Zero Boxes
If you call me right now – and you should! Call me right now! – then I’d hear, ‘Lea-KKSSHHHHH-tha-KKSSHHHHH-on-KKSSHHHHH-righ-KKSSHHHHH.’ Because for some reason, which no one can ascertain, on incoming calls, there is hella amounts of static which makes it impossible for me to hear all the nice things you are saying about my hair. You, on the other hand, would hear only my melodious voice asking and then yelling, ‘Huh? What was that? WHAT?? I’ll call you right back. Hang on.’ And let me tell you, that does NOT get old. This does not apply to outgoing calls where the static is down by 2/3rds and I can, in fact, hear you compliment my hiney in these jeans with just a few KKSSHHHHHs mixed in.
I was the first one to try and fix my phone. I looked at it. Studied it. Shook it a little from side to side. Turned it off and on. Looked at it really hard AGAIN and remarkably, nothing changed. Then Joe took a stab at it. He actually did things that seemed like they should work and sat on hold and then talked with customer service for 30 minutes while they walked him through all the things they could think of to do. Sadly, noting worked. During that process they had him reset the phone to factory settings which replaced all my rings and alarms and stuff, most of which I didn’t even realize I had customized, so now every time my phone rings I jump or don’t even realize it’s mine. Also? the number that is coded into the phone for auto-dialing my voice mail, yes, that would be my own cell phone number, is wrong. I called someone named Trish in San Diego, twice in 30 seconds, before I realized what was happening. I thought I had just missdialed, uh, hitting the number 1. Twice in a row. GOOD TIMES! (Sorry, Trish.)
When I took the phone into the local Sprint office, they couldn’t help me. They just SELL the phones there, silly. So they gave me directions to the Fix It Store. My guess – Sprint and Nextel combined to create phones that don’t work and office buildings far, far away from me.
I took it out to the Cell Phone Fixin’ store which is neither convenient or inviting and is placed in one of the worst looking abandoned areas I’ve seen since my small stint in Florida a million years ago. I’m not sure why I have to drive 30 miles out of my way to get my phone fixed, the one that I pay extra each month to insure for just this event. I have learned a few things since dropping my old phone in the toilet. But I feel inconvenienced and ornery. And the directions to the building were WRONG. So, that was fun calling and asking why they weren’t where they were supposed to be. The girl on the phone kind of giggled and said, ‘Ya, we need to fix that.’ Well, you don’t say.
In any case, they don’t sell or promote my phone anymore (I WONDER WHY RATHER LOUDLY IN MY HEAD) and they don’t make a newer model but they do have a very large stock pile somewhere sequestered in the US of A with which the are willing to keep replacing my phone for as long as needed. No matter how many times this happens. And they don’t know why it’s making the noises and why it’s worse when someone calls me, but they sure will replace my phone for ever and ever, amen. Only I have to go back out in a few days to get it since they can’t send it to me.
Also, since I know you want to know, there have been zero boxes packed. Yes, that’s right. Zero. And what is worse is that the panic hasn’t set in yet to make me move in a frenetic, buzzing manner and get things started. In my head? The entire house has been packed and moved about 6 times. In real life? Oh, right. The count was at ZERO BOXES.
Does anyone know how to move lovely, full and happy houseplants from one home to another without harming their long trailing vines?
More Links Sans Segues
Joe got glasses! He looks hot. Now we truly can be Ma and Pa Crawford.
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Chuck sports a Bonpron. Find out how to get your own. Join!
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When I was young, I had this kit. Spirograph was my kind of ‘game’ because I could do it alone and it allowed me to be inside my head. I have tons of fun OCD tendencies. Counting and drawing lines are right up there at the top of the list of things that I can’t help doing. I keep drawing shapes and color combinations because I think they would make spectacular patterns for stuff. And because they make me happy.
More Spiro fun here and here.
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Yes, Twitter can be lots of fun. But everything is even more fun with a cat involved. Sockington is my new favorite contact.
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Schmutize wrote a poem called Droopy-boobed Lady, Let’s Go Get Some Bacon-wrapped Goat Cheese Together. If you ever wondered what it’s like to have your brain go wacky while on medication withdrawal, this is it.
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Do you have a fantasy life? Mine is never as good as these.
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Dutch & Wood’s story of going to Greece is wonderful and worth the read.
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Also good: The Importance of Gnats by Carbon Press. It will make you miss your Grandparents something fierce.
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Joe and I watched every available episode of Making Fiends the other day. Those 3 hours were well spent. Great style and story.
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It’s pretty obvious to everyone in this house that my thyroid medication has stopped working. I need to go to the specialist. I didn’t go and have kept putting it off for a variety of reasons, mostly because I feel too busy trying to move. But, in actuality, I’m sitting on the couch crying about how much there is to do and not really doing it. So, I’d say that it might be time to try something new.
The Bigger Question Is
How do we springboard all the righteous indignation, sadness and awareness that has quite rightly resulted from the Virginia Tech incident and zap America into action against longstanding horrific events that have been occurring around our globe for years?
