Parenting

Starry Nights and Street Fairs

English: Pleiades Star Cluster (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Trite as it sounds, sometimes as a parent you have to make hard decisions. Husband and I had to make one of those last week. Flower Child’s school has an annual overnight camping trip. After much discussion, asking questions about the plans for trip, student teacher ratio, and watching how she’s been doing and feeling, we felt we had to say no. It was the right decision, but it sucked to come to it anyway. I got a phone call from one of her teachers after the decision was made, one I don’t speak with regularly. He asked if there was any information he could offer to help us to feel better about the trip, etc. I absolutely believe he was coming from a good place, but it sure made that voice in my head–the one that whispers about how unfair things can be–a whole lot louder.

Yesterday I planned to go to the craft store with Flower Child so she could pick out a small pad of sketch paper. Hopefully we’re going to get to the park today so she can find a tree she likes and sketch it. The pad she had at home is too large and heavy for her to carry or manipulate in the middle of the park. She has always loved art. She loves to draw, and has been doing a lot of it recently. Since getting the iPad for schoolwork, it seems like she has enough energy and strength left at the end of the day to put more into it and enjoy it. Watching her have fun and progress with this is a particular pleasure I can’t put into words.

When we left the apartment, we saw there was a nearby street fair, first of the season for us. No reason we were in a hurry, so we walked the fair for a bit. Most of the fairs run for about 10 blocks.

This is from a couple of years ago, they’re $5 a pop now.

Really, there’s only three blocks worth of booths. Two blocks of wares that keep repeating, and every so often something different thrown in. Still, on a nice day, and before you’ve had 5 straight weekends of traffic being messed up from them, it’s a nice thing to do. We went past a booth of inexpensive art prints, Flower Child spent some time looking at the Van Goghs (she loves his work). As I looked at the Starry Night print, I thought of how much Flower Child would enjoy being somewhere she could see the stars at night. Cuppa guilt, anyone? I splurged on a couple of arepas (delicious for about 45 seconds, after you’ve burned your mouth on the first few bits but before you’re eating cold sweet corn grease) and went on to the craft store after strolling for four blocks.

The craft store was having a sale on sketch books. Score! Got two small sketch pads and a pad of tan paper so she can figure out how to use her white pastels. Then we were just looking at the different art materials. They had Bob Ross kits. At this point, she isn’t into painting, but I was telling her about him when a man walked by and we ended up chatting about art. He turned out to be an art teacher, made a couple of recommendations for paper for Flower Child, I added a large pad of newsprint paper to our pile. Who needs groceries? I took his contact info. Nice guy, maybe we can figure out a way to get her lessons.

We were out for a little under two hours, and I was feeling great. A beautiful sunny day, relaxing, no pressure-no rush strolling, got Flower Child what she wanted plus some, a nice New York moment in the craft store. When we got to our corner, I told her we had to take the dogs out for a quick walk. “Right now? Can we rest for five minutes first?” Pop goes my bubble. She was out of energy, literally exhausted from the couple of hours out and walking around. Oh yeah, this was why the plan was to buy the sketch pad one day, and go to the park the next. And this was why saying no to the trip was the right call, much as we wish it was different.

4 “vine” charcoal sticks and 4 compressed charcoal sticks. Drawing materials. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Walls are Closing In

Near the wall (Photo credit: Niamor83)

I thought I would feel better after my rant about fear and changes in my last post. Wrong! I posted, and then checked out this week’s posts from blogging friends, and ended up in an interesting conversation with Caitlin Kelly from Broadside Blog, prompted by this post.

Sometimes I question my perception. Everyone is struggling in this country right now. Everyone I talk to, anyway. Jobs that offer a true living wage are scarce, gas is high, health care costs are obscene, and on down the line of what’s needed to survive. I know the cost of living here in Manhattan is crazy, but I’m certain I’m romanticizing life in the country, too. Everywhere presents a unique set of challenges. And then something reminds me I’m not completely insane, after all.

Check out this article from the NY Times.

