family

All the World is Waiting For You

Here we are, post Christmas and pre New Years and I have a confession to make.  I had a fabulous Christmas.

Here I am, just like Wonder Woman. Except for the boobs.

Here I am, just like Wonder Woman. Except for the boobs.

Excuse the pj’s.  See those fingerless glove thingies?  They’re warm, and fabulous, and I loooooove them.  Actually, when it comes to the stuff of gifts, I kind of racked up this year.  I feel embarrassed by my good fortune.  Everything I received was something I’ve wanted for a long time, or would have wanted if I thought of it, and I’ve got a goofy grin looking at the boxes and bits of wrapping that still litter the living room.  Fringelings and Husband, also happy.

As you can tell, I'm not one of those who obsesses about the placement of each ornament.

As you can tell, I’m not one of those who obsesses about the placement of each ornament.

As I get older, I’m getting better about letting go of things that don’t matter.  I used to spend way too much time and effort picking just the right tree.  This year we gave Nerd Child money and sent him to the corner to pick one.  He is not one to obsess over these things.  Guess what?  It was absolutely fine.  Decorated and hung with our old familiar lovelies, it was more than fine, it was a perfectly Fringe-y Christmas.  Ornaments from places we’ve visited, different times in our lives, gifts from friends and family.

A handblown ornament I loved was knocked off by one of the beasts.  Smashed.  I wish it hadn’t, but it’s ok.  Here I am, proof of emotional maturity.  We won’t mention the huge meltdown I had when I didn’t see my cake stand when I woke up in the morning.  Guess I’m a work in progress, after all.  Turns out Man Child put it away in a place I didn’t think of, to protect it from Big Senile Dog, since he doesn’t seem to realize rules still apply, old or not.

She's another favorite. That's the bonus of choosing smaller trees, I only hang favorites. :)

She’s another favorite. That’s the bonus of choosing smaller trees, I only hang favorites. 🙂

During the day on Christmas Eve I was able to run over to my friend’s apartment and bring cookies for her and her husband.  These are two of the kindest, smartest, most generous people I’ve ever known.  They gave me a lovely gift, but having them in my life is a gift unto itself.

Normally, I make a big breakfast/brunch on Christmas Day (mostly prepped the night before), and we spend the bulk of the day in our pj’s chilling, playing with new stuffs, and an open door for whatever friends and family would like to drop by.  Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog plant themselves next to the table, just waiting for something, anything, to be left unattended.

She scored a tissue, he's holding out for bacon.

She scored a tissue, he’s holding out for bacon.

This year Man Child did all the breakfast prep on Christmas Eve.  Good thing, because I hurt my back and just could.not.stand. for any more kitchen prep.  Would have turned into a throwback to the Christmas mornings when I was pregnant and on bed rest–Christmas bagels.   After the opening of the gifts, 8 gazillion cups of coffee, and breakfast, we took our time and then went to have dinner with Mr and Mrs Smitholini and their crew.

It’s been a long time since we were all together.  And by all, I mean the five of us and the seven of them, plus Mrs S’s brother.  Why yes, Mrs Smitholini and I were both quite, ummm, fertile in our younger years.  Our kids spent a lot of time together growing up.  We used to trick or treat together every year, when the Smitholinis lived in one of the outer boroughs, and I have a photo of the crew on their front steps, in costume, for about 10 years straight.  Every year there was at least one more.  At this point the age range is from 12 up to 22.  Most not really kids anymore, all with their own lives and schedules, and a rarity to have all in one place for the day.

I hope everyone had some peace and laughter during their holiday, whichever holiday you celebrate.  A moment where you felt love, kindness, and general silliness.

So yes, it was a beautiful day, peace and laughter and thankfulness.  I would appreciate it regardless, but we had a particularly stressful few days beforehand.  There was a glitch with our health insurance that is about 1/2 an inch from complete disaster for us, and then discovered someone hacked into our cell phone account and added 6!! lines and purchased 4 iPhones on our account.  Life, keeping it real.

I woke up early today and spent an hour and a half scrubbing the stove of the blackened, greasy remnants of the past weeks’ cooking and baking frenzy.  I should be working on Astonishing right now, but I’m a little stuck.  Again.  I hoped the fumes of bleach and Easy Off would trigger some ideas.  No such luck.  I’m thinking about New Years, goals for 2014, but not quite ready to write them down.

Not exactly Wonder Woman.  Not a wonder, not changing the world, no satin tights.  But all in all, not a bad close to 2013.

Wonder Woman Covers

Wonder Woman Covers (Photo credit: jooleeah_stahkey)

Merry Holidays!

I thought I would write a heartfelt post for the holidays.  Maybe not heartfelt, maybe humorous.  Clever.  Witty.

Alas, I’ve been busy doing the real life thing, but I did want to pop on and wish everyone Happy Holidays from Fringeland.

 

Here, I’ll share dinner, and some of the 8 gazillion cookies Man Child and I made.

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Wednesday is Self Pity Day!
Red Wine Cheese Plate @ Artisan Wine & Cheese ...

Red Wine Cheese Plate @ Artisan Wine & Cheese Cellars (Photo credit: Lehigh Valley, PA)

Yesterday I had a decent writing day.  1000 words added to Astonishing, 400 probably salvageable.  I intended to have another decent day today.  Derailed.

First, I have to mull.  And think.  And obsess.  I’m debating whether or not to include a seksy time scene in the chapter after this next one, which will influence what and how I write this one.  Make sense?  Obviously, this makes playing online the best use of my time.  Plus, there’s the whole Nerd Child left to go back to school this morning and I’m going to miss him terribly.  Yes, yes, he’ll be back in under three weeks, but still.