Poser
Tony is at a really fun age right now. You say, ‘Tony, get over there and let me test the light.’ And this is what you get:
I love his sister’s face in some of those. I think she was wondering how far away she could get and how fast.
Four Conversations
“Why did he do it, Mom? My teacher at school said it might be because the kids at school were mean to him so he got them back.”
“Maybe. I don’t think I like that line of thought because it somehow justifies what he did. Like, if you are mean to me, I’m going to kill you and that’s just the way it is.”
“Ya, I didn’t think it sounded right, either. You don’t pull out your Tommy gun just because someone called you stupid. But, if I did call someone a name, do you think they would get mad enough to shoot people at school?”
I want to tell him no. No way. Kids aren’t going to bring a gun to school and shoot you or someone else. That kid you were mean to last year won’t come back this year and plot how to do it. That’s ridiculous! Don’t worry about that at all. Kids are sometimes mean and say things they regret. Tell him you’re sorry and be nice from now on. Just worry about learning where all the states are and remembering the history of the Civil War for your test on Thursday. Spend your in-between class time walking to the next building and giving everyone a high-five. Throw your backpack over your shoulder (don’t squish your fruit snack!) and make the most pressing thing on your mind whether that girl that sits two seats to the right of you in math class thinks you’re cute and spend lunch talking about the band you and your friends are putting together. Middle school is hard enough without worrying about if you might actually die or not. Instead, I say, “I hope not. I’d miss your freckles.” And then I sock him in the arm. He laughs and turns up the radio.
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“Did you hear about those shootings, Mom? Some crazy kid at college went around and shot a bunch of people. Like, a bunch! My friend said they think he was insane or something. It’s so sad.”
“It is so sad. I’ve been sad about it all day. Did they talk about it in school?”
“Only for a sec. We had to finish getting ready for testing next week. But everyone was freaked out about it at lunch. I mean, how do you know that isn’t going to happen at our school? How can you tell if someone is about to go totally insane and start shooting people?”
“Well, I think that is the problem. You can’t. You just have to keep going through your day, doing your best, treating people with respect and hope that if someone was showing signs of being about to hurt people like that, that you would notice and get out of there. But probably, you wouldn’t notice unless they were actually holding a gun up. I wish I could tell you something more reassuring because I don’t think living every day being afraid is going to be the recipe for a happy life.”
After a long pause: “Someone like that wouldn’t be in my group of friends. Everyone that I hang out with is stable, I think. At least, too stable to take a gun to school and shoot people.” After another long pause: “I hope.”
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“Mom, some dude shot a bunch of kids.”
“I know. I heard about it all afternoon on TV.”
“It just – it just – makes no sense, you know? Because if you are mad at someone? And you want to hurt them? Why kill them? You’d want to do something like ruin their reputation and make them live with it, you know? If you kill them, they are just dead. And if you kill yourself, you aren’t even around to see what happens. It makes no sense!”
“So, if you were really mad at someone, you’d just ruin their school life and make everyone hate them so they have a terrible schooling experience?”
“Right. I mean, that is really revenge, you know?”
“Do you have any theories about what might happen to a person who enjoys getting revenge like that? Any thoughts as to what the rest of their life looks like or feels like carrying around the responsibility of knowing they ruined someone’s entire year or most likely, years?”
“Well, no. I mean, I wouldn’t do it. But, there was this guy in 3rd grade that was mad at me because I did something that pissed him off and I don’t even remember what it is but he was so mad that he got all the other kids in our class to hate me and for the entire last half of the year, no one in my class would sit by me at lunch or be my partner for stuff. I hated it. And I wondered what it would be like to get him back.”
“What happened the next year? Was he still mean?”
“Actually, he’s kind of my friend now. We played football together a few years ago and now, I mean, he’s ok.”
“Do you still think about getting him back.”
“No. Sometimes. No.”
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“Do you think stuff like that happens for a reason? If you believe in God, then don’t you have to believe that it happened for some reason?”
“I believe in a Higher Power. I do not believe that said Higher Power would condone what happened or want it to happen so that some good could come out of it.”
“But, some good could come out of it.”
“I’m fairly positive that some good will come out of it. Usually, some good comes out of tragedy. Most of the time it is quiet bits of good. Internal good. It hopefully changes one to be a softer, better person that watches out for others with compassion. But saying that those quiet bits of good were so necessary as to require a tragedy like this one is misguided, I think.”
“Maybe we can only learn to be compassionate after we experience a tragedy.”
“Let’s just go with your theory for a minute. What do you think happened to this kid at the college that shot everyone? What do you think happened in his life to make it seem like a good idea to do what he did? Did the preceding year of his life contain good and nurturing things, great experiences? And then suddenly, one day he woke up and thought that shooting up the school sounded good? Or was it a terrible year for him? A year full of tragedy and hurt of some sort? And if so, why didn’t it turn him into a more compassionate person? Why didn’t it turn him into someone that could never hurt someone else?”
“Good questions. I can see what you are saying. I guess I just want to make it make sense because if it doesn’t, then I don’t know how to think about it. But what you are saying means that there isn’t really a formula like I want.”
