White fragility and what may be an unusual conversation at the fireworks tent

I can think of a few situations, a couple I've written about on this blog, in which something happens that just seems weird like maybe its got God's fingers in it.
Or maybe it is just coincidence.
Or maybe it is me doing what my high school students say I do ALL.THE.TIME with literature, which is reading too much into something.
The blue curtains are simply blue curtains and not metaphors for something else.

Yesterday, I finished reading White Fragility, which is all about how conversations about race make white people 50 kinds of uncomfortable.
The premise is that when white people are forced into having these conversations (because they often don't willingly do so) and must recognize their own racism, they then get angry or upset or cry or do other things to not deal with their own racist thoughts, actions, or reactions.

I've been thinking about my own experiences and conversations about race and how I have acted or reacted.

Today, I went to the fireworks tent near my house to pick up sparklers and pop-its that the kids throw on the ground.
I walked up and greeted the people who were running it, all of whom were Black.

There were one adult and numerous children (I'd say ranging in age from elementary to middle school).
(They had accents which made me think they are from Africa but I don't like to be nosy and ask because it is none of my actual business.)

The middle-school-age girls were very helpful, showing me different items, and the gentleman showed me things, but I told them that we're chickens and don't like the big fireworks.

I said that I'm the one who lights the fireworks, and I can't lose my hands because who will do the cooking?

When I was paying, one of the middle-school-girls was bagging my stuff and humming.
She asked me if I knew that song.
I asked her what it was.
She said it is a Christian song.
I said, "Oh."
She said, "Are you a Christian?"
and I answered, "Er....."

Because I was raised Catholic (which is Christian) and I half-assedly attend a Disciples of Christ church (which is Christian), but I don't think of myself as Christian because, honestly, a lot of Christians do a lot of not-even-remotely-Christian-stuff, and I don't want to be associated with them.

A lot of Christians do a lot of talking about being Christian, but they don't do a whole lot of acting like Christians in the way that I think Jesus would think is cool.

The girl saw me hesitating and said, "Am I making you uncomfortable?"
And I said, "No, it's just that I have some issues. I believe in Jesus, but I don't always like the church."
The girl then asked me about gay people and trans people, and I responded that I support them.
And I said, "I don't always like how churches treat women, for example."
This then led us to briefly discuss how Catholicism doesn't allow women to have a major role in the church as priests (which is just one of many issues I had with that particular brand of Christianity.)

And then I said, "I believe in treating people the way you want to be treated."
The gentleman said that this is the most important thing.

I couldn't help but think this conversation was sort of bizarre.
I meant it's not every day that people start conversations about religion with me.
But it was also bizarre because of its timing.
I was the sole white person at this tent.
The people who operated it were all Black.
The girl asked me questions about religion and asked me if they made me uncomfortable (which relates so much to what I'd just been reading about except in terms of race).
And we ended up discussing the Golden Rule, which I think has a lot to do with how white people treat Black people in both obvious and non-obvious ways.
Many white people do not speak about or to Black people in the same way that they would want to be spoken about or to.
They don't like the idea of Black people having the same opportunities as them even though if they traded positions, white people would want to have a fair shake at opportunities.

The video above is, to me, a pretty obvious example of white people not doing unto others as they would have others do unto them.

So, I don't really know what to do with this whole thing.
But I know I'll probably think on it for a good long time. 

Don't send nudie pictures and other advice I'd give

Once upon a time, I put mothers on a pedestal, which means I put myself on a pedestal of perfection when I had N.

I could not stay on that pedestal.
Having a first baby after 6+ years of marriage and leaving behind my career and being a perfectionist with extraordinarily high expectations of motherhood was a recipe for emotional disaster.
I am not perfect, and I cannot achieve the extremely high expectations I put on myself.
Every day, I am still learning how to live with not always being able to live up to the goals I put on myself.

So my expectations have modulated, but I still think parents should walk the walk.
If they expect their children to behave in certain ways, they should model that.

If you don't want your children to drink to excess, YOU do not drink to excess.
If you want your children to take their education seriously, YOU take your and their education seriously.
If you don't want your children to be chronic complainers, YOU should not be a chronic complainer.
If you don't want your kids to be slobs, YOU should not be a slob.

I hold these same expectations for church ministers and teachers because their entire existence is working with others to strive for betterment.

Perhaps that is unfair; they are human after all.

I had a bit of an embarrassing situation this semester during my grad class when a teacher inadvertently showed me a picture of herself in a bra when she was swiping on her phone to show me something that was not herself in a bra. This would have been weird enough but she then told me it was a picture she'd texted her boyfriend.

Now, I am not much of a selfie taker ever, and I'm definitely not a nudie or half-nudie selfie taker. If D ever took such a picture of me, he'd have to dig his testicles from his esophagus.
But that's me.
Consenting adults can do as they want.
(I'd just prefer not to accidentally be a part of what other consenting adults do.)

What I would recommend, though, is the following:
1. delete these pictures so you don't unintentionally share them with more-or-less strangers.
2. be very careful of the advice you give young people or children about what to do because you could, like the pictures, unintentionally give them advice that you yourself do not follow. And if they find out, they will lose all respect for you (if they haven't already because kids are exceptionally good at deciphering bullshit and/or hypocrisy).

On the plus side of this weird situation, it did provide me an opening to discuss nudie photos and the aftermath with my teenage daughter.
It was nice to have an anecdote to tell her before I launched into a lecture.

The ambush: "The rest of the story"

Sister girl texted me the afternoon of the first day of school and said her husband is just gonna drive their daughter to school.

I suspect they didn't actually do the math prior to the first day and determine that by the time they get to my house, they are nearly halfway to the high school.

If they are gonna drive that far, they might as well go the distance.

I'm off the hook.

The ambush and the drive to school

A friend texted me today asking what my "plan" is for driving N to EHS.

