The "fun" idea that turned into a chore

I could be talking about parenting....seems like "fun" when you're in the thinking stages and early implementation but very quickly becomes a tiring, overwhelming, expensive confusing chore.

But I'm not referring to parenting.

I'm talking about a Pinterest-inspired saga.

On the occasions when I do visit Pinterest and see cool, creative upcycling projects, I think, "I can do that."  And I can.

But it is, in fact, a grand comedy of errors.  When you read blogs by Pinteresty-people-types, they sound as if it all goes supremely well or there is maybe a slight delay because of humidity.  They are either not idiotic (as I am), or they are idiotic and LIE about it.

So, here is my final product, which took the entire summer:

Three windows, for $10 each.  Three containers of flat glass from my best friend that were leftover from years ago when she took a stained glass class.  All of my glass beads that had been cluttering up my house for endless years plus at least 7 packages of new glass beads.  More clear E6000 glue than I care to think about.  One container of white grout that cost about $11.  One container of very old caulk.  One can of white exterior paint (maybe $17).  3 feet of chain.  6 regular hooks, 6 eye hooks, a couple of weird adapter type chain thingies.  

This upcycling project probably cost me at least $75 and took 11 years off my life.  

I did the middle one first using glass beads.  I grouted it, but some of the bead color came off since I had to rub and rub and rub the beads to get the grout off.  

On window #2, the one on the right, I used only flat glass from my friend.  I put some of the glass in a ziplock bag and whacked it with a hammer.  This worked fine until I ran my hand over the window and sliced a finger in numerous spots.  I really didn't want to buy grout since it is expensive, so I thought, "Hey, I'll use caulk.  It dries and then I can peel it off using an exacto-knife from the places where I don't want it.  

Apparently, the caulk I used is really, really old because it has been weeks, and that sh*t still isn't fully dry.  I gave up and hung the darn thing.  

By the time I finished window #2, I was over it.  So window #3 (on the left) is the I don't care anymore project.  I used every piece of glass that was leftover on it.  I didn't have a game-plan or design.  I just glued junk down.  Didn't grout it or caulk it.  Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care.

I'd like to think this has been a good lesson learned, but I am already thinking about repainting the powder room.  Someone save me from myself.  

We don't like the continuum

I am in a limbo that I can't discuss publicly, and I hate it.

Limbo forces you to hang, to wait, to see how things play out and to be patient.  You can't make a move in limbo.  Well, I guess you can make a move out of limbo prematurely, but then you are potentially setting yourself up for all kinds of additional problems.  As uncomfortable and nerve-wracking as limbo is, it is often better to just wait it out.

It is this personal limbo, this holding in the middle, that has me thinking about how people react to the continuum in general.

As a species, we seem to like the ends of the spectrum---the "THIS" or "THAT."  The middle, the continuum, the in-between, makes people uncomfortable.  It feels safer to be at one end or another.  It is definite; it feels secure at the opposite ends.

And yet, there are few absolutes in life.  When I try to think of things that are definite ends of the spectrum, I have a difficult time.

A person who is left-handed doesn't have a useless right hand.  He or she is more adept, more skilled, more comfortable with the left hand, but the right hand can still do things.  How many brown-eyed people are completely, 100% brown-eyed, without a fleck of green/gray or yellow?

One of the most fascinating examples of the continuum, at least for me, is tetragametic chimeras.

The things that seem like definite ends of the continuum are man-made constructs.  Democrat or Republican.  Pro-life or pro-choice.  Pro-Target toy department by gender or anti-Target toy department by gender.  You can't make an easy-peasy soundbite out of the middle of the continuum.  The limbo, the hanging in the middle takes discussion, explanation, reflection.

Even killing someone isn't totally on one end of the spectrum.  It is if you just ask, "Is killing wrong?"  But what if someone is trying to kill my children, and I kill them to save my kids.  Is that still on the "wrong" end of the continuum?

I just finished the novel Sarah's Key, and am going to spend the rest of my life (probably) reading a biography of Alan Turing.  These have me thinking about limbo.