“Life experience definitely helps mold us into who we are. But every person has within them the ability to be nurturing and ‘good’ or harmful and ‘bad.’ Sometimes people learn to be bitter and angry, instead of loving and compassionate. I wish there was some way to come up with a formula that would work across the board. I think religion does that for some people.”
“Which is what I was saying. Then you can say there was a reason for it and feel safe again, like, right then, instead of having fear on your back for a long time. I think I need to come up with some kind of belief system so I can have that. What’s yours?”
“My belief is that everyone should try to live their life in a way that is centered in Love and that makes them feel Happy and that causes the least amount of pain and hurt to others and themselves because everyone is just as important as everyone else.”
“Ya. That sounds like you. Mine might be something like that but I’d throw in ‘except when I’m hungry, and then I’m more important that everyone else. Bring me some bread!”
Favorite Places (Not)
The dentist is rarely a person’s favorite place to go so it’s not a shock that it lands squarely in my bottom 5, in between being in the bathroom when someone else is pooping and spending an eternity at the DMV. My really fun trick-tooth, which I take off for party games and to scare small children, is finally gone and in its place is a beautiful and nearly indestructible crown, slightly off-white to match the others in my mouth and is one of the most expensive cubic bits of calcium composite ever known to man. I could have bought a small, used economical car or fed a family of 6 in a 3rd world country for a year but instead, I can chew.
This trip to the dentist was the strangest since I was in 2nd grade and experienced grape-flavored laughing gas for the first time. That visit, wearing my green corduroyed pants and plaid shirt with pointed, pocket flaps tipped in metal, I was totally unprepared for the disorientation of having pain but not caring in the least and thinking that the old dentist’s breath was extraordinarily pungent but thinking the whole thing was funnier than Scooby Doo. When I got home I sniffed everything in the house wondering what hidden products might have a similar effect. Turns out – nothing works like laughing gas except for laughing gas but taking a hard sniff of Ajax powdered cleanser will give your sinuses a burn that will last until well after your next birthday and most likely make you dumber.
I’m aware of my teeth sensitivity. It’s been well documented. Everything hurts my teeth including, oh, air and room temperature water. So, little nubs of teeth that have been worn down to accept crowns and have exposed nerves are prone to make me wriggle in my chair unless I’ve been properly medicated or bashed over the head with a mallet. The dentist emptied a full vial of numbing agent into my jaw under my tooth nub. He poked the needle here and there, pushing fluid in and making involuntary tears come to my eyes until it was completely empty. Then, he left. 15 minutes later, he came back and asked me how I was doing. I told him it hadn’t taken effect yet. He nodded and left for another 15 minutes. This time when he came back and I told him nothing was numb, he looked at me as if I was a teen caught stealing a beer and then lying about it. He poked my cheek with his finger and said, ‘Here? Here?’ and I told him the truth – nothing was numb. So he got a second vial, popped it into the needle press and said, ‘Well, maybe you just need a little more to help it kick in.’ He did that two more times until an hour and a half had passed and that vial was empty and my tongue was numb, my neck felt numb but my teeth and lip and cheek? Nope. Nice and awake. And then he got impatient and decided to just go ahead and place the crown anyway. He took that crown off and on about 25 times to make sure it fit correctly. I tried to keep my mouth open but sometimes, dude, that sucker HURT and I would kind of close my mouth or jerk away. I knew he was getting irritated but there was nothing I could do. When he was finally done, my jaw ached a deep, dark ache that only comes after childbirth. Ok, maybe not that bad but pretty, super bad! In fact, it still aches. And I’m ornery. And my tongue is still numb.
Unless you have laughing gas, you’d best keep your distance until tomorrow.
What a Day
The past week has been really busy with kids and kids and kids. It’s been wonderful. They are back to school today and this is the first time in two years that they have all been with us for a few school days since they are usually sleeping at their dad’s Sunday night through Thursday night. It creates a little bit of tension because they have to move up their schedules by at least 15 to 20 minutes to still make school on time. If you are a girl with long hair and a slight case of maternally-passed-on OCD and over planning, you’re getting up a lot earlier just to make sure you didn’t forget anything. So early, in fact, that it’s almost still yesterday. If you are a boy that takes after your mom and hates the early morning sun like a vampire, you try to sleep those extra precious minutes and then shriek in dismay to learn you really, actually, for reals have to get up earlier to still have time to use 3/4 a bottle of Axe. Mark my words – you will have to go through the entire day Axe-less. You poor fellow.
We did manage to squeeze in a quick trip to San Diego to see friends during Spring Break. Very low key and fun. I can’t tell you a lot about that night, since it’s top secret and everything, but I can link to this photo that tells a pretty great story all by itself.
Great
It’s Spring Break!
The kids are with us.
We are busy having fun. (and not thinking about moving and packing and work and stuff. no stuff.)(really, i’m trying not to.)(it doesn’t always work.)
See you next Monday!