I responded that my "plan" is to make arrangements and then watch them fall apart.

We do not get bus transportation to N's high school in the same way that we didn't get bus transportation to her middle school.
We carpooled with neighbors when N and their son's middle school years overlapped.

There are good things and not good things about carpooling.
The good thing is that you share the driving.
Depending on schedules, this could mean you take entire weeks off.
The bad part of carpooling is that during your week off you get used to it.
TOO used to it, in fact, which means when you have to drive the following week you are out of habit and, perhaps, a little a lot whiny.

Another downside to carpooling is that in your head, you think carpooling means you will drive less, but if your child does activities or if the child you carpool with does activities, you may still end up driving to and fro to pick up your child.

In high school, it is almost certain that whatever you think the plan will be, your child or your child's coach will make a schedule that sucks complete ass and forces you to drive up to the school or make all kinds of weird driving arrangements.

Basically, I think the secret to being satisfied with any carpooling arrangement is to prepare to drive your kid every single day and then be pleasantly surprised on occasions when you don't have to.

Here is a funny story:

My MIL's neighbor's daughter (that is 3 degrees of separation) came up to me one evening when we were at my MIL's to eat dinner in the very early summer, long before I'd even thought about August and carpooling.

This lady, whom I barely know, just came to the back door with her daughter, who sometimes plays with my kids, and stood there.
It was weird.

Anyway, this mom just kind of stood there for a few minutes making small talk and then asked me how I was getting N to school and whether I could give her daughter a ride.

Since I have been in the habit this past year (N's 8th-grade year) of driving her to school, I didn't and don't mind giving this lady's daughter a ride to school, BUT I will not go backward.

The child lives in the opposite direction of the school from our house, so I told the mom if she can get the girl to our house, then I will take her the rest of the way.

I told her that if I am subbing, I pull out of my driveway at 6:40 am, and her daughter has to be at my house at 6:35.
If I'm not subbing, I'm leaving at 7:00 am, and her daughter has to be at our house by 6:55 am.

I figure she needs me more than I need her, so these are my "rules."
If she doesn't like them, she can find her daughter another ride.
This sounds heartless, and maybe it is, but all is fair in love, war, and car rides to high school.

D couldn't believe that I had agreed to this madness.
He believes I always think so well on my feet, but I was more or less ambushed by someone I don't know well.
And I don't lie.
(I can lie but I'm very obviously lying and it is just pathetic, so I don't.)

He is worried that he will have to answer the door when they show up late and tell them that I have already gone.
I told him that I know it will be A GRAND INCONVENIENCE for him to answer the front door while I'm driving our kid to school before 7:00 am, but I know he can do it.

Anyway, once we learned that N was playing field hockey and I had her practice schedule, I texted the ambush mom to tell her that I won't be picking N up on days she has practice, which means I also won't be picking her daughter up.

Two days after that, ambush mom texted me asking if I had room for another child.
A child I don't know.
A complete stranger.

Now the honest-to-God truth is that I don't really want to drive this lady's kid to school, but I'm doing it because 1. she ambushed me and 2. I do at least know her child, and 3. it doesn't hurt to be nice especially since I'm not having to backtrack to pick her up in the morning.

However, I draw the line at people I barely know roping me into rides for people I don't know at all.

I almost texted her back: "WTF? I'm not Uber."
I opted to just text back, "No."

Both my MIL and D think this will be a short-lived arrangement, and maybe it will be.

When I told N that I am subbing the first four days of school and will need to drop her off early, she sighed and huffed a bit so I asked, "Are you inconvenienced by having to get up early and be dropped off?"
She said, "A little."
I replied, "I don't know anything about being inconvenienced."

Here's to a new year of fun driving-to-school stories.

Reincarnation

I recently read The Forgetting Time by Sharon Guskin and loved it. It is a fictional story of reincarnation, but it is grounded in the work of Jim Tucker and Ian Stephenson. Because I found the novel so compelling, I decided to read Life Before Life: A Scientific Investigation of Children's Memories of Previous Lives.

While I wouldn't say I'm a firm believer in reincarnation, I am a firm believer in possibilities that I cannot understand nor explain. 

Whenever I think about what happens after death, I think about the first law of thermodynamics, that energy is neither created nor destroyed. But I am not a physicist, so my understanding of the laws of physics are preschool-level (and I'm being generous). If you actually look up the first law and reincarnation, you then get sucked into a great mind-numbing debate on discussion boards that makes me wish Neil deGrasse Tyson would apparate and explain it to me in dumb-person language that I can wrap my head around.

As much as I value science and evidence, I also value that there is much that we don't yet know or understand. This is to say that at some point, we may have definitive evidence, but right now we do not. 

I don't need proof, really, because I think it is pretty fun to just ask the questions and wonder.

What is consciousness? 

What is the soul?

Are they the same?

Is there an underlying consciousness that all of our disconnected consciousnesses feed into or come from? And does that mean that there is only one consciousness and we are all just little feeder shoots off of it?

Is that what we call God?

Is memory real and trustable? (I think not)

If reincarnation does happen, what does that mean that the "me" I think of as "me" actually is? 

What does it mean if my consciousness isn't really mine? (And is that "possession" a stupid way to think of it anyway?)

One of the reasons I wonder about reincarnation is because of M and his ear-twiddling, which he continues to do now and has done since he was an infant nursing at my breast.

Is there a gene for ear-twiddling? Is that an actual trait that gets passed along from parent to child?

Because my deceased father-in-law was an ear twiddler. He didn't do it to everyone, but I was one of those people.

And it may be entirely possible that ear-twiddling is actually encoded in DNA, so it makes perfect "logical" sense that M does it.

But if it isn't, then how and why does M do this, especially since his siblings do not and his father does not?

