

I wish that I could sing as I sit here....But I Can't.
Though, these times when I'm forced to become mute, and dance from the top of my head down to my tapping feet, I feel the music a lot more, when I have to rely on my body to do the singing.
I'm almost convinced that if you really paid attention, you could figure out the song by watching my body. Because usually one part is "playing" the bass line, another lead guitar, another rhythm guitar, my head and/or feet generally plays percussion, my torso seems to follow the horns if there are any and if you could read lips that would be a great help too, as I'm generally mouthing they lyrics.

So, that's how I silently sing music loudly.
And contemplate the fact that my thought processes seem a lot like Christopher Boone's in the book the curious incident....
And if someone walked in my house and saw me at the computer, they'd have to agree that I'm just a little off.

And this crazy, rambling post is just one more piece of evidence for the jury.

Broken Arrows and Poison Darts

Often times, I find that despite all actions I take against such things happening - every word, every syllable, every action of mine is a lethal poisonous dart. What absolutely sucks about my poisonous darts is that they only seem to affect certain people and I'm not even aware of the fact that they are poisonous. Much like a jellyfish must not know they can sting or a skunk knows not of it's offensive smell.
It's a gift I've been given as a survival technique(?) - or it's just all a part of my charm.
I personally don't care for the odor that permeates off of a skunk, but I appreciate what it's purpose is.
So, while I realize that I am a bearer of things that can be lethal, I try not to aim my darts at anybody. I try aiming for the ground or I'll stand on top of a hill when no one is around and shoot them up into the air. Sometimes I visit the banks of a stream or a river and shoot them into the shallow, rocky water.

Occasionally - just for fun, Bry puts a pea atop his lovely little cranium and I practice my aim. It's a sacrifice he's willing to make. He takes one for the team more often than not. But a girl can't be a dead-eye with every shot, you know. And she's only willing to sacrifice her clydesdale, beefcake husband but so many times.

Once I get going with something, I can't stop. Rav becomes weary from standing in one place too long. He removes the shredded bits of pea from atop that lovely cranium and calls it a day. But I'm still at it. Zinging darts all over the place. Higgeldy-Piggeldy and willy-nilly. I'm not as careful as I usually am and I think that everyone can duck like Rav can or that they can tolerate darts whizzing around their heads. My arm begins to tire, my hand is trembling. And every so often, my aim gets a little screwy and......

WATCH OUT!!!!
Zing.
Gotcha.

Truly it was an accident. I'm not trying to hit you right between the eyes. And I mean that.
I'm not being sarcastic.

You know how I've been struggling to remove the toxic people from my life(it pains me to even bring this post out of the closet where it's been hidden for a bit. But I've had a few near misses with some toxic gases). I'm trying to make the day-to-day a little better for my family and myself. I'm on a path. Nothing is getting in my way. I certainly am not trying to trample anybody along my journey. However, if the worst is what you're looking for, the worst is what you'll get.

All I know is that I'm trying to be the best me.
I'm just trying to matter.
And I cannot do anything to change what has already been decided.

I wish that I had been blessed with the the endearing qualities of a loveable airhead.
I wasn't.

I wish, sometimes, that I didn't feel passion from the tips of my toes to the teeny, tiny broken dead-ends of my hair.
But I do.

I wish that I were blessed with the campfire personality. The one that everyone longs to sit around to feel all warm and good.
I don't have it.

I wish that I could turn off my curiosity, my constant search for knowledge - the thirst for more.
I can't.

I wish that people could see that my open-ness, my willingness to pour myself - my whole self - into whatever is just my way of relating. I wish that my words, my actions, my thoughts were more clearly defined and concise. So that there could be no misunderstandings.
The don't.
They aren't.
But there always is.

In any group there are roles to be fulfilled. The leader. The follower. The winner. The loser. The teacher. The student. The happy. The brooding. The social. The anti-social. The likeable. The unlikeable.
Sometimes there are shades of grey. You don't fit into one specific category. You can be the leader and a loser. You can be social and a student.

My role, apparently, is quite clearly defined.
The accidental lethal poisonous dart archer.

Great. Thanks for that.

If you just embrace the burn, be at one with the sting of it, you may eventually learn to appreciate it's purpose.

Givin' Him Something He Can Feel

Some answers to questions are so clear. And my answers are eloquent & to the point. For instance, when Connor hits me with this:
"Why doesn't Gracie have a penus?"(that's how he says it, so I spelled it like that on purpose).
"Because she's a girl."

"Why does Daddy have a gun?"
"To protect himself from bad guys when he's at work."

"We don't have a chimney. How can Santa come in our house?"
"Santa is magical & he always finds a way. If he can't fit into our little chimney, Daddy will let him in the front door while we are sleeping."

"Do I have school today?"
"YES!"

The list goes on & on. Relatively simple questions. Relatively simple answers. Answers I feel comfortable giving. Sometimes they are white lies that I hope I can forgive myself for telling at a later time. However......

Connor's question of Heaven.
Makes me want to run & hide.
Never to be seen again.

It means that I can't lie. But I think I do. I think.
I hear myself, as if I'm in a tunnel or a cave, regurgitate an answer. I feel my lips forming an answer something about angels, death.....long time from now.....very old......God.