UnReal
So, Heather was all, ‘Leah! You’re making aprons? Aprons that turn into BONNETS!?’ And I knew what she wanted. I could smell it all the way from Utah, land of the Pioneers. She wanted one of my new apron-bonnets. Bonnet-aprons. One of my Bonprons(R)(TM)(C). As you can imagine, I’m a little reluctant to let them go. These past few days, feeling the fabric, looking at the buttons and brightly-colored rickrack…well, I knew at some point I was going to have to give them away but I kept pushing those thoughts from my mind and continued throwing kisses to the stack of thread. The lovely, lovely thread.
Knowing what a craft-lover Heather is, I really am happy to trade with her. She’s trading me for one of the corn husk dolls she makes. It’s a pattern that’s been passed down to her from her great-great-great granny. She uses the natural corn silk for the doll hair and dried up corn centipedes (the tiny white ones that eat the corn) for the eyes after carefully placing them in a circular shape and setting them on the warm, packed dirt to dry out back by the well. The tiny, shriveled centipede legs make really beautiful eyelashes on the dolls.
And her begging. Brothers and sisters, it was tough to listen to. The please, please, please and the you know how much my pioneer heritage means to me! and the aprons!? you know I LOVE aprons! I need one of yours for my collection! But it was her pleading that her daughter needed one, in fact, they both needed matching Bonprons(R)(TM)(C), for when they played pioneers in the new fort – that was what finally did me in. I can’t wait to see the photos, both of them with their flat-braided hair tucked inside their bonnets, Jon in his clogs and Chuck playfully teasing the birds with his gun before putting on his smoking jacket and watching BBM.
These special limited first edition Bonprons(R)(TM)(C) are not for sale. No sir EE. They are for trade only, so if you want one, you’re going to have to make something to trade for them or get some supplies like fabric, yarn, RICKRACK, buttons or the like to trade at the craft site. I know you want one. We BOTH know you need one. So, go ahead. Do it.
Domestic Skills
I’m working on aprons that turn into bonnets.
I know. It’s awesome. They are convertible.
Rickrack is one of the best things ever invented.
So, no. I haven’t sewn on the buttons yet. But I will. And when I do, boy howdy.
Week Recap (With Links!)
-My post on real estate the other day stirred up quite a little flurry of emails. A couple of them were soft and fuzzy like Easter bunny rabbits. And some of them were jagged and nasty with the intent to maim and cut me. Ha ha! I am a robot and cannot be cut. I still think the bottom line is – be smart and do your own research.
-The day when we have to be out of this house is creeping closer and will leap at me in a few weeks. Scary.
-I started reading Breed’em and Weep a few weeks ago. I do actually cry sometimes and I have bred some, so I guess I’m allowed. Her latest post, an open letter to teenage boys, has lots of good stuff in it. This post resulted in me sending her a fan letter, an action that always results in almost immediate remorse because I am a dork.
-If I could afford it and wasn’t moving and didn’t have to figure out how to pay for a new crown for my stupid tooth, I would buy SuperHero Jewelry.
-We had our first craft trade day at Leahpeah’s Craft. All I can say is that next month will be an improvement which is a nice way of saying I think no one traded anything. I’m reminded of a dance in junior high and no one wants to dance first. But next month, I’m uploading something(s) really awesome and everyone in their right mind will be compelled to participate because they will want one THAT MUCH. !!
-I interviewed for a job yesterday and found out that one of the people in on the call knew my uncle and his family from Arizona. Small world. This particular uncle is a judge and it brought to mind a very hyped up reunion we had one year when there were bodyguards following him everywhere. Us kids/teens all thought it was really awesome or rad or something. Good times.
-You’ll all be happy to know that my first marriage has been officially annulled according to the Catholic Church. I received the letter in the mail yesterday and it states it was no one’s fault and that we are all just great etc. I’m not Catholic but I do appreciate that these men are Holy Men and are acting in a way they feel inspired to. I don’t understand how a marriage of almost 14 years which produced 4 children can be annulled. (Um, we obviously consummated.) But in any case, my ex can now marry his wife in a Catholic church and have it be a valid marriage which makes them very happy and me happy by association. I suppose it also means that should we ever wish to, Joe and I could get married by a priest and have it be a valid Catholic marriage also. Religion is still a weird area for me. I think because I was raised in such a structured religious environment I am a little loathe to get involved or join any other organized religion. I mean, if I wanted to do that, why not just go back to the Mormon church? I already know all the good and bad stuff in that religion and have the 13 Articles of Faith memorized. Also, there is no sudden and repetitive kneeling in the middle of the service. Just lots of little kids and dry cereal and crayons.
-Joe upgraded his phone. This new, improved phone comes with voice texting. It’s my new favorite game.
For example, he says into the phone:
Leah comma I’m coming up on Topanga Canyon period I Love you exclamation point Love comma Joe period
And what I get is:
Betty, thank you hiding sheet tactile canyon. Lambda unit! Lilac, Chet.
To which I reply:
Oh, Chet! My tactile canyon is hiding under the sheets waiting for your lambda unit. I love you, too! Betty.
And he has no idea what I’m talking about.
With the Bonnet
You know your husband loves you when he is willing to let you take this picture and then post it to your blog. Susan, this is for you in case you could use a smile.