I don't think M is his reincarnated grandfather, but I do wonder if consciousness of some kind is a plane of existence we cannot sense except in weird ways. 

My father-in-law died unexpectedly, and M was an unexpected birth control pill-conception. 

I like to think that his ear-twiddling is my FIL's consciousness reaching out to us, but I have no proof that it is. And if I did have proof that it isn't, that is ok, too. 

I also have what I have always thought is a dream, but maybe it isn't a dream. In this dream or whatever it was, I am conciousness but not corporeal, and I'm not even entirely sure that I am Carrie-consciousness. I have consciousness of being in existence but there is nothing else. Everything is black. 

If it was a dream, I don't know what the point was. 

And if it wasn't a dream, I don't know what the point was.

But I'm ok with either one. 

The meant-to-be-a-conference-sheet-thingie that just ticked me off

I didn't attend N's parent/teacher conferences in the fall because, much to my dismay, there hasn't yet been a Star Trek-like teleportation device invented yet that will allow me to be at two different schools at the same time (or within minutes).

N's grades have been fine.  When I say fine, I mean she has gotten all As this entire year.

However, some of the work that she has received grades on is stuff like taking notes, which tells me that she is a good note-taker.  It doesn't tell me whether she understands the notes she takes, whether she has deep questions about what she is learning and whether she can create or analyze anything based off these notes.  These grades are an effort to make parents who think grades are VERY IMPORTANT STUFF happy and content.  "My child is an excellent student" is sometimes code for "My child can sit still and do exactly what the teacher says to do but may or may not have very much going on upstairs."  Or "My child can do busy work very well."

The mom in me thinks my child is bright, but the realistic critic in me knows that mostly she is average (although I was average at her age, too.)  Like awesomeness, there is no rule that says a person's intelligence can't grow immensely larger as they develop and mature.

The district also changed the grading scale so that 90-100 is an A, but if I see a 92.4 I will read that as a B even if the report card says A.  Again, it doesn't really matter, especially if the grade is on note-taking, but a rose isn't a rose isn't a rose in public education.

Today, N handed me 2 manilla folders with a series of assessment reports inside them.  According to the paper, this is supposed to be a student-led conference to engage families and increase student responsibility for their learning.

Here is my written response to the sheet:

I understand, given how many students are taught on middle school teams, the need to do this, but I'm not sure how helpful it is for me and N without actually seeing any of the work and where her mistakes are on the proficiency assessments.  She isn't certain what the problem is without looking at the test.  I regularly check the Parent Portal so I don't need a grades update.  I'm not even sure what the "Learning Conferences--Reflecting on Progress" sheet is since nothing here is labeled as such.  Is THIS SHEET the "Learning Conferences" sheet?

That probably sounds bitchy, but that accurately sums up how I feel about trying to decipher this.  My problem is less that they asked me to do it than that it isn't user-friendly.  How can I accurately assess and reflect with my child if all pertinent information isn't provided?  How can I encourage my child to do "better" on a proficiency assessment when it might be asking her to regurgitate information instead of thinking?

Like so many things education-related, this "conference" seems like a well-intentioned but rather off-the-mark activity.  

Potty language in da house!

I happen to be a fan of the occasional use of curse words to accentuate a point or inject some humor or lightness into a discussion.  However, the overuse of curse words makes a person sound like an idiot.  This is not a fine-line thing.  There is a vast chasm between witty use of foul language and what might be typified as redneck use.

My sons have discovered curse words, and I am happy to say that, despite my occasional use of such words (typically in a reaction to some boy thing they have done in an effort to destroy and/or defile the house), their interest in these words has stemmed from riding the school bus.

I have been asked about the word "fec" and have explained that "fec" means for a man to put his penis in a woman's vagina.  I have had to repeat this definition at least twice.  The boys are totally nonchalant about this, while N runs into the other room saying, "OH MY GOD, I'M NOT LISTENING!"

On Sunday, M said, "Mommy, I know what "ass" means.  It means your penis."

I replied with, "Do you want to know what ass means?" and he pointed at me and went, "Ahhhh" as if he hadn't just said "ass" a second before and that I was the one with a nasty potty mouth.

I explained that "ass" is his butt, his bottom, his bahoofie, and he excitedly yelled, "I was SO CLOSE!"

Yesterday, G got frustrated while playing with his Kindle, and I heard him say, "I really want to say the "S" word right now."

G occasionally watches youTube to see Minecraft videos.  Some are musical parodies (One More Fright which is a play on Maroon 5's One More Night) and are fine, but others show these teenage/young adults playing Minecraft.

G learned the terms "suck balls" and "faggot" from one such video.  He didn't ever use them; D overheard it and told me.  I discussed these words with G....ok, I discussed "faggot" because "suck balls" is rude but not something to which I would take offense.  There are many things about motherhood that, in my estimation, do feel sucky-ballish, but there is no reason to ever use the word "faggot."  When I explained that people use the word "faggot" to hurt other people's feelings, he immediately took a dislike to the word.

Maybe it is because I am an English teacher, but I feel very strongly that I want my kids to know the meanings of words and avoid making particular words "taboo."  If the kids have half of my issues, they will love anything that an authority figure urges them not to do or say, so I would be doing a disservice to myself to make a big stink over them asking about these words.

My calm, matter-of-fact approach seems to be working.  I mean, G could have actually said "shit," but he opted for the "S" word.

And....the truth is that my boys figuring out curse words is pretty darn hilarious.....even though I would never admit it to them.  

Quirks (New Years and pets and ????)

New Years is such a goofy concept.  Can we all agree (probably not) that it really is an arbitrary man-made delineation of time that doesn't actually mean anything?

So I don't get all hoopty-hoop over NYE, although I do superstitiously eat cabbage on NYD because my parents, who are as frugal as they come, always serve cabbage in the hopes that it will bring more wealth.  We aren't going to my parents this year on NYD, so I bought egg rolls.  I'm not cooking a whole head of cabbage.