Now, we don’t pay an insane rent. We’re lucky. If we didn’t have a rent controlled place, we’d be homeless in Manhattan. Literally. Sounds good, right? Except that means we can’t move within NYC, stuck in a too small apartment with a doll’s kitchen and a nightmare of a bathroom. One bathroom. Makes virus season lots of fun. And let’s not forget the rest of what goes into the cost of living. I’d love to put Flower Child in an art class, or even better, private art lessons, so we could work around her health and limited energy. Can’t afford it. One once per week after school class, run by the school is $600. And that is reasonable compared to the cost of lessons and classes not run by the public schools and those lessons are often fabulous, in just about anything you can think of. Makes for awkward moments on the blacktop when the other moms are talking about what their kids are enrolled in.

Schools here? Crazy. If you can’t afford private schools, which are >$30,000 a year here, you have to be very, very lucky. Too many kids competing for too few decent spots in the too few decent public schools. The stress involved is horrendous. This is for entry into nursery school, Kindergarten, and again 6th grade (middle school), and 9th grade (high school). Have more than one kid? This is for each child, not each family. Don’t forget the testing and the interviews. And testing for K, 6th, and 9th grade is much like the SATs have become. Test prep. Costly, private test prep. Private test prep for public middle school, high schools. Excuse me while I tap into my Brooklyn roots. Get the fuck outta here. Have a child with special needs? Well, you know those too few spots? Forget it, you’ll find yourself wishing for those days of 1 in 4 odds.

From this recent HuffPost article, NY has the curious distinction of holding 3 of the 10 most expensive cities (they’ve separated the boroughs into cities for this) to live in. A hellofa town, for sure.

But it’s New York! Theater! Tickets for a Broadway show, let’s say Wicked. On a Saturday afternoon, seats in the mezzanine. $160 per ticket. Are you surprised that we haven’t gone to see it?

March 1860 Godey’s Lady’s Book Fashion Plate (Photo credit: clotho98)

How about going to the Met for an opera? Hah! Maybe, if we want to buy a year in advance and stand up for the show.

I would miss the easy availability of any type of food I’m in the mood for. I can see it now, “Mrs Fringe learns to use a crockpot.”

Why don’t we forget being fancy. How about bowling? $9.25 per person, per game at Chelsea Piers (on weekends/holidays, yanno, when you’d take your kids bowling), $6 per person shoe rental. Don’t forget the Metro card fare for us to get there and back, and the long, long ass walk from the train. So, for our family of five to go and bowl 2 games, no frills, no snacks, no lunch, it would cost $147.50.

We don’t go to the theater, infrequently go to the museums (and only the ones where it’s a suggested donation, not a mandatory admission fee), we don’t even go to the damned movies because of the cost. The nice part of living here is that when we do go to a museum, we don’t feel compelled to pack everything into one day, and we don’t have to be pillaged buying lunch at or near it, we can wait until we’re back home for sandwiches.

A few years back, I was determined to take the kids to see a performance at Shakespeare In The Park. These shows are great, and they’re free. You just have to go the morning of the performance and stand on line for tickets. Limit, 2 tickets per person. OK. I got the kids up, we went to the park and stood on line. Heh, three hours before the ticket booth opened wasn’t early enough. Bonus seizure from Flower Child while we waited to be told they were sold out way before we got to the front of the line. Tried again an hour earlier the following week. Still no go. Really? So many NYers, infamous for brunch at 3PM are getting on line for tickets at 6AM? Turns out a good number of people pay someone to stand on line for these free-so-everyone-can-enjoy-theater-in-NY tickets.

Please, someone tell me why I’m here. Yes, Central Park is free. And beautiful. I hear some people have backyards where they see trees and birds.

Gutter Ball Graphic (Photo credit: cote)

Knock Knock

Knock the Door ! (Photo credit: Elias Pirasteh)

Busy writing, busy reading, busy mamaing, busy stressing.

And a bit blue. Probably from all the busying of daily life nonsense, and the need for warmer weather to stay for more than three days. I’m not even going to mention continued problems maintaining a signal to stay online, and the fact that it took 3 hours to post this.

Last week, Man Child confirmed he’ll be staying in the area of his school this summer, he’s got a great job offer. Fabulous on so many levels. Not least of which because that’s my goal as a parent; independent, happy, thriving kiddos. Then he called needing some information because he was on his way to the ER, a kitchen accident.