Sarah's Key is full of horrors about Nazi France, and I found myself wondering, "How could Paris citizens not say anything, not do anything?"  But that is me wanting to place them on an end of the continuum.  That is me not understanding just what kind of painful limbo they were in.  Perhaps terrified and angered and disgusted by the removal of the Jews and yet terrified for their own safety and that of their families?  If the authorities would round up Jews just for being Jews, what would happen to someone who defended the Jews, who lashed out for justice?

We watched The Imitation Game recently, which inspired me to pick up the Turing bio.  The film suggests that the British kept the breaking of the Nazi code a secret in order to keep the regime from changing.  They made strategic decisions, which may have allowed some people to die, although ultimately the war was shortened as a result of Turing's machine.  That is certainly a moral limbo; to know the code, to be able to keep some people from dying but not be able to because it would result in the Nazis regaining the upper hand, which would ultimately lead to more people dying.

Turing himself, as a gay man in a society that criminalized homosexuality, was in limbo.

I guess my brain tends to go to these things when I'm stuck in my own limbo because I want to DO SOMETHING.  I want to say or hear YES or NO.  I want to get the heck out of limbo so I can move forward.  Whenever I'm in a limbo, I want to plan a vacation---to feel a sense of control over what I am going to do in the future.

But there are far worse kinds of limbo to be hanging in, and that, I suppose, is a good reminder.  

Insomnia and the life vest (and teacher sexual assaults and the brain and probably the kitchen sink)

3:00 am--awake with insomnia

I haven't had insomnia all summer, even with the graduate class, but elementary and middle school meet & greets in a 3-hour period AND an editorial miscommunication email with the magazine apparently needed to spiral in my mind in the wee hours.

I woke up to the life vest squeeze.  Eventually, after thinking all of my thoughts, I engaged in deep breathing and got back to sleep.

One of the things I'd never fully understood was the actual process by which anxiety affects a person, that whole "fight-or-flight" thing.  It was part of my grad research project for this summer's class, so in light of my recent episodes of panic/life vest squeezes, I am trying to explain the process to myself as I'm being squeezed.

What happens to me, at least, is that I am feeling a physical "fight-or-flight" without even being aware of what is causing the "fight-or-flight."  Like I'm surprised that I'm having minor panic.  But this makes sense given that panic/anxiety is a process that leaves the rational part of the brain (the prefrontal cortex) out of the equation for a long time.  The sympathetic nervous system is working, the hippocampus (memory) is working, the thalamus (sensory processing) is working......the amygdala (emotion/fear-center) is off-the-rails, but the PFC hasn't been sent a memo.

So my body (the squeeze) is out of my control before I can even get my brain working properly to analyze what the heck is going on, to rationally examine anything to determine whether it is a real "threat."  Of course, modern life is a barrage of unreal threats that feel real.  I have yet to encounter a feral boar or saber-tooth tiger.  They might be less exhausting than meet & greets with 700+ people mulling around.

The benefit of my medication is that it helps quicken the time it takes for my PFC to begin working.  Prior to medication, it would take me weeks before I was able to rationally investigate anything going on in my head.  The physical "fight-or-flight" panic would lessen over a week or two.  Now, I might have a day or a couple hours of physical sensation before my PFC goes, "Ok, what is this all about?  Let's apply some CBT practices."

I am forever amazed by the brain.  In addition to being an astrophysicist, I think if I could be anything in the world I'd want to be a neuroscientist.  Basically, I want to explore the unknowns of space and the mind---the two big black holes of stuff we can't wrap our puny little understandings around.

Within the past month, a former colleague of mine from a decade ago was convicted of raping one of his students, a situation that makes me feel all weird inside for a variety of reasons.  I am shocked because I never, ever would have thought this possible of him.  I find myself thinking, "Maybe he is innocent?" because it just seems so.....horrible that someone I actually know and worked with would do such a thing.

This week, I had an online discussion with college friends about claims that a former college professor sexually assaulted a teenager.  Now this guy I could totally see doing such a thing.

Isn't it interesting and troubling that I could totally imagine one man doing that and another one completely not?  It makes me question my own judgment of others.