It means that all of my doubts regarding my religion are placed before me. It means, in some respect, that I have to make a choice. A choice I've not yet fully made as an adult. And place my choice before my moldable, knowledge-hungry, answer-seeking child. And watch as he digests my answer, willingly. I suppose I am to feel satisfaction that he takes my answer as acceptable & walks away. As I wipe the sweat from my brow & calm my trembling hands and just thank God (if there is one) that the conversation is over.
For now.

It also means, as a mother, that I have to face my mortality. And my children's eventual mortality. It is an impossibility. It's something you can't begin to wrap your mind around & begins your descent down this twisting, spinning, sickening vortex.

And the only thing that can bring you back is to throw yourself at this innocent little being and cover them in kisses, squeeze them so hard that they squeal in pain & delight. And hope for the best.
And if you're really lucky, you have a clear-cut faith that is unfaltering that can lift you up & carry you through.
I don't think I'm that lucky.

My wedding Gift

Jen and Mad are participating in a marriage of the minds. What a wonderful idea. And we have been requested to give a social wedding gift. And when I say social, I mean a social injustice - not a social disease. Gross. So here is mine. I have not put as much time into this as I'd like. But this is the best I can do for now. So, if you'd like to participate or simply read about some girl on girl brain action check out what's going on. By clicking on the hyperlinks I have above.
Foster Care in America is floundering. Better said, the children of the foster care system are floundering. Read about some of it here. This problem is largely overlooked. These children are bounced around from home to home. And have a terrible time forming attachments because of constant upheaval. What these children go through is barely recorded when you do research or google searches on 'foster care'. You get statistics of how many children are in the system, how many have left the system and so on. There is no discussion of therapy of mental health/emotional issues. I beg you to click on they hyperlinks and read what is there as my words can do this issue absolutely no justice. All I can say is that the foster care system in this country desperately needs to be overhauled. There are children who are suffering silently everyday and at the age of 18 are thrown out into the wind & left to their own devices. And more often than not, repeating the same destructive cycles.

If You Could Read My Mind

Sunday evening my mom & I went to dinner at Jessop's Tavern. A really cool Colonial pub with great food and great wine. She noticed a man in the pub who looked a lot like an ex-boyfriend. She began opening up about how she misses that Ex, as they are dear friends to this day. But do not get to see each other that often. She began talking about how he was the only one who really 'got' her. I nodded in understanding and said, "You know, we all need someone like that. I believe I have two of those people. Dad and my dear friend, Bob." They just know what makes me tick, they know the inner workings of my mind. And Bob, especially, gets my humor and knows from where I'm coming from. It's effortless and damn scary.
Ravioli & I were talking about this last night as I was relaying the conversation to him that my mom was having with me. And he looks at me with his rich, brown eyes and says, "So, you think I don't 'get' you?"
I think Bryan knows me, but doens't really get me. And vice versa. That's not a bad thing. I just believe that there are people, who don't necessarily have to be your spouse, that get you.
So, I ask all of you: Who 'gets' you? Is it your spouse? Is it a dear friend? Is it a relative?
Just curious......

Sabotage

At the risk of sounding like a snob, I left my class last night shaking my head in disbelief. Let me first say, that my instructor is amazing. I love her & am looking through the course catalog to see if she is teaching any other classes that apply to my major. She is smart, funny, tough, insightful, forward-thinking, engaging & the list goes on and on. She is so wonderful to talk to, that when she dismisses us for break, no one wants to leave the room for fear of missing something. I digress. Last night we were discussing on early development (conception, DNA, etc.....in a two words: basic biology). It is amazing to me that I am in a room full of women in a college class that know little or nothing about basic, human biology. I mean to the point that they didn't know how long sperm live inside of the body, they didn't know what kegels are, they didn't know that you can tell, if you pay attention to your body, when they are ovulating. How can this be??? How can you be a woman in 2006 and not know some of these things? I mean, they've got to, at least, read Cosmo. I guess I'm assuming that all other women are like me & the ones I seem to travel with, and are enlightened women. And when I say enlightened women, I'm not trying to sound elitist, I'm saying women that revel in, well being women. And knowing a little bit more than which lip gloss matches with which handbag.
I remember being in 7th grade and learning about recessive and Dominant recessive genes. Many of these women didn't understand the XX & XY chromosome deal. WTF?!?! And as we were talking about XX and XY, the instructor was talking about how, in some cases with genetic 'defects', the women are the carriers, but only the male children are affected. And that is because we 'give' them one of our X's, so by nature men can be considered the weaker sex. I raised my hand and added my .02 and said how there have been studies done, for instance, on premature babies & that it has been noted that many premie deaths are boys as opposed to girls and they feel that the X factor is the reason why. The teacher ellaborated for a bit & my neighbor to my left leaned in to me and said in a whisper, "You're really smart." I smiled and turned red. I thanked her. I was thinking to myself, "Well, I'm not dumb. There are plenty smarter out there. But this class....is scary." I'm just amazed at, really, how simple we are. We have all of this technology, so many free resources to read from. We are a 'rich' nation, with many, many resources. And yet, we produce people who can barely think, barely read. What is happening here? It is disturbing. And how scary it must be for these instructors, who see this, semester in and semester out. The other thing I would like to add here is that the class is mixed from women in their late teens, early twenties...all the way up to mid to late 40's. So, I'm not using my 'base' as 20 year olds with a muffin top and year-round tan.