Evidence – Screaming Woman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He was treated, all is well, he even had a long weekend to recuperate. I asked if he wanted to come home for a few days, rest, visit, etc. No, he had plans. No problem, take care of yourself, have fun, rest. This is what I want for him, right? Right?

I love being a mama. I love my kids. I even like my kids. I’m a human being, I have made mistakes as both a person and a parent, but mostly, I feel like I do a decent job. In our house, we don’t run with the assumption that parents and teens/young adults are natural adversaries with different goals. Objectively, I think it’s worked out pretty well so far.

But add over-busy to writing angst, stress, Flower Child missing her brothers, blueness, thinking of how many months before I see Man Child…well, mama brain goes into overdrive. Maybe no matter what decisions Husband and I made, no matter how we tried to parent, we can’t do anything to avert the stereotypical outcome of our kids never wanting to visit, cataloguing our mistakes and couldn’t-dos…. Maybe he’s never coming to visit again!

Okay, okay. Stop being a drama mama, suck it up, be happy that he calls. Plant some new seeds with Flower Child, think about what kind of cake she’d like for her birthday later this week. Flower Child and I were doing our Sunday stuff. I’m sweeping the floor, and the front door opens. Husband hasn’t been feeling great, oh crap, he must really be sick if he left work.

I look up from my pile of dog hair and

Surprise!

It’s Man Child and his friend, Miss Lovely Music. Just for the afternoon, Flower Child and I showed off our microscopic seedlings, they sat for a bit and then they went downtown to run a couple of errands. Came back, chatted a little while more, and then left to surprise Husband for a few minutes at work before heading back to school.

That’s a long drive and a lot of gas money for two broke college students who had to be back at school last night, with no way of knowing if I would have cash to reimburse them (I did and I did).

Thank you.

sunrise (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

It’s a Beautiful Day–Join Mrs Fringe for a Guiltshake!

English: One of the “shakes with a punch” at Hot Chocolate at Docklands. Whiskey, Baileys, Very Vanilla & Bee Keeper ice cream, dark chocolate. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been having problems getting online for weeks. Initially I thought it was my laptop, it’s old and freezes up on a semi-regular basis. Then Husband, Nerd Child, and Flower Child were all having problems with their devices. At first it was sporadic, but over the past couple of weeks it’s been a daily hassle to stay connected for more than 2-3 minutes at a time. I thought it was connected to the jackhammering they’ve been doing on the corner. We reset the little box thing. We called the cable company. Lather, rinse, repeat. Then I started asking neighbors, but no one else is having a problem. Hmmm. It occurred to me it had to be something in our hardware. We’ve had our router for a long time. Really long. Purchased when there were fewer and less powerful computers using it. So I asked my fish freak buddies (yes, they know everything) and they told me it likely is my router. By yesterday, we couldn’t stay on for more than a minute without getting cut off. Ugh.

Why is this such a big deal? Because a couple of weeks ago, I bought myself a present. I had done several extra dog walks and was feeling beaten by winter, so I splurged. I bought an e-reader. I love it, it’s made me happy, and I’ve been skipping along, pleased with myself. Except now we need a new router. We don’t have any extra money right now (like this would be different a month ago, or a month from now, ha!). I didn’t buy a fancy e-reader, you can’t surf the web with it, but still, I could have bought a router with that money if I had realized then what our internet problems were. I would have still had the money if I had put it to the side for Flower Child’s upcoming birthday pedicure, the way I should have.

A macro photo of a Maraschino cherry, taken with my Fuji S7000 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That’s the double ugh glazed with extra guilt cherry on top.

What a selfish bitch. A good mommy would have waited another three years for the e-reader, making sure no one needs anything before spending money on something so frivolous. Am I the only one who hears that voice?

Husband went to go buy a new router. We have stuff for the kids’ schools that needs to be done where we must have a somewhat reliable internet connection, and Husband needs it for work. Ok. I’ll swallow the cherry, figure out where I can tighten the budget this week. He asked if I wanted to go to the store with him. No, I didn’t. I was writing, and only had a couple of hours before I had to dogwalk.