New Family Game
And when I say ‘Family’ I mostly mean Joe. Man, that guy won’t get off the game and let the kids have a turn. He’s all ‘It’s my microphone! It’s my song! I’m your mother! If you love me you’ll let me play!’ Oh, wait.
Joe picked up the American Idol version of Karaoke Revolution complete with Simon, Dog-you-know-what-Dog and some odd lady that is NOT Paula, which is shameful.
Because the whole reason you watch Idol is to watch the most-likely-intoxicated Paula slur out slightly irritating and unintelligible compliments to the contestants. And she’s not even in the game! It’s this other helmet-haired woman with absolutely no personality at all. Like, imagine the opposite of Paula: she’s completely sober, not entertaining and never says anything except ‘I think the middle was pitchy. What do YOU think, Cowell?” In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Simon Cowell had created her simply to make himself look better in the game.
We had a BBQ the other night and it was interesting how different the singing game was from the guitar game. (You know I shred, right?) When the guitar game is in, just about anyone will try it, even if they have never seen it before. But you put in the singing game, half the room will leave or refuse to try it. I guess I don’t get it since I’m willing to belt out as loud as possible in front of just about anyone. In fact, come over. I want to sing in front of you right now. Hurry. I just unlocked Achy Breaky Heart. Just kidding. That song isn’t on this edition. It’s probably on the country edition, though. But wouldn’t it be great if I could sing that for you right now?? THINK about it! I also do awesome dance moves while on stage.
My character looks kind of like KristyK. How cute, eh? Here I am singing “Love Will Keep Us Together”. My *ahem* attributes are very generous in the game.
Here’s Joe. You haven’t truly heard “What A Girl Wants” until you’ve heard him sing it.
We need to get a 2nd mic so we can play duets. My one complaint: the font stinks. Pick a font that is easy to read, dudes! Don’t make me work so hard to input my name.
Ask Leahpeah
From my email:
Hi Leah. I have a daughter that is 9 and a son that is 7. They are beautiful and smart. In fact, that is why I’m writing you. They are so smart that I think they are catching on. I can’t always make sure I am the safe adult parent when they are around. Not that any of my personalities are mean or harmful. If that was true, I would have given them up a long time ago. It’s just that some of my personalities are not as helpful for kids or able to take care of them as well, if you know what I mean. And I’m pretty sure my daughter has figured out that I’m not normal. And I’m sure that my son won’t be far behind. How did you handle this? I know you are integrated now but what about before? Should I tell them the truth? I worry it will just scare them or confuse them but I don’t want to lie to them, either. My mom used to help out but she died last year and I don’t have anyone else to help take care of them. My husband left me right after our son was born. Thanks.
Hey there. I’m sorry you are in the situation of taking care of your kids all by yourself. Do you belong to a church group or have any good friends that understand your situation? Or siblings? Their father’s family? Or can you get connected to some group through your therapist (if you’re seeing one, and I hope you are) that offers low-cost care for kids? I ask because if you don’t have any help, then you are potentially not taking the best care of your kids.
When you say that you don’t have any harmful personalities where the kids are concerned, I think I do know what you mean. None of mine were angry or hurtful towards children, either. But on the other hand, there were a few years when my kids had to basically take care of themselves for hours or days at a time when some of my other personalities were in charge, which is really neglect and shouldn’t be happening. I’m positive that you are doing everything you can possibly do to take good care of them. I’m positive that you are doing the best you can. But please consider finding outside help that is supportive of your situation. Because even though it’s hard to trust others with inside knowledge of your situation, your kids are worth it. And you need it, too.
Kids are way smarter than most adults give them credit for. If you suspect that your daughter knows you aren’t ‘normal’ then I would guess that you are right. It’s a hard situation to figure out how much information is the right amount but yes, probably she needs some. And she can let you know how much she needs if you let her take the lead. One way to do that is to use a modified version of play therapy. I used play therapy with my two older kids when they were old enough to wonder what was going on. We acted out our life using dolls and stuffed animals. My husband traveled extensively (we were in the military) and the kids let me know in play how they were feeling and I helped them know that I heard them in the same way. It might be odd at first if you aren’t used to using play time as therapy but if you keep at it, it can be really healing. This page has some info on how it can help. And this page and has some helpful info with some tips. Here are some books you could look for at your library.
I’m glad you asked this question because it means you are thinking about how you are affecting your children. And even ‘normal’ (have I mentioned I hate that word? 
) parents affect their kids in ways they wish they didn’t. Parents can’t help it. We set examples in every department by what we do and don’t do. Your kids are watching you and evaluating and setting their gauges about what is right and not right and what they will accept and won’t accept by how you treat them and how you let others treat you. So it would make perfect sense that they would want to understand why you seem to be so different at different times and why sometimes you are seriously invested in their well being and why other times you seem to hardly care at all and they have to fix their own dinner. It might feel monumental to them that when they fall and skin their knee, sometimes you kiss and cuddle and give the love only mothers can but other times send them to get their own bandage.
