I can be positive. Yes, yes, I can. Positive. Happy. Go lucky! Cheerful! Yippidee-do-dah-day! There’s a bluebird on my shoulder and all that crap.
So, I mentioned to my mom and sister that I finished a post today and that it was dark.
“Big surprise,” they both commented and rolled their eyes.
Big-f-ing-surprise.
Okay, I don’t have much time. I woke up to an abandoned house. (Hubby and sis are at work and visiting mom has taken Silas to Lake Lure to throw “rocks in the wana”.) So, yeah, I should be working on my Boards. But, I’m using the excuse that I’m still waking up even though I’ve finished my coffee. (Yes, the sleeping angels let me sleep until a quarter til eleven! Blessing or sin???)
I started this post last night until an aching stomach just forced me to lay down and watch the Olympics. Oh, the torture.
Still, the post might have been better written in the post-sunshine hours. Who knows? Still, I must post something.
So, yesterday, while working on my Boards… (Yes, that’s a lot of all I do. Remember those vagrants that used to squat here? Yeah, they’re back. Full force.) So, yesterday, while working with a fellow candidate and friend, this other insane woman looking for a 12% pay hike shared with me the story of how she injured her finger.
Apparently, her basement is a scary place.
(Yes, I mean, Boogie, Goblin, Ghoul scary.)
And, she slammed her finger in the door trying to run away from it.
She told me this as if being afraid of her basement was something silly. As if, perhaps, adults shouldn’t be running from their own imaginations.
Now, my sister often says that I take things a might too far. That I cross the line. That I’m a little too often a little too much information.
Anyhow, I think you’ve seen this quality in me before.
Still, when my friend, and I really don’t know her that well as of yet, shared with me her treacherous tale of Basement Boogie, I felt the need, as my mind always races to find personal connections, to talk about my very real fear of psycho-killers. I went as far as to share the time when, after watching a clip of the trials of the BTK killer, I accused my own husband of serial-killing women when he was supposed to be at work.
Thankfully, she had the grace to laugh and smile and hold it together as if I were some kind-of normal.
Thank you!
Still, in the world of running-from-imaginary-things, accusing your husband of psycho-killing seems to be on the real thick edge of abnormal.
But, that has been, in years past, the full extent of my paranoia.
I was listening to Fresh Air this afternoon. An episode in which Terry Gross was interviewing late-in-life lesbian and comedian Carol Leifer. (If you don’t know who Carol Leifer is, don’t feel bad, I didn’t either. Perhaps I’m out of touch.) And, I hate how I just prefaced Carol’s name by stating that she was a “late-in-life lesbian” but that’s what half the program was about. Need I be ashamed?
Anyhow, this Ms. Leifer and her partner Lori, decided to become late-in-life mamas by adopting a little boy named Bruno.
I could go into the whole ain’t it neat that late-in-life women still have the opportunity to become mamas (as Leifer did) or into the whole this is a two-mama family raising a little boy thing (which Leifer did not).
But, I won’t.
I won’t because something more personal, maybe more profound, spoke to me about this conversation. Leifer became, against all odds, a mama at 50. And she commented that she is a better mama at 52 than she could have been at 22, 32, 42. She explained how her place in life is so much more settled, more quiet, less go-go-go. How now, as a 52 year old she is able to just slow-down, relax, and enjoy her son.
Hmm.
Now I’m kind-of wishing that my uterus would hang tough for another 20 years and allow me this revelation.
While I was nearly crippled with anxiety this morning and acted all kinds of hyper and spazzy with the kids, I would now like to A.) Praise myself for getting through this day intact and in style (I really was pretty humorous with the kids. We seemed to totally jive!) and B.) Praise the Klonopin gods for helping me enter a space of calm peace, confidence, and love. (So, yeah, Mom, I’m popping pills this time. I am not ashamed.) Now for a glass of wine and a long spell staring out the window watching this beautiful snowfall. I should be restored to all manner of normalcy in no time.
I teach middle school. 6th grade in fact. That year in which each child sheds off their baby skin and somehow, often precariously, blossoms into a teenager.
I say “blossoms” cautiously.
Sometimes it’s not so beautiful.
Sometimes it’s really tough.
As a language arts teacher, I have the unique opportunity to pair students with art– in all it’s various forms– that speaks to these ‘tweens’, to their needs, to their hopes, to their vast insecurities.
As part of a science fiction unit, we recently watched the classic Twilight Zone episode “Eye of the Beholder”.
This is the episode in which a woman, wrapped in bandages and trying for the eleventh unsuccessful time to change her appearance so that she might look “normal” ends up being, after much suspense, beautiful (by our standards) but is living in a society in which the norm is ugly (also by our standards). The episode teaches all about suspense and climax and irony and resolution. It is intriguing and almost dangerous and is a wonderful little teaching tool.
It also teaches a critical lesson about beauty and self-esteem: beauty can be manifest in many ways and forms and is, like so many things, contingent upon the societal norms and cultural preferences and, of course, the times.
This is a lesson that I, unfortunately, am still learning.
Some might say that I’m a mess. That I can’t let go. Or, even that I’m just a bit weird. (Or maybe a lot weird. I can’t really speak to what people say about me.)
Still, I’m experiencing one of my life’s little pleasures right now: a stomach-twisting bout of anxiety.