Husband came home with the SuperDuperMegaRouter. I would have gone to the next store, in search of the EconoRouter. And this is me, choking on the stem. Funny how that guilt never completely gets digested, but it sure is absorbed.

But it is still a beautiful day, so I’ll share a spring in Central Park photo, just in case you’re one of the blessed ones who can decline a guiltshake on an early summer day. I was going to upload a bunch, but apparently the SuperDuperMegaRouter doesn’t care to do too much fraternizing with Ricketyoldlaptop.

From a distance, the trees are still saying winter, but when you get close…

Good Morning, Angels

Publicity photo of the cast of the television program Charlie’s Angels. From left: Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and Kate Jackson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember them? By today’s standards, it was a sweet show, despite being the beginning of “Jiggle Power” on tv, also known as “Jiggle TV.” Funny, the themes and outfits would probably be rated G now, and yet with all the toning, tanning, muscles, and enhancements on the female tv stars you see now, there’s nothing natural enough to jiggle.

Now we have different angels.

victoria’s secret fashion show 2010 (Photo credit: cattias.photos)

Not my definition of angelic, but that’s okay. I don’t have to shop there, and don’t. We’re all grown up women, and can decide for ourselves what type of underwear we’d like to wear. I find dental floss up my ass to be uncomfortable, and don’t see a woman picking her butt as an enticement, but whatever floats your boat, or lifts your boobs, or frames your artfully sculpted hoo ha. God Bless.

But wait. Victoria’s Secret has realized there’s an untapped market waiting for them. That’s right, jail bait. Future pedophile victims. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But certainly victims of a society that doesn’t know how to allow children to be children. Make no mistake, at 10, 11, 12, 13 years old, they’re still children, regardless of when their bodies begin to change.

I would like to hear from the adolescent and child psychology experts who sat on the panel in the Victoria’s Secret meetings, and said this is a good idea. That there’s nothing wrong with teaching little girls to start objectifying themselves early by wearing padded push up bras, panties that say “Call Me” (WTF happened to the ones that said Monday?), and of course, lacy thongs.

What mother who gives a shit about her daughter’s sense of self is buying her this type of underwear? Am I being judgmental, perhaps alienating readers who might buy my books down the road? Yup, and that’s okay. There are some things I feel strongly enough to take a stand on, and this is one of them. Am I uptight when it comes to my children? You betcha. Childhood is short, life is long. But the lessons learned in childhood last a lifetime. I’d like them to gain the tools they need during childhood for long, productive, happy, and healthy adulthoods.

Middle schoolers, tweens, are a mass of hormones and changes. This is the very beginning of independence. By the time a child is 14, you can see the adult they will become–though they aren’t that adult yet. What are they prioritizing, what have we taught them to prioritize? This is the time for young people to develop a sense of self, a sense of conscience, an understanding of their place in the world, and what roles they might step into. This is a time of self doubts and insecurities. If we parents buy them these types of garments we are prioritizing sexuality, and dating (or hooking up), over social justice, respect, community, intelligence, productivity, healthy body images, and healthy relationships. Yanno, to “get” the cute boy, strip down to your skivvies so he can see the message stamped on your butt. Because that’s what he should be paying attention to, right? Of course, with all these messages, stripping, and hoo ha infections caused by these special undies, I understand, there was no need or time to study for your biology test. And now that he/she has broken your heart because he/she has no clue or emotional tools to have a healthy relationship because he/she is also a child, no one wrote that Language Arts paper, either. Because they’re crushed, the very fragile beginnings of self esteem have been stepped on because Mary is cuter, or John is a better dancer.

This isn’t new, really. OK, marketing thongs to 10 year olds is new, but does anyone else remember this?

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins (Photo credit: Evil Erin)

Brooke Shields was fourteen years old when this ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans came out, implying there was no underwear between her and her super tight, super sexy jeans. That was in 1980. We should have known better. But certainly, we should know better by now. And none of this even begins to touch on the damage done to adult women, who are looking at ads that show models they can’t possibly look like, yet are told they should.