I should interject a side note here, that not knowing anything about how your internal structure is set up, I don’t know if all your personalities cooperate or not. If not, I would say it’s time to take that into serious consideration. The more you all work together, the better for the kids. If you do work together, it’s possible to make agreements with everyone on the inside to put the kids first. That might mean that if someone else is out and one of the kids gets hurt, they invite you, the mom personality, back out immediately until things are under control again. Alternately, you could get agreements that whenever the kids are with you, that you are out, period. I also understand that could create resentments between your selves, but hopefully, you can figure out the best way to do things with your therapist. If you don’t currently see one, I would suggest finding one and soon.
The way I spoke about my situation during play therapy with my kids when they were those ages was something like this: “I know that sometimes Mommy seems different. Sometimes she seems to pay attention to you better and sometimes she doesn’t. That’s not fair! You are important and special and deserve to have Mommy always care about you more than TV or sleeping or anything! I think there is something going on in Mommy’s brain that makes it so she can’t be like so-and-so’s mommy. So I’m going to tell you the magic words that you can say that will always make Mommy stop acting so different right away. Ok? Here they are! These are the magic words: Mommy! I need you to look at me right now and love me right now! and when you say that her brain will work better and she’ll stop painting or reading or sleeping, OK? Now, try out the magic words!”
Variations on that theme worked well. Understand that I did have an agreement, though, so it was a serious promise I was making with my kids. It helped them feel empowered but it only worked because my personalities were all bound to comply and did. Because it created an environment where they could tell me how they felt, using the dolls and stuffed animals, I got to hear all about hurts and pains they had been saving up for their Mommy when she had been ‘gone away’ or ‘busy with her paints’ or whatever it was they told themselves, and there were many hurts and pains to talk about and relive and go over. But I do think it made a tremendous impact on the quality of my relationships with them which I benefit from today. It opened a dialog with them that continues and I’m sometimes amazed at the things they are comfortable talking about with me, because I never would have talked to anyone in my family, let alone my parents, like they do with me. I’m very lucky.
Remember that while in play therapy mode, it’s important for them to not ever be ashamed of what they say or do. And believe me, there are moments when you’ll want to sink into the floor or become defensive or run from the room. But in order for them to truly heal and connect and understand, you HAVE to be open and honest and make room for them to tell you just how angry or scared and let down they feel. And it is your job to validate every, single, solitary thing they say they feel. Feelings can’t ever be wrong. It’s the action, after the feeling, in a harmful or un-nurturing vein that needs to be stopped and redirected. But the feelings – they are always just feelings and should be validated. It is in this way that you teach them to trust in their instincts and to listen to their gut and to learn to take good care of themselves while creating healthy boundaries. The worst thing you can do is invalidate their feelings by saying, ‘No, mommy didn’t do that or say that. You’re wrong.’ because that is teaching them to NOT trust in their feelings. Even if you disagree with what they are saying because you know it didn’t happen that way, save that talk for another time. In that moment, tell them, ‘I’m sorry you felt so scared and mad. That sounds really hard!’ Later, when you are out of play therapy mode, ask them if they want to talk about it. If they say yes, try to explain what you remember happening. If they still insist it happened different, it may be that you both experienced it a different way. Our recollections, or memories, are easily swayed by all kinds of factors and you could both be right, as odd as at that sounds.
A great example of memory being tricky is that one of my sons distinctly remembers that when he met my husband, Joe had very long hair. Ty was 9 at the time. The fact is that Joe had cut his hair to a very short length before I or my children met him but his driver’s license photo shows him with very long hair. When Ty saw that photo way back when, it somehow ingrained in his memory that Joe had long hair and he still thinks to this day that Joe’s hair was long when they met. Another example is pretty much any family gathering I ever went to. I have 7 siblings and you sometimes get 8 different accounts when talking over things that happened a few years ago. Throw in my parents and a few nieces and nephews and you’d be hard pressed to find 3 or 4 accounts that match in their entirety. So, who’s wrong? The important things are the feelings behind the memories. Sometimes, the time is better spent talking about those than the facts of the accounts.
It’s a big job, taking care of kids, even when you have a partner to lean on in the hard times. By yourself it becomes much harder and when you add in the mental issues it grows exponentially more difficult. I would say it is next to impossible for you in your current situation to give yourself or them the care you all need all of the time. Please look at this as part of your job as their mother. Whatever you need to do, whomever you need to talk to, whatever agencies you need to go through, do it to find the help you need. And how awesome that you care enough to think about this problem and figure it out! Kudos to you. Your children are lucky.
xo
16 Year Old Girls
When Alex was about 4, she would beg to wear her pink nightie-dress every single night. It didn’t matter if it was dirty or torn or missing – if she wasn’t wearing it, she would dissolve into a mess of tears. You see, with it on, she became a princess and there was nothing she loved more than being a princess.
On a Saturday night, we’d put her hair up in curlers for church the next day, me on the couch, her on my lap watching The Little Mermaid or some other type of Disney marketing, and she’d sing along and I’d keep rolling up swatches of hair and smiling. Because, there isn’t anything much better than hearing your daughter sing Part of Your World with her little German-accent lisp and wavering, slightly off-key voice. And when I was done she’d twirl. Twirl and twirl and twirl, until she was exhausted and dropped into a heap on the floor, legs tucked under and bum in the air.