My own NYD on which to be better than I was before (bigger, stronger, faster) begins on the Monday that the kids and husband resume their school and work schedules.  I can resume normalcy.  I can go to the gym every day if I want (I don't and won't, but I could....).  I can toss out all the Christmas cookies and hide all the candy (if I don't see it, I don't eat it.)  I can get back into the routine that allows me to clean my house (with all of us here for 2 weeks, it is just pointless for me to clean up much).

This isn't to say it has been a bad winter break.  It has been pretty good, but I think the best thing for sticking to resolutions (if I were the type of person to make such things) is a routine in which to put them.

But I don't make resolutions, partly because there is no real meaning to the arbitrary NYD and partly because if everyone else is making resolutions then I definitely don't want to be part of that.

Another of my weird quirks is my philosophy of pet names (a book club friend's post about her new dog made me think about it).

I had a pretty strict name philosophy about the kids' names.  They had to be names that could not be shortened/nicknamed.  I love the name Catherine, but I dislike Kate, Katey, Kathy and/or Kat. I realize that some children do manage not to get stuck in the nickname rut, but it seems like it is a constant battle, and I'm not that diligent.  When D and I threw this requirement in with his requirement that they be names that people had heard but very infrequently, it got pretty dicey.

My requirements with pet names is that they have to not be human names, and they have to be a little oddball.  Shanks was named after the Jane Yolen's book King Long Shanks.  Gonzo was named after the Muppet and Hunter S. Thompson (gonzo journalism).  Our new kitties are Slippers and Skits (short for skittish).  Other names that I think make great pet names:

Flotsom
Narf
Nerdle / Nurdle (this is actually my cousin's dog's name, and I love it)
Yurtle
Floob
Plotz
Skeets
Poit
Stoob

My friend named her dog Larry, which is actually a name that I prefer as a pet name instead of a human name.  Maybe because Larry is a nickname for Lawrence, and I so dislike nicknames?

(Of course, I should say I feel about all these things the way I do about chino pants.  I don't like them in my own life, but I certainly don't really care what other people name their kids and/or their pets or wear on their bottom halves.  Do what you want....

Meh.....the PTA

Every year I join the PTA.  I am even a chairperson on the PTA at the elementary school.  

But I really don't like the PTA. 

Don't get me wrong, the PTA has never done anything to me.  I like the people who participate in the PTA with me.  I know that what they do at the school builds interest and enthusiasm and generates money... all that good stuff.  

But the PTA tends to get a little....weird.  A little too much like a clique or a middle-aged sorority.  I don't say this as a negative about my kids' school.  I think EVERY school PTA tends to get this way.  

So this week's relaunch of the PTA grind (and it becomes a grind) is something I'm meeting with underwhelming resignation.  

Last year I felt compelled at the first PTA board/chairperson meeting to announce that I'd talked to at least 3 parents who complained about the clique-ish-ness of the PTA.  Basically, I said something on the order of, "Quit talking to your PTA friends at school events and welcome parents."  I think things improved.  If nothing else, we got bright t-shirts that say "PTA" so parents who don't know us personally can at least zone in on the shirts and know whom to direct questions (if anyone is spending too much time PTA-socializing and not enough time being welcoming to people they don't know).  

This year's shirt says "Peace, Love, PTA."  I didn't vote for it.  In my experience, there is very little that is peaceful or loving about the PTA.  A better descriptor would be "Freaking Out, Tolerating, PTA."  PTA volunteers are often freaking out about the amount of work involved.  At best, they are tolerating all the busyness and politics.  But whatev.  I was outvoted and accept it.  I will wear the shirt if for no other reason than to have one extra day a week that I don't need to do laundry.  

But I totally, TOTALLY get why the PTA becomes clique-ish and weird.  There is a small group of reliable, consistent volunteers.  They try to get other people involved, and no one helps, which means the reliable, consistent volunteers band together.  "Hey, you help, and I can count on you.  Let's be friends and develop inside jokes and all that stuff."  It is what happens.  (The other parents arrive at the carpool line 6.5 hours before school lets out and dork around on their phones instead of coming into the building and volunteering.  Or helping me pull weeds at the carpool line.)

I am in "charge" (and I say that with a looseness that is ridiculous) of Beautification.  Basically, I do a shitload of weeding and organizing and don't get paid.  But I really do enjoy gardening (I kind of Zen out so it is meditative), and I'm ok with it.  

I refuse, REFUSE, to do anything more than this.  I will never, ever, ever run to be a president or a secretary or a treasurer or a VP of anything on the PTA.  I would be the worst-possible president, secretary, treasurer or VP of anything because I'd eliminate like 3/4 of the activities.  As a teacher, I was never the type who did fun stuff.  I made my learning activities interesting and enjoyable, but I was all business.  If I were heavily involved in PTA, I would want to eliminate all the cool activities (like festival) because they are 1. too much work and 2. I don't care about them.  That is not the kind of person you want to have in charge of PTA.  

The periphery.  I tend to hang on the periphery of things in life, including the PTA.  And I know there is a little part of me that would like to be in the clique, to feel included and popular, but I also know that if I was included, I wouldn't actually go to anything.  I'd want to do my own thing.  Which is apparently weeding and organizing.  

All our kids are weird

My three and however many you have.  They are all weird.

For a long time, it was difficult for me to disengage myself from my kids.  If they acted weird or oddly shy or behaved in a way that was embarrassing, it really bothered me.  I was too tied up in the whole "this child doing whatever he/she is doing is a reflection of me" idea.

Maybe due to G's occupational therapy and his particular oddness, which really isn't that odd or unusual given some of the other kids I see floating in and out of OT, I have let that idea go.  Instead, I have adopted a "my kids are weird but so are everyone else's" idea.