Dating and early acting out of sexuality, by its very nature, is emphasizing exclusivity. How does this make sense for young people who are searching desperately to be included? It might seem like nothing, innocence, “puppy love.” But it isn’t nothing, it sends a message about what is most important. Kids of this age need to find safe ways and places to be included. How about respect? How does that fit into this equation? Certainly, we aren’t teaching respect of self or others when we place value on prepubescent sexuality. How about self esteem? Doesn’t this bring us right back to encourage girls “not to be too smart,” and boys to value their sexuality over other, tangible, long term and contributory accomplishments. How about caring about other human beings, not just cataloguing them? Yes, let’s all cry about America slipping further down in academic standing when compared to other countries. Bottom line, with this type of message, we’re teaching our kids that commitment to self and others doesn’t matter. Because 12 year olds can’t commit to a long term, healthy relationship. Why? Because they haven’t yet learned how to commit to themselves, their future. For the love of all that’s holy, their brains aren’t finished yet, even if their boobs/butts/dangly bits are almost there.

Will there be a separate fashion show for the prepubescent line? Will it be photographed, filmed, televised? What’s that? You think that might be icky, uncomfortably close to child pornography? You should be thinking that, because it is. These garments are designed to be looked at, encourage fantasies so they will be purchased. There is no reason for these sweet whispers of lace and cotton to exist outside of sexual ones. I’m saying no thanks, I’m saying fuck you Victoria’s Secret.

Hey, you, adult woman! You don’t get to complain about men objectifying you, not taking you seriously, not giving you equal pay for equal work, and not holding up their end of child rearing if you’re feeding into this crap, and teaching another generation that these priorities are okay.

Perhaps we should bring corsets back. You know, the ones that literally warped the rib cage and cut off oxygen. Obviously our girls don’t need those brain cells anyway, since we’re teaching them to put their sexuality above other aspects of their development, or sense of self.

English: Corsets (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: FIG. 15.—The effect of bending forward, when seated, with and without corsets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

asdf jkl;

Lorraine Carpenter in typing class at Aldergrove Highschool, British Columbia / Lorraine Carpenter participant à un cours de dactylographie à l’école secondaire Aldergrove, Colombie-Britannique (Photo credit: BiblioArchives / LibraryArchives)

Does this title ring any bells for any of my readers? I don’t remember my typing teacher’s name, but I certainly remember her voice, which managed to screech with every letter she called out. You’d think her beehive would have softened the sound. “Accuracy, girls! And boys too, I suppose.” Ah, she was a charmer.

It used to matter, how fast you typed, how accurate you were. In the days of carbon paper and white out. Oh, the excitement of electric typewriters, and the white out ribbon! I love to look at the old typewriters, have an excellent, artsy photo of one, and one of these days I’m going to find the perfect old manual in an antique store, at a perfect price, waiting for me to bring it home and display it. But I don’t miss typing on one. It was slow and often painful, needing to hit each key with the same amount of force, keys getting stuck and invariably getting my finger hammered trying to unstick them.

You can imagine my pleasure when someone refers to writing as typing.

Misprints (Photo credit: eldeeem)

Flower Child, “Mommy, are you finished typing yet?” Husband, “I thought you were still typing.” Especially since I do associate Husband with literal typing. He went to college with my brother. I typed several of their papers. After one particularly long and hideous paper, I had a PTSD type reaction for years after whenever I had need to tap out the word acetaminophen.

The past few days have thrown my writing schedule way, way off. I think my last post here on Mrs Fringe was the last semi-coherent thing I wrote. First I had the mother of all migraines, laid me out for a full day, left me dizzy for a second day. Yesterday I had a meeting during my usual writing time. I’m most productive in the mornings. It took too many years for me to figure that out, opposed my image of myself as writ-ah, tap tap, tapping away during the night. Turns out I’m in fine company, plenty of respected, lauded writers and writ-ahs work in the morning. Not least of which was Hemingway. Ah, the lore and lure of Papa.