Her incredible energy burst right before bed was a little alarming sometimes. She’d suddenly start talking and tell me all about the horse she would have when she was big and the dress she’d be wearing and the places they’d go visit and where the magic happened, her words quickly tumbling over each other in their effort to get out as fast as possible before she would be forced to stop, and maybe forget, and fall asleep.
I’d pick her up and hold her, her breathing deep and even, her bottom lip jutting out just a tiny bit, her skin so smooth and warm, my heart would nearly burst and I’d think of how when she was born I loved her so much and didn’t think I could love her any more than I had at that moment. But I did. I did. I loved her more and more all the time and it seemed impossible but it was true. I’d use my finger to push her hair off her forehead and kiss her just one more time and one more time again before putting her in her bed and ‘cover-her-unders’ as she’d say if she were awake.
Last night, as I drove her back to her dad’s to do homework and get ready for bed, she turned on the radio and started singing, badly on purpose, to whatever song happened to be on. She was in a super silly mood, her teen hormones racing though her blood creating a near manic version of herself. Her voice cracking and flat, her silly smile and sparkling eyes barely keeping back the giggles that were just about to break free of the dam and come tumbling out, uncontrollably, all over the car. And she kept looking in my direction while I drove, just under the speed limit to prolong the amount of time we had together, waiting for me to look at her at every available interval, because this performance, it was for me. She’d sing too fast, getting faster and faster until she was an entire verse ahead of what was actually playing, sounding like an off-tune robot and it was funny. I laughed and laughed but inside, my heart grew even larger because just an hour before when we were outside on the lawn and I was taking her photo, I loved her so very, very much and it didn’t seem possible to love her any more than I did at that moment, but I did. Just right then, I did love her even more again.
Tony Makes A Stool (and don't think we didn't say that about a million times…)
Here he is, the cute boy with his raw wood stool and the burning tool. We played with the idea of carving for a bit but sadly, the cheap tools I picked up were way too dull for the job and so, thinking of all the fingers we could lose trying to make a beautiful scroll around the edges, we decided to just use the burning tool and avoid permanent disfigurement. Call me crazy.
He sketched his original rose design on the top with a border and wrote an original saying around the edge.
Here Tony is doing the leaves. I think they turned out quite nice. Also, I love the smell of burning wood. Well, wood in general. It reminds me of my grandfather. Cedar is my favorite but pine is a close second.
And, now you’ll have to pretend I remembered to take photos of him inking the rose red and staining the stool a deep walnut color. Because here is the finished product:
Next we’re going to make cameras out of Altoid containers or make a book.
You Are No Fool (April or Otherwise)
Yes, this is Leahpeah’s blog. No, she is not in. Instead, a treat for those people that like great writing and absolutely inspiring photographs by Brandon. Each fabulous image is linked to the original size.
It’s not until after my trip is over I remember I’ve been past all these places before, when I was very young, and the names of these towns and bodies of water were too difficult to pronounce at the time, and you were too embarrassed to say them out loud, anyway, phonetically clicking through each letter in your head, which would at least have helped you arrange them in your mind’s storage, the boxes stickered with embossed red labels. Wash-tuc-na. Al-mi-ra. Te-ko-a.
I am driving these roads trying to see if the story unfolding resembles any place like where I imagine the characters inside my head reside, cutting their way through hopeful fields beneath threatening skies, the wheat reaching to their outstretched fingertips. You picture a small town production where the director tacks feathers to the arms of the actors and says, “Imagine you are a fish, and in a fit of drunken humor, God has just granted you wings. Now fly.” The first person in my story always stays very low to the cardboard waves, and flies in timid, confined circles, all around the round. And what is that? Are his eyes welling with tears? Does a tiny, repressed part of his childhood recall what it was like to look straight up into the air and believe, truly believe he could defy gravity’s will and soar? The brief, exhilarating moment as the tips of the toes begin to bear the weight come off the backs of the heels? Even in descent, the first character holds onto the fantasy, imagining a falcon in stoop.
The second is found a week later, 1,000 miles away, unconscious and in a ditch, surrounded by emergency personnel wondering aloud whence the goddamned feathers.
If this is 1989, then gas in Fruitland is 89 cents, and I am flying through this, my dwindling supply of antidepressant, still per gallon cheaper than water, still no elixir like 60 miles per hour with the windows down, and this is 10 years before I turn into a drunk, so there’s no cost to the state, neither. This is where I start talking to myself, out in the open, and the passing drivers smile, because they assume I’m singing, and that we have this in common. Connectedness is king out here and God bless them, but we don’t. A capella, honeyed agony, practicing the words for the heartbreaking what’s gonna come.
The prescription’s a bit more expensive these days, and every time I splurge, I know it’s just another drop of blood in the bucket, but I can’t allow myself to go crazy waiting for the order to get filled on my flying car. And I’m out here on the Palouse, praying for overcast heavens to apply a coffee filter diffusion to the harsh contrast of these high plains, bathed in tones of red and yellow and 1964.