I write a lot about G's weirdness simply because it is 1. so similar to my own weirdness (and therefore very challenging for me) and 2. requires outside assistance in the form of therapies.

But the other two kids are also weird.

One thing I find really strange about N is her self esteem.  She isn't terribly coordinated, limber or naturally athletically skilled, and yet she will do some weird leg lift and say to us, "I am so good at gymnastics" or "I am so limber."  She took one year of dance lessons when she was 4.  She will now do a turn and say, "I am such a good dancer."

I just sorta stare blankly at her.  I might sorta say, "Uh-huh" with a slight questioning tone at the end.

It drives me a little bit crazy, this self-esteem based on delusion.  Not that she couldn't become more skilled and talented in the physical realm with dedication and considerable practice, but she comes across to me like an idiot when she says this stuff (especially since she has shown zero motivation to actually train and practice in order to be more skilled).

Having high self-esteem is great, but sometimes I worry she comes across like a turd if she says this kind of junk very often to other people.  (And I know she does because I've heard her say stuff like, "I am really awesome at this song" to her piano teacher even though she is still clunking along the keys.)

I don't talk to her about it because I don't want to knock her down; life will do that on its own.  But I definitely don't praise her for things that don't honestly deserve any kind of praise.  Wow, you can sorta lift your completely bent leg up into an Elaine Bennis like dance move.  Bravo!

M is newly 5, so his weirdness is just now coming to fruition.

Next week he'll be screened for speech therapy (having both our nurse at the clinic and his preschool teacher ask two days apart, "Have you ever looked into speech for him?).  After taking our preschool music class since August and being in his second year of preschool, he is just now (in November and after being talked to about it) starting to participate and talk to his teacher when asked a direct question.  He has a strong embarrassment streak and takes an unusually long time to warm up to people, which is unlike his siblings and therefore weird (at least to me).

Accepting their weirdness has made me both more accepting of my own children for who they are and who they probably won't ever be and more understanding and compassionate to other parents whose kids are differently weird from my own.  

George Bailey days

I don't watch it often, but It's a Wonderful Life is one of my favorite movies.  Not only is Jimmy Stewart simply wonderful as George, conveying the frustrations that even the best experiences of life have to offer, but the general theme of the film is powerful.

How did I, and do I, make a difference in the world of my family, friends and beyond?

Many years ago I told my best friend, K, that if I were ever killed in some freak accident or tragedy that under no circumstances was she to say, if ever she were interviewed by the news people, that I was a "sweet person."

I can think of few things worse than being called or considered a sweet person....whatever that actually means.

Anyone who knows me even a little would never call me a "thoughtful" person.  I would like to aspire to be thoughtful, bringing someone a little trinket or cookies just because, but I am 1.) far too cheap to buy things that don't have some boring practical value and 2.) I hate to cook and only barely like to bake.

Yesterday and today, though, I have been smacked in the head with unplanned, weird experiences that have me thinking deeply about my place in this world.

At the pool, while I was trying to lure G and M out of the kiddie pool to come eat lunch, I noticed a woman staring with a look of horror into the 3-foot end of the pool.  It was break time so only adults could be in the pool since the lifeguards were away from their stations.  When I followed her stare to the pool, I saw a small child bobbing in the water.  I waited an instant to see if she would come up, and she did, but only to the bridge of her nose.  She made no sound.  She didn't wave her arms.  She was in the act of drowning.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself jumping in the pool, lifting the girl out of the water and setting her at the ladder on the concrete.  The woman whose gaze I had followed knelt down and starting checking the girl with me.  I said, "Is she yours?"  The woman replied, "No."

All of a sudden I heard, "Are you kidding me?" "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" and looked to see a woman walking over from the kiddie pool enclosure towards us.  When I followed the direction of her yells they were at her husband, who was in the big pool all the way across in the 4-foot section.

The girl was fine.  I don't know whether she fell in, jumped in, or what, but it wasn't long that she was in the water.  She was conscious and scared to death.  The parents said nothing to me.  This may be selfish or prideful, but I maybe a little bit expected one of them to say thank you.  I know if someone had done this with my child, they would have had to pry my fingers off them from the big bear hug I would give them in gratefulness.

My heart beat rapidly for a good 45 minutes, and some 24 hours later, the rhythm quickens when I think about this experience.

Today's oddity was at Walgreen's, where I went to pick up photos from N's time at day camp.  At the photo counter was an old man asking the photo guy where a certain insurance office was located.  I stood there waiting to pick up my photos and was drawn into the conversation by the old gentleman who showed me his letter from the agency and asked if I knew its whereabouts.

Since I'm still in the world of "dumb phones," I called D at home and had him mapquest the address on the letter.  I wrote down things to look for and told the old man he could drive with me and we'd find it.  This man, whose name I never got, said he had his car, but I was afraid of not being sure where I was going and getting him even more lost.  Plus, it was raining so I didn't like the idea of this 89-year-old frail gentleman driving aimlessly on a busy parkway following someone who wasn't 100% sure of where she was taking him. I explained my thinking to him, and he opted to come with me.

The man explained to me that he is hard of hearing, lives a bit aways across town from this insurance agency and thought it would be a good idea to drive to find the office before his actual appointment with the agent.  I drove him to the door of the agency and wrote down the bank it is directly across from to help him when he comes back.

He said he didn't know the words to thank me, but said his higher power must be looking out for him.  And that my higher power was looking down on me with pride.

I dropped him off at his car and returned home, feeling contented and sorta mind blown.

When the man was in the car with me, commenting about a higher power, I felt like that, like he,  was god embodied in this little old dude.  I know this sounds dumb (and my husband will almost certainly roll his eyes when he reads this post), but what made me think this is that the old man didn't say "Jesus" or "God," but higher power, a term I use often and most comfortably when thinking about my own beliefs.