I thought I would get back to work today, but no such luck. Flower Child was sick. Can’t get lost in fantasy land when you’re watching the clock to call the doctor’s office for an appointment. OK, done. I thought I would have time to get a few pages done, but the more days I’m away from the manuscript, the longer it takes for me to get back into my characters’ heads, and be productive. One page. One page and then it was time to take her to the doctor. In the pouring rain that didn’t stop. All day, drip, drip, squish. Luckily, once we were there, I got to find out in addition to an infection, FC has lost two pounds. Aargh!!! Two pounds is way too much for a kiddo who literally has nothing to spare.

Right now, I’d be ok with a few uninterrupted hours to practice my typing.

A monkey typing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.

“Who’s Afraid fo Virginia Woolf?”. 1966 (Photo credit: thefoxling)

DIY IVs and Dreadlocks

Glucose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child has been sick for four days now, koalaed to me since Sunday morning. Life with a medical needs kiddo is…interesting. It’s never just a sniffle. Forget about secondary sinus infections, we see things like seizures. And pleurisy–which is extra special, because she doesn’t cough, so that type of diagnosis is always a sucker punch delivered in a crowded ER at 2AM. So, I’ve been working on trying to keep her hydrated and home. She dehydrates quickly, hence my not so funny when you live it DIY IV joke. Pedialyte and lollypops. Same as a glucose drip, no? I’m hopeful at the moment, today has been better than the last few days, fever sticking to low grade so far, and she ate a little bit. Just heard from the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, results from the flu swab are back, and it isn’t the flu.

Are you kidding me? This isn’t even the flu? Just one of several viruses making the rounds right now. For my Flower Child, a virus that would make another child sick for a few days leaves her scary laid out for much longer. It isn’t like I actually need to sleep or anything. Really, an hour or two is more than enough. What’s that? You want to know why I go through 5 espressos and 12 cups of tea each day?

Since today has been better, and I know not to make any assumptions for tomorrow, I figured it was an opportunity to ~~hack through~~ wash her hair.

Dreadlocks machen. Mit Hilfe eines Hundehaarkamms (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rapunzel long hair and extended periods of time in bed adds up to dreadlocks, forget Goldilocks. I just spent over an hour detangling her hair. >>that photo is not Flower Child, just illustrating her hair.

Who wants to guess how much writing I’ve gotten done? *insert cynical laugh here* There went my 1000 words a day streak. Though I have kept going, with a much lower word count. I wake up every morning convinced I should be able to be more productive. I go to bed each night chastising myself for a paltry word count. I’m not losing two hours a day doing drop off and pick up, she’s certainly not chatting or wanting anything other than to be next to me, but this hyper-vigilant watching and listening is exhausting. Very hard to immerse yourself in fantasy land when you’ve got a little person burning, shaking, and whimpering next to you. So I’m on a break from the romance, working on a new short. Progress is slow, and it’s an angry piece (shocked?) but I like how it’s taking shape.

I could write for 30 minutes or so now until I go dog walk, but I think I’m going to escape to my happy place instead. It’s almost beach season, isn’t it?

Bora Bora (Photo credit: Benoit Mahe)

Rompe La Cabeza

Question mark made of puzzle pieces (Photo credit: Horia Varlan)

In English, the word is puzzle. In Spanish, the phrase is rompe la cabeza, or rompecabeza. Translated literally, “breaks the head.”

Flower Child is my puzzle. A beautiful, delicate, complicated puzzle. For now, and for far too many years already, trying to put these pieces together…the Spanish feels more appropriate than the English. Breaking my head, trying to make sense of what is and what’s to come for my sweetness. The modern medical world is an absolute maze; so basically, it’s wandering through a labyrinth, trying to locate puzzle pieces, and then getting lost in an attempt to trace back to see where they might fit.

I used to like jigsaw puzzles. I found them relaxing. I had a teacher who used to call those types of hobbies mental masturbation. Made sense. But now? No, the very sight of those stamped cardboard pieces induces a PTSD type reaction.

English: Image from The Great War taken in an Australian Advanced Dressing Station near Ypres in 1917. The wounded soldier in the lower left of the photo has a dazed, thousand-yard stare – a frequent symptom of “shell-shock”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Except for one teeny tiny contradiction, it isn’t “post” anything. I live it, we as a family live it, every day.