Today, I am the second character in my story.
In the morning I am on Highway 2 to Spokane, and I have forgotten that there is an air force base out this way, so it strikes me as odd that the few abandoned barns out here have the considerable protection of a fleet of ghostly air tankers and bombers, swooping in and out of the clouds. I imagine instead some eccentric millionaire, isolating himself out here on the Palouse and reenacting WWII battles his old man told him about.
It’s the isolation and perception of moving impossibly slow along this highway that gives it the dreamlike quality. I dreamt recently that a boy had hired hitmen to kill me off, only he couldn’t afford real professionals, only local riff-raff still working on single 0 status, and it’s a long, drawn out affair, with plenty of missed shots and temporary hiding places betrayed by pointing monkeys and unstoppable sneezes and all the usual suspects, and I decide right then and there that the nightmare death is so much worse than anything reality can offer because in your mind, the both of them are equally real, but at least in reality you can run at a normal pace.
Dying frustrated is far worse than dying alone.
The day hit me like a freight train, what with a speech that failed to move anyone in the audience save me to tears, and not the good tears, but the tears of the prom queen runner-up busting out of the auditorium through the panic-bar doors before she can watch her prom king beau skip-to-the-loo. ‘At least,’ I think, ‘it’s spring-time,’ and flowers are made for good cheer, but this is the Palouse in March, and there are still patches of snow unmoved by the sun’s persuasions, and not even the peaches or plums have begun to show their lipstick.
All along the most primitive routes are funny signs like, ‘SUMMER ROAD ONLY NO WARNING SIGNALS’ and train tracks with, sure enough, no warning signals. I have a couple of pictures of trains that I was racing, and when I finally passed them, I’d come up to train tracks in the middle of the road and not even have the sense to slow down, because, well, there weren’t any warning signals. I think the engineer gave me the finger.
I pump my fist to get him to ‘toot the horn,’ but I think that only works on 18-wheelers.
Of the 500 miles I cover, I make but one promise, and that is to avoid Waverly, because the very name reminds me of a word I once invented to describe my ability to talk out of both sides of my mouth at the same time, ‘ambideclatory,’ like when I told her I knew what singer she was talking about, and when the stars lit up in her eyes, ‘Really?,’ not only did I lie again, but I lied in the worst way: matter-of-factly. If you had only just wavered, maybe ended with a flourish and a smile, she could have called you on it and you would have had an easy out, the just-kidding egress, ‘No, really, who is he?’
But no matter how much I tried, and how many turns I took, Waverly just kept getting closer and closer, and it was maddening. I imagine this is what it feels like to be a farmer’s kid, the only son, and you know, you just know you’re going to inherit that farm, get some local girl pregnant and no matter how fast you drive, you always wake up in Waverly. It’s that kind of beautiful out here. Once I finally rolled up to the town, I parked and turned around to go back, but in the end I realized that I would only wind up back here, so I turned around again and drove straight through it. The town was full of magpies and flags and once I got through, it released its hold on me and let me go about my way. It was just a sad, lonely old picture of a town.
Still it’s like when someone takes a lovely and yet somehow unflattering shot of your profile, leading you to think, ‘Good color, good light, good composition, good depth of field. Why does my nose look so goddamned big? Ugh.’
I’m racing now across the Palouse River, trying to run down the last bit of light before I have to resort to the Ludovico Technique on my camera’s diaphragm. There’s an old house makes you imagine that one day, long ago, someone put the final nail into that sonofabitch, stood back and proclaimed, HOME SWEET HOME. But that right there reminds me of something I once said in a hotel room, where you made a rule on our vacation that we couldn’t wear clothes. On Thursday, I stood next to you brushing my teeth and said, ‘I wish I were taller,’ and you bit me below my right shoulder and threw a towel over my head. On Friday, I lay on the bed and said, ‘I wish I had better skin,’ and you plucked a hair from my chest, and pushed me onto the floor. On Saturday, I sat in the chair next to the balcony and said, ‘I wish we did this more.’ You finished latching up the suitcase and I watched you fret over a zero-balance receipt.
I hate it when they ask you, ‘Have any regrets?’ and your impulse is to say NONE, NOT NARY A ONE, as though there are only 2 or 3 regrets possible, and not ten thousand. So having a few dozen, in the grand scheme of things, means you’re still pulling As on the report card, but people want their love to seem A+. So, ‘A few,’ I say, but I’m still thinking good enough for a scholarship. I’m definitely on track for grad school at a public university, anyway, and I even took a few of the AP courses out of my league. Then I get to Othello, which has a wildlife refuge specializing in sandhill cranes, and sure enough, my trip coincided with when they practice their flying formations, and they were all over and everywhere, all at once. This is where the Palouse ends, and the waterfowl picks up on this side of the Cascades. It’s just a beak and webbed toes what separates me from the loons, I think. A hundred photos, a thousand words worth per each, all perfectly aligned with the story I want to tell, all how I pictured it in my mind, all reminding me that I have, in fact, been this way before.
Now I just have to fill in the words.
Full photo set here. All of Brandon’s one night stands.