I guess I felt like, with yesterday's experience so fresh and today's experience so out of the blue, this was higher power telling me in no uncertain terms, "Carrie, you done good."

I'm not sweet.  Or thoughtful.  Or so many other things.
But I do make a difference in this world.

We're all capable of the unthinkable

In 2004, when my brain decided to start acting out on its own without consulting me, I was gripped by fear.  I had been under the false belief that I control myself, but there is nothing like having a nervous breakdown to show a person what's really real.  I could no longer control the thoughts that ran through my mind, and within short order I couldn't control many of my body's physical components---tears, sleep, the ability to eat.

When I would see a plastic bag and envision N with it around her neck suffocating, I thought it meant I wanted this to happen to her.  When I held a knife to cut an apple and envisioned stabbing N with it, fear paralyzed me.  I knew without a doubt I was going crazy.  I had other even more unsavory visions that I do not discuss publicly because they are so upsetting (for anyone who thinks I truly do express every single thought I ever have, I do have some restraint).

The adage is somewhat true that if you think you're crazy, you probably aren't.  These horrible visions were my worst possible fears running amuck within my mind, and I wasn't able to shut them down.  I wasn't able to recognize them as worst fears and realize that a thought is just a thought, however horrible and disgusting.  I can have whatever awful terrible thoughts I want (or my brain wants), but acting on them is the problem.

The ultimate effect of all this, which was terrible as I was going through it, was a profound sense of freedom and compassion.  It was freeing to know that my mind can sorta do what it wants, regardless of what I think it should do.  I also developed a greater sense of compassion for people who are mentally ill, whether they are fortunate enough to recognize their mental illness and seek treatment or whether they do not even realize the full extent of their illness and disability.

People do the unthinkable, like the Boston bombing suspect or women who kill their babies or  men who sexually abuse children.  We fear for our safety or the safety of our families, but we also fear for ourselves because we are all capable of such acts.  We defend ourselves against the unthinkable by believing if people are neighborly or live in certain neighborhoods or look a certain way or whatever they are not the kind of people who could do such things.  But they are, and we are.

All of us likely fall somewhere on the DSM, but as my therapist told me, "A disorder isn't a disorder until it disorders your life."  Or in many cases until it disorders someone else's life when a person acts on a thought or belief that to them seems normal but to others is "sick."

As a mother, I have many fears for my children but perhaps the two worst are that 1.) they will take their own lives and 2.) that they will have take the lives of others.  I look at my G, who is very much like me in terms of personality (obsessive and highly sensitive) and I worry that he will end up like me, only worse; that he will have a mental disorder that cannot be easily managed with some antidepressants and therapy.  But the truth is that any of my kids could go off the deep end. My husband could.  I could.

I do not believe that people who go off the deep end do not give warning signs.  I think people around them either don't recognize the signs or cannot believe that their loved one is capable of the unthinkable.  When I was diagnosed with OCD and GAD, it made so many feelings and behaviors from my childhood clear to me.  I don't know if my mother ever had the thought that something was "mentally wrong" with her daughter, but I do know she chalked it up to "that's just Carrie" and thought it was odd or excessive or not the norm.  Had I done something unthinkable, I don't think my mother, in her heart, could have ignored all the signs that something was amiss, even if she wouldn't ever publicly admit it.

Love is blinding.  Love makes us want to see the beauty and purity in our loved ones.  And maybe there is simply something wrong (or more wrong) with me because I seem to have a knack for seeing the unpleasant and wondering where it might go off-the-chain wrong.  Or maybe I just dislike hiding behind pleasantries.  I think it is important to talk about the things that others find taboo or unpleasant or embarrassing.  Maybe we could understand more if we were more willing to speak the truth than to hide behind "I don't understand how or why it happened?"  We think that if we saw it coming, if we saw signs, we could have stopped it, and I just don't know if that is really possible.  But our fear of seeming culpable makes us gloss things over.

There is danger in knowing everyone is capable of the unthinkable.  Capable does not mean everyone will act on that capability.  I remember one student I had my first year of teaching who was, without a doubt, royally messed up.  He was, in my mind, a walking time bomb, and he scared me.  My relief was palpable when he was sent to a different school.  As far as I know, this kid has never done anything that made the papers.  He wasn't the former student of mine who killed himself in a local McDonald's after threatening his girlfriend with the gun he then used on himself.  He was disturbed, but not disturbed enough?

As sad as I feel for the people who are killed by unthinkable acts and their families, I can't help but feel a sense of compassion for those who commit the acts and their families who try desperately to make sense of it all.  The innocent are mourned and glorified, even though in life they were as imperfect as the rest of us.  The guilty are condemned and demonized, even though in life they were probably less horrible than their horrible actions would suggest.

There is no peace and tranquility regardless of which side of the unthinkable you are.

I can't help but make fun of this children's book

For the most part, I love children's literature.  While I tend to be a snob about adult books, I am much more of the "whatever gets a kid to enjoy reading" philosophy when it comes to little ones.

One of my favorite children's books of the moment is Monster Mama by Liz Rosenberg and illustrated by Stephen Gammell.  I think I fell in love with it based on the following:

"Patrick Edward was a wonderful boy, but his mother was a monster."
"Her bad moods terrified the neighborhood."

Sometimes, though, I come across a big huge dud of a book, a book so stupid all I can do is pick it apart in my head while I'm reading it to the kids.

The book Weebles:  The Weebleville Talent Show is one of those books.  I can go along with the general plot and theme---taking on too much isn't good for a person (or a Weeble) and you need to rely on your friends.