As often is the case, I can’t quite pinpoint what is causing me to feel this way. I’ve felt that way off and on since yesterday’s post: feeling guilty about slamming the babysitter, making a poke at Creationism, afraid that people will comment and say that, duh, your child is autistic, or comment and ask me how I could write about autism is such an insensitive way. (I mean, I did use the word crazy. But, I wasn’t referring to autism as crazy.)
I woke up with anxiety. Decided to catch up on some mama friends’ blogs. The anxiety mounted as I read: maybe I’m not such a great mom, I don’t do things the way they do, I can’t keep up with my own flippin’ blog.
I couldn’t even spend the time to look for one of Paul’s butterfly photos. I had to settle for the a close up he took of a fly. Hey, maybe that’s more fitting.
First let me take back my last post’s comments about my child. He really is an awfully good kid. But, he was having a heck of a 45 minute screaming, throwing, banging, pushing, gasping for air sort-of fit. It was pretty disconcerting.
But, that’s normal, right?
Normal.
Hmmm.
My day care provider just sent me home with a book about autism insisting that Silas get evaluated.
How’s that for normal?
My instinct is to throw the book back in her face and tell her to get out of my child’s head. I just don’t see it. He’s met all his milestones, he’s huggy and lovey and sociable, and gets along with other kids. Sure, he gets repetitive at times. He does run in circles at music class. And there’s no question that he’s a sensitive kid.
But none of those things add up to autism.
Still, there’s that part of me that is second-guessing myself. The part that has seen him “act out” at play dates. The part that makes me wonder if I’m one of those “there’s-absolutly-nothing-wrong-with-my-kid” parents. The type that blame the teacher for the child’s outbursts.
Still, these are the people that sent us for a $400 (after insurance) EEG because they insisted that he was having absence seizures.
His EEG came back normal.
So, the question is, do I have him evaluated just in case? Do I sit for hours on the computer and sifting through library books to see if I see any sign? To try to convince myself that he’s going to be somewhere on the spectrum and that he needs help?
I know the day care wants the help with him. But, is he really that much of a handful or are they hypochondriacs?
I don’t know.
I lean toward the hypochondriac theory.
And my back.
And my butt.
I’ve been working on my f-ing portfolio for three GD days.
Straight.
Why, oh, why am I swearing in, what the fuck are they called, acronyms?
It must be the two year old.
Yeah, the one who said “shit” and “damn it” at day care the other day.
The one who was picked up and carried out frothing and screaming at music class this evening.
The one who a friend just commented was so “damn well behaved”.
Honestly, he is a good kid. Just picked up some bad habits from his father.
Anyhow, back to my butt. I am so, so, so, so tired. I even worked on my paper while I was in the bath tub for Christ’s sake.
All to find out that my margins were all wrong and I have 15 pages for one of my entries when my limit is 11. Sounds like more friggin’ work coming my way.
I love it.
No, really. I. LOVE. IT.
So, if I’m so slap ass tired then why am I here? When I’m never here. Why?
Well, it’s the alternative to chopping my right arm off.
Plus, several new people, some without my prompting, joined this blog’s Facebook page.
How can I continue to disappoint?
Why do I keep insisting on writing only one line at a time.
I am annoying myself so bad right now.
But, my son, you know the real helluva angel, is really annoying me. He’s throwing one hell of a temper. So now I have to go.
I’m sorry.
No, really I am.
Yes, I’m here. Here. Here. Here.
And, that’s only because I’m overdoing it.
I’m polishing off Silas’s plate of healthy, uneaten food (center cut pork chops with a light mustard cream sauce, brown rice, and very lightly sauteed zucchini slices) and drinking my second glass of (not so posh) wine while he sits on the floor mixing corn meal into the sugar bag with a butter knife.
And, I’m not stopping him.
I’m not sure why I’m not. But, I’m not.
So, there.
I’ve started several holiday posts with no success toward completion. But they started out really damn good. If I do say so myself. So, yeah, at least one of them is in the wings. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
I hope you had a delightful holiday!
I kept it together so well my mother asked me if I was popping pills. (Thanks for the vote of confidence.)
I wasn’t. Popping pills.
So, yeah, I feel like all went really well.
Now Silas has poured corn meal on the floor and is mixing chocolate animal crackers into it.
I’m a bad mother. Very, very bad.
But, I’m posting, aren’t I?!?
And, it’s like, abstract art. The mess that Silas is making.
I’m letting him explore his inner Picasso.
Or, whatever.
So, this is where the post ends. I started it over a week ago. Haven’t had the time or gumption to finish it. But, a friend recently said that the key is to post not necessarily to finish the post. So, here is the first of many unfinished posts. Expect little direction and nothing profound. But, expect.
(For the record, I eventually cleaned up the kitchen floor and got Silas to bed. Not exactly in that order.)
I think I’ve acquired wrinkles since I’ve last been on this site.
I don’t really know what has kept me away. Another lapse in creative spark. My sad little slut of Muse gone packing again. My mind a virtual mish-mash of uninteresting and pathetic loops forever destined to repeat, repeat, repeat.
At least I can say, for the most part, I haven’t been depressed. Yippy-friggin-yee!
But, tonight, an ordinary night albeit cloudy night, I am breaking the seal.