This morning I didn’t get up at 5AM and work on a story, or Mrs Fringe. This morning I got up at 5 to go over paperwork and organize copies of medical reports. Another visit to a new specialist, this one specializing in the puzzle pieces that make up each of us. Three hours of going over medical history–Flower Child, me, Husband, Nerd Child, Man Child, and extended families. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the emotional equivalent of sucking down a chocolate milkshake when you’ve got a molar in dire need of a root canal. A quick physical, looking, bending, measuring, hemming, hawing, instructing, and note taking. Then a trip down to the lab, and 80 reminders to FC about “girl power” while waiting for a blood draw, and of course, the positioning of the doll, the iPod, and the negotiating about what the treat will be afterwards.

The testing least likely to yield information is expected first, in three to four weeks. The rest of the results should be back in four months. Follow up appointment in six months. An extra vial of blood was drawn, in case nothing useful is found in the testing done today, it will be used for round two of more detailed testing, taking another 6 months for results. Now we play the hurry up and wait game.

Sundial (Photo credit: njj4)

Moments: On Christmas, Mourning, and Family

Hark! My angel 🙂

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping and had Man Child, Nerd Child, and Flower Child decorate the tree. It all had to be done, and I just didn’t feel like it. I am rarely “on top of” the Christmas shopping. I always swear I will budget for it throughout the year, shop early, but usually, I’m scrambling, same as I’m doing now. I wondered why I do this at all, do Christmas presents even make any sense? This is the first year where I only have one child in school this week before Christmas, both boys are on break already. Great! Except it feels like the school knows this, and therefore ramped up the extras so I can still spend my week running on empty from obligation to obligation.

I’m feeling umm, off balance since the shooting in Newtown CT on Friday. I stand by my statement from my last post, it didn’t make any sense and it still doesn’t. If anything, I’m more confused than I was 4 days ago. What does this level of grief mean for our nation? How much is personal, for the families and immediate community, and how much is ours, as a society, to take on? Where’s the line between sharing the burden of grief and glamorizing a heinous act? People are talking, and I hope they continue to do so. Much of the talk is bluster and rhetoric, I can toe that crap to the side without a problem. But I’ve also seen the beginnings of thoughtful discourse, with points and possibilities that should be explored. I am not a historian, and don’t know what was intended by the 2nd Amendment, or the correct way to apply it, if at all, in today’s society.

We are a nation of freedoms. With freedom comes responsibility. Or in the plain English of Fringeland, the freedom to fuck up. This is what, in my opinion, we should be talking about. Personal responsibilities and how they apply to our families, our communities, our society. I think, long ago, this used to be called ethics. But no, I don’t have a romanticized vision of the way things “used to be.” The reality is there are other atrocities that no longer occur here, are no longer legal or acceptable, that once were.

I ran around yesterday, my very best chicken without a head routine. At the end of the day, I went to walk a dog. This dog’s owners have become friends, and are two people I respect and admire tremendously. Man Child came with me, and though I’ve known them a few years now, this was the first time they were meeting. A moment. In the midst of these days heavy with both bullshit and mourning, a moment of beauty. I like these friends very much, they live their lives with integrity, and embody lives well lived. Another, newer friend recently met Nerd Child. Another beautiful moment. I like my children, they are thoughtful human beings and define possibilities. One has a strong sense of duty, immediate responsibilities. One has a keen instinctive eye for looking at the greater good, seems to have been born with the scales of justice connecting the chambers of his heart. One has an exquisite sense of social justice, crying at the thought of anyone being hungry. They have their own thoughts and opinions, separate from mine, Husband’s, and each other.

I don’t think I’ve hit on the purpose or meaning of life, as a parent or otherwise. I hold no answers, and as I get older, find more questions. As a parent, I want my children to believe in themselves and strive for their dreams, achieving some. I want them to be responsible, contributing members of society. I want their dreams to include being responsible, contributing members of society. I want them to have their moments, hopefully more than I do, but still, moments when they can take a breath and say, “this is ok. I am ok.”

Personal moments aren’t enough to put aside the greater questions we need to examine and try to answer. They do not, can not, and should not negate loss, personal or public. Personal loss does not negate community or societal obligations. But if we value these moments, and recognize them because of their potential impact on others, they can matter.