But there is a "romance" between two Weebles in the story, Tibby Wobnobbin (an elephant Weeble) and Tooey Winkington (a turtle Weeble who is also a firefighter).  Why is a suggested romance even necessary in a Weebles book?  She calls him "my darling Tooey" and "Tooeykins."  They have a special practice for the talent show......yeah right, special practice, my ass.  They practice "for hours."  Every time I read this to the boys (M got it for a present) I envision a giant Weeble orgy, with animals of all kinds boning each other in the center of Weebleville.

What is even more mind-boggling to me is that Tooey is doing a break-dancing routine for the Weebleville Talent Show!  The story says--

"Tooey started with some fancy footwork.  Then he moved into the 'popping and locking' part of his performance.  Finally he slid to the floor for his big finish--a Super Speedy Back Spin!"

Oh Lord help me.  He is a Weeble and has no legs or feet.  How in g*d's name can he do fancy footwork???  What parts exactly is he going to "pop and lock?"  And though he is a turtle, he can't fall down (per the jingle) so isn't a back spin sorta impossible?  When he tries to throw himself to the floor to spin, won't he immediately pop back up onto his wobble?

I'm telling you it is all a veiled story about Tibby and Tooey bonkin' each other's brains out.

As I read it, every time I read it, I have these same stupid thoughts, a raging blitz of criticisms spewing from my brain into the abyss.  I'm not sure what is more insane---the book or my diatribe response to it.

They were in the wrong store

I have heard that there is an actual website called, "People of Wal-Mart" or something along those lines featuring photos of the outlandish getups people wear into the store.  

My own children could have their own webpage titled, "Kids Whose Momma Isn't Gonna Argue About What They Wear To the Mall."  

N went to her BFF's birthday party at Club Tabby.  I had dropped her off, but D and the boys went with me to pick her up.  I took my camera along because I knew N would look foxy (or like a clown on acid).

The boys, however, decided that they, too, wanted to express their inner fashionista by insisting on wearing their bicycle helmets and rain boots not only en route to the mall, but through the mall.

N looked like this when we arrived.  

Oh lawdy!

And then she proceeded to do this to her brothers:

Pants on the ground

When I found out G was a boy, I was more than a little terrified.  Excited, to be sure, but also highly anxious.  I mean, what was I supposed to do with the penis?  From my limited understanding of the male gender, I knew those things have a life of their own.

Once G was born, I realized that he was simply a sweet little baby....no different, really, from N when she was an infant.  I felt the same with M.

It wasn't too much past the boys' infancy for me to once again be confounded by the whole penis thing.

M went through an fairly intense penis-playing phase some time ago, but that eventually passed.

About a month ago, G had a foreskin infection, which freaked me out, mostly because my brain instantly went into, "I don't want him to have to be circumcised at this age."  He can retract a bit, so the doctor said for G to retract as much as he could and for me to apply a tiny bit of steroid cream to reduce the inflammation.  Dr. B gave G an antibiotic, and things cleared up just fine.  Apparently, these infections are fairly common among little boys G's age.

Ever since, G has been very, very interested on "pulling his skin," as he calls it.  One morning after he woke me at his usual 6:30 a.m., I left him on the couch watching tv while I walked into the kitchen to fix my coffee and check my email.  I walked back to the couch to check on him and found him with his pants at his knees and him busily "pulling his skin."  I just turned and walked back into the kitchen because that is a party to which I do not want to be invited.

The boys have nekkid time on a somewhat regular basis.  I will be cooking dinner or cleaning and see G streak by.  Soon after M will come in saying "Pants!" or "Shirt" and want my help removing his gear so he too can run around in the buff.  Both Mamaw and Nana (and even my neighbor HC) have gotten pretty used to having the door opened for them and being welcomed into our home by boy parts in their glory.

Like jumping on the bed and the Wiggles, eventually kids lose interest in these things.  If it's not hurting anyone, why make an argument out of it?  Plus, what would I have to write about if it weren't for my kids' antics?

Tonight G came out of the boys' shared bedroom and when I went in to settle them down and tuck them in, I found that M had taken off his pajama bottoms, a feat of which I didn't think him capable.  I may have to resort to the onesie over the pajama thing again if this continues.

I think the only solution for "pulling the skin" is duct-taped hands.  

Where do you want to go for lunch?

This seems like such a simple question.

One day last week, I asked G where he wanted to go for lunch.  Nana was over, and we had been running errands for much of the morning.  Initially, G had answered, "Burger King."  As I completed my errands, I asked, "So, you want to go to Burger King?"

G said, "No."

I asked, "So where do you want to go?"

G replied, "The place with the blue roof."

I think I just stared dumbly.  (Is dumbly even a word?  If it is not, it should be because that is how I stared.)

I repeated, "The place with the blue roof??"

G said, "Yes.  And the fish."

Me:  "What?"

G: "The place with the blue roof and the fish......and the light."

Me:  Staring dumbly again.

G: "You know, the place with the blue roof, and the fish and the light.  Near our house."

Now close to our house is a Moby Dick restaurant but G has never, ever eaten there.  Having no earthly idea what or where he was talking about, I just started driving and asked him to please point it out if he saw the restaurant.

We drove past the Moby Dick (which DOES have a blue roof and DOES have a picture of a whale on it which a 4-year-old might mistake for a fish and not a mammal), and I asked if that was the place.  He said, as if talking to a complete moron, "NO!  It's the place with the light. Near our house.  With the ducks."

WITH THE DUCKS!! OF COURSE!

By Zeus!  I had it!!  I knew exactly where he wanted to go for lunch.

Long John Silvers, which has a blue roof and a fish, and Taco Bell, which has a bell that G thought was a light.

This particular YUM restaurant is located near this:

One day after the kids had their bi-annual dental visit, I picked up lunch at Taco Bell since N was missing her lunch time at school, and drove the kids to a nearby corporate office which has a nice lake, waterfall, bridge, walking path and oodles and oodles of ducks.  We sat in the car with the doors open, enjoying the weather and watching the ducks peer into the minivan.