These two episodes makes me think about the brain and what it tells us.  I tend to believe that most people who commit crimes of any nature are either 1.desperate or 2.mentally ill.  Mostly #2, which can make a person feel #1.  I say this from personal experience with OCD.

(TRIGGER WARNING)
I think I've written about intrusive thoughts---those repugnant, random ideas that pop into someone's head.  If they are in any way sensitive or conscientious, that person will feel mortified by those thoughts and believe they are going crazy.  I suffered from intrusive thoughts when N was a baby---imagining myself stabbing her with a knife as I was cutting apple slices.  I wasn't angry, frustrated, provoked....nothing.  Just slicing an apple for lunch and having this reprehensible image pass through my mind.  I doubted myself.  Did I want to hurt my daughter?  I didn't feel like I wanted to hurt her, but if I was thinking this, then maybe I did?  Can I trust the thoughts in my own brain?

Even though I was medicated when the boys came along, I would sometimes have an intrusive thought of a sexual nature when I changed their diapers.  By that time, I had read enough about OCD to know that 1. these thoughts were my worst possible fears flitting through my brain and 2. just because I had a thought didn't mean I wanted to do it or would act on it.

We all have sometimes reprehensible thoughts, and most of us do not act on them.  Some of us are lucky enough to not even pay them any attention.

So what makes a person move from the thought to the action?  The conviction of my former colleague and the claims about the college professor make me consider.

This line of thinking makes me wonder about intent.  Is intent thinking about something?  What kinds of crimes would any of us be guilty of if intent was any random thought that popped into our heads?  Is the difference between intent that a reprehensible thought scares us to death or a reprehensible thought makes us feel excited?

Whenever I hear about a female teacher assaulting students, I am usually pretty astounded by this, more so than when I read about male teachers.  Yes, some teenage boys may look like adults physically, but eventually they speak, and it becomes quite clear that they are children.  I often question the maturity of the 46-year-old boy with grey hair who lives in the house with me.

It feels like a slippery slope whenever I think of these things.  I certainly don't condone such behaviors in any way.  I ask myself repeatedly when I think of my former colleague, "How in the world could a person do such a thing to anyone, but especially a child?"

But I also know from my own experience not being able to control my own thoughts that I can't be too high-and-mighty when it comes to others.  Maybe I've only been extremely lucky that my thoughts have remained random thoughts and not anything more.....maybe the majority of us are lucky in this regard.  

My life in terrible iPhone pictures (Aug 3)

Operation "Get Some of this Crap Out of My House" is slow-going.  Mostly because the kids are in the house all the time in summer, and I can't surreptitiously throw their crap out.  N's interests are American Girl dolls and hoarding.  I have determined that the less space she has for plopping stuff down, the better.  This desk is on its way out.  D asked what I was going to put in its place.  I said, "Empty space."

Hey!  More of N's stuff.  

A doll whose legs fell off, but she wants it to go in her storage "memento" box.  

I've got a better box for it....the garbage can "box."  

N's middle school uniform collection.  Bought shoes yesterday.  

Yeah for my daughter going for comfort (Keds=cheaper) over trendy (Sperry=more expensive).  

My clothes.  My closet is quite large, and my actual clothes take up a small portion of it.  

Now, if I could only get the kids on board.  

Bifocals.  I look happy about that, don't I?

Another window to hang from the covered deck.  Work in progress.  

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.  

Sucking the marrow and knowing I'm not even getting at it

For the past few mornings, when M has come downstairs into the kitchen with Woofy-Paws in his arms, I have been overwhelmed by the desire to hug him and listen to him chat in his squeaky 5-year-old voice for hours.  I wrap my arms around him and have to force myself to let go as he squirms and wiggles away to go play with his brother.

In these quick minutes, I am paying attention......to the wispy hairs scratching at his ears and needing to be trimmed, at the skinny legs poking out of his yellow pajama shorts, at his scrawny arms and chest inside the Perry the Platypus pajama top, at the softness of his skin, his flat feet, the space of two missing teeth in his bottom gum.  