All of this---the YUM restaurant and corporate office with path, bridge and lake--are within 5 minutes of our house.

G knew what he was talking about the entire time.

The things about being pro-environment I don't like

I strive to be as eco-conscious as I can without living as suckily as they did in the 1800s.  I turn my car off when I am waiting for a prescription in the drive-thru or at the bank to deposit a check.  I use cloth bags at stores most of the time.  I recycle every other week.  I do a local CSA.  I buy all my jeans at Plato's Closet rather than buying new.

But there are some pro-environment things about which I have serious issues.....

Like CFL bulbs, which suck.  Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't.  If I just have to run into a room quickly, it is not even worth it to turn them on because they are so stinkin' dim until they warm up (which may be how they are pro-environment....people just don't turn on the lights anymore, at all.)  Depending on the light fixture, they flicker.  Some people have an issue with the way they make paint look on the walls.  I'd just like for them to just work somewhat consistently---forget the paint.

And buying local, which is great in theory but IMPOSSIBLE if one has to browse and isn't finding the size she needs for her tall and thin husband (whose birthday is next week).  I have made two trips now to find something for him in his size, and I haven't found it at either store.  So I wasted gas and time, plus polluted and have nothing to show for it.  I could drive to a number of other stores, wasting more gas and time, polluting more AND having to attempt to shop with the Bobo Brothers in tow, or I could do as I just did which is order the wanted item in the correct size from L.L.Bean and have it shipped to my house.

I do use cloth bags as much as possible when shopping, but this means we have fewer plastic bags in which to throw cat crap when the litter boxes are cleaned.  I recycle all my bread bags and newspaper bags, but those are too narrow for poop dumping purposes.  And I refuse to buy bags just for disposing of animal feces.  If my cats weren't so old and set in their ways, I would switch them to the litter that disintegrates with urine and just scoop the poop and flush it.

Oh, I know these are minor annoyances--what one of my FB friends calls, "White People Problems," and I know I am fortunate to have them instead of actual, difficult problems that threaten my way of life and livelihood.

Now that I read what I wrote I realize I sorta sound like Rand Paul bitchin' about toilets and their lack of powerful flushing due to water conservation efforts.  I'll stop now.

Le petite porn star

Boy babies play with their junk.  Alot. 

But recently my 22-month-old has ramped up "alot" to "freak level."  I wouldn't have cared except that he was pushing his diaper down (and perhaps getting his stuff out in the process) which was resulting in sopping wet bed sheets every single night AND at every single daytime nap.  

There is only so much laundry momma is willing to do before she looks for a solution.

The initial solution was duct tape around the top of the diaper in an attempt to keep his hands from being able to go down the front.  This worked for about a day until he figured out that he could gain access from the sides between his legs.  

Everyone knows that duct tape holds the world together, so I was at a complete loss as to what to try next.  I didn't want to put him in footed sleepers as some friends had suggested because it is just too darn hot for that (since designers haven't figured out how to make short-sleeve sleepers, at least in my neck of the woods).  

But then I remembered that I had some short-sleeve onesies in the closet.  I had stopped using them in the spring when it got warmer, and I didn't need an extra layer under M's pajamas anymore.  

Still, given M's persistence in getting to his boys made it imperative that I make it as difficult as possible for him to gain access.  Which resulted in this look for sleepwear:

Pajama bottoms, with onesie over top, with pajama top over onesie.  

The sheets have been dry ever since.  

I'm putting a onesie over his shorts during his daytime nap as well which looks really stupid, but in my world, practical trumps fashionable any day.

Of course, last week when I took M and G to a local playground/splash park, M pooped his first swim diaper and swim trunks, leaving only swim diapers for him to wear the remainder of our visit.  Boy, did he feel free.  He was digging around in there, having a grand old time.  At one point I looked down and saw his penis just peeking out over the top of his swim diaper.  

One of my mom friends asked, "What did the pediatrician say?," and I had to laugh because I haven't even considered taking him to the doctor for this.  He is uncircumcised, but there is nothing bulging, red, yeasty or otherwise unusual about his penis.  

I suspect the doctor would say to me, "He's a boy.  He's a horndog.  Let him be."  

And so I shall.

M in his bedroom before bed, dancing around and taking the bull by the horn, so to speak.

I'm glad I'm not the only one

I'm glad I'm not the only mom going through a funk.  Midwest Mom and MO Mommy are both in states of emotional disarray, of sorts.

In the past month, I've booked a vacation to DisneyWorld.  This week I've hired a carpet cleaning company to clean every staple of carpet and tile in my house to the tune of $600+ as a means of refreshing the house.  I have begun a list of outdoor things that need to be accomplished as soon as the weather is consistently cooperative.

Even though I don't feel particularly out of sorts, I am apparently in need of change, of a stirring things up. The monotony of winter, of gray, of cold has gotten to me.

I have even been thinking about growing my hair out again.  And buying myself some Old Navy new shirts for the warmer months.
And purchasing some sandals.

You know something is amiss with me when I am daydreaming about shopping and for goddamn sandals, at that.  

Why is it that?

......my children often smell like butt, even when they've just been washed the day prior?

......as soon as the worst sleeping child becomes a slightly better sleeping child, the best sleeper starts becoming a royal pain in the ass and waking us up multiple times a night?

.....when I can get my children to do a cute craft (an idea I stole from Midwest Mom) that we hang on the front windows they then delve fully into their creativity and produce weird napkin drawings that they also hang on the front window?

WTF?

......I am sometimes completely unable to understand G but he is totally clear and intelligible when he sings after supper, "I need a cookie.  I, I need a cookie to looooooooove" a la Justin Bieber?

......it takes my mom almost running out of my house to relish her freedom after watching the kids for me for most of today that I realize staying at home with kids, especially in winter, can truly make you bat-shit nuts?