I know full well there is nothing babyish about him anymore since he is as tall as some second graders, but I see my baby.   I look at N, my rising middle schooler who is a mere 2.5 inches shorter than me, and see my baby.  I look at gangly G, with his adult teeth in his 7-year-old mouth, and see my baby.

I am beginning to think I may not have as easy a time transitioning to all 3 kids being at school full-time as I thought I would.  Freedom sounds good until I remember that it also means closing the door completely to something I've been doing for over a decade.  

The thought keeps going through my head, "I didn't even enjoy it as much as I could have.  Why did I not enjoy it as much as I could have?  Why was I asleep?"

I start to feel a deep sadness and try to talk myself out of it, reminding myself that the goal is to see them grow up, that my ancestral mothers' greatest desire was to see their children live to adulthood, that the only way to keep them small for eternity is for them to die.  These thoughts are a great antidote to depression since they are so up-lifting.  

Henry David Thoreau comes to mind next.  I recently posted my senior yearbook stuff on this blog, where I had used a HDT quote:  Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born.

Even though Thoreau was talking about living in the woods, I thought enough of his sentiment to know it was pretty important, that he was a pretty wise individual.  

(Of course, I also used a quote from Pump Up the Volume's (1990) Hard Harry which is proof I was a fairly regular teenager.)

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. 

Isn't that all any of us wants to do, to live deeply, to experience life, to feel the fullness of it even in its meanness and sublimity?  

In order to sink myself even further into bittersweet sadness, I think of Thornton Wilder's Our Town, about Emily who shares infinite wisdom with the reader after her death and who cannot bear to be a witness to her own life and its memories after death.  Living beings cannot see life as the dead do; they are so hurried by living and time's passing.

My heart aches as I read Emily's lines....

"Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me...."

"I can't.  I can't go on.  It goes so fast.  We don't have time to look at one another."

"Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you."

"Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?---every, every minute?"

And I know her answer.  I would know her answer even if I'd never read the play.

I didn't miss you, Panic

For my adolescent psychology grad class, I'm doing an examination of the research on anxiety, focusing a lot on the brain structures involved, cognition and memory.  It has been really fascinating.

I immersed myself in GAD and OCD a decade ago when I was diagnosed, but this study is a nice reminder of how sucky these disorders are.

Since yesterday, I have also been experiencing pretty much nonstop panic all day.  That feeling of wearing a very tight life jacket while my heart beats erratically. My mind spinning into all the catastrophes my amygdala can generate, while my rational mind tries desperately to talk.it.down.

N hurt her ankle a bit at Tuesday night's field hockey practice...an auspicious beginning...and my amygdala has been rattling off things like, "She won't be able to play all season. You've spent this money on equipment, and she'll keep getting hurt, and then she'll suffer a head injury and be a vegetable for the rest of her life."  My prefrontal cortex is saying things like, "She is young, and it was her first time wearing cleats.  Some ibuprofen and ice, and she'll be fine."  Amygdala says, "SHUT UP!  NOT TRUE!  CATASTROPHE IMMINENT!"

I have been trying to get reimbursement from the doctor in FL who treated D's back spasm in June.  They need to refund us $142.  My amygdala says, "You'll never get this money back.  They cheated you.  Don't ever go on vacation anywhere because insurance is awful and what if someone is seriously injured and has to be hospitalized.  It will devastate your finances."  Prefrontal says, "This amount of money is not going to break you.  It would be nice to be reimbursed, but it is a drop in the bucket.  Calm down.  Write a complaint letter to Humana."  Amygdala says, "SHUT UP!  NOT TRUE!  CATASTROPHE IMMINENT!"

If panic is not enough fun, I purchased new curtains for the living room and office and am spinning all the guilt that ensues when I make what my brain considers "frivolous" purchases (read:  things that give me a little pleasure).  Just writing this small paragraph made the life jacket tighten around my chest.

It is a perfect storm of monthly hormones, not getting enough exercise, grad class, a magazine article to write, planning for my fall classes, uniform shopping to get done, field hockey stuff, Girl Scout planning to do, and being emotionally exhausted from being with my children all the time.

 All I can do is ride it out.