I was on the writer’s forum, and there was an interesting discussion thread going.  The OP (original poster) is someone whose posts I always enjoy, sometimes thought provoking and often funny.  A master of self deprecating humor, and hey, I’m a New Yawkah, no one appreciates self deprecating humor as much as we do.  Add in the tortured writer thing, perfection.

I don’t often participate in these serious discussion threads.  Everyone, including me, gets all touchy–or worse, touchy feely–and then I sniffle because someone on the internetz hurt my feelings, sniffling leads to crying, crying leads to a headache.  I now have a fucking migraine roughly the size of Detroit.

English: A bottle of Excedrin's migraine formu...

English: A bottle of Excedrin’s migraine formula. Taken by myself today with a FinePix S700. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The discussion was about luck and how it factors into writing success, prompted by an interview with Alice Cooper having to do with luck and music.  The usual forum thread commenced, some saying yes luck is a factor, others saying no, luck has nothing to do with it, cream rises to the top blahblahblah.

What do “we” want as writers?  Readers, fame, glory, acclaim, money, contracts?  The list can be long when using the royal we, but for individuals it varies.  I’ve been vocal here in Fringeland about my desires, I’d like readers and a dollar.

Why did I post on that thread?  Clearly I haven’t felt shitty enough about myself and my writing this week, and after all it is self-pity day, so I chimed in with a thoughtful and eloquent whine speaking for myself and using supporting details and anecdotes about how I call bullshit on the idea that luck isn’t a factor.  Not the only factor, but certainly a factor.  If you include timing as part of luck, it becomes that much greater.

In my opinion it is both dismissive and disrespectful to state otherwise.

Don’t even think of acknowledging the rest of life, and any responsibilities that may sometimes need to take precedence.  Heh.  If you’re a real writer, you write, read, and submit every single day no matter what.  Screw those kids wanting to eat.  Or needing medical care.  You’re a writer.  But not a writ-ah, because that would be pretentious.

The very next post after mine offered a lovely statement, “getting readers is easy.”  Really?  Well then, perhaps it’s time for Mrs Fringe to pack it in.  Since it’s so easy and all, and I’ve been doing it for a long. fucking. time. at this point I should have thousands of followers for the blog, and gazillions more reading my fiction.  And with all those readers and followers, both agents and editors should be begging me to sign contracts.  Hrrumph.

I want to be clear, I don’t believe all is up to luck, or chance, or the rabbit’s foot I ran over with my banana seat bike.  A factor, though?  Yes.

Crying..

Crying.. (Photo credit: Anders Ljungberg)

Official November Post

(as opposed to all those other November posts)

November is Epilepsy Awareness Month.   You didn’t remember that from last year?  Good thing I’m posting again.

Last weekend when we were up North, I was speaking with someone who used to keep horses, chickens, and goats.  I know very little about horses, less about chickens, and less than nothing about goats that doesn’t involve curry recipes.  Fainting goats came up.  I had never heard of them, asked her about them.  As she described how they stiffen and fall over, I thought to myself, sounds like a form of epilepsy, but didn’t say it out loud.  I’m pretty sure any animal with a brain can have a seizure.  But what do I know about farm animals? I’m not even sure I’ve ever been next to a goat, fainting or otherwise.  She then said she believes the fainting is a form of seizure disorder.

Meet Bambi, the Pygmy Fainting Goat

Meet Bambi, the Pygmy Fainting Goat (Photo credit: pmarkham)

Well , now I was able to join the conversation.  Turns out the woman used to have someone in her life who had epilepsy, and she made a statement to the effect of, well it isn’t like anyone can die from it.

Not true.  People can and do die from seizures and epilepsy.  Thousands of people.  In countries with modern medicine and purple ribbons.  There is SUDEP– sudden unexplained death in epilepsy, there are accidents related to seizures (drowning, falling, burning, choking, etc), there is status epilepticus (prolonged seizures that don’t end/resolve on their own), deaths due to treatment, deaths due to underlying disorders if the epilepsy isn’t idiopathic, and suicide related to comorbid conditions like depression.

This woman hadn’t known this information.  She didn’t know epilepsy is actually a spectrum of neurological disorders, she didn’t know there are many types of seizures/ways seizures can present themselves.  I also think she hadn’t understood that 30% of people with epilepsy are not “well controlled” on their medicines.  In other words, they’re doing everything the doctors say to do, taking meds, trying to avoid triggers, and still have uncontrolled seizures.

This was a great opportunity to educate and promote epilepsy awareness.  I did, and I think she and the other woman with her were listening.  No ribbons (which I don’t think anyone pays attention to anymore anyway, 43,000 disorders and diseases sharing 12 ribbon colors–I made up 43,000–just in case you weren’t sure), no banners, no jazzy PSAs, not even any goats; just an opportunity taken.

*Some, even most, children and adults with epilepsy have seizures that are well controlled on their medication/treatment plan.  That doesn’t mean epilepsy is “no big deal.”  It can be a very big deal.  And you should care, because anyone can have a seizure, anyone can develop epilepsy.

What medicine(s) works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for the next. Whether they work or not, they often have horrendous and lasting side effects.   Some people are finding tremendous success right now with certain medical cannabis compounds/cannabinoid.  I’m guessing it’s like the other meds/treatment options, it will work for some and won’t work for others.  Of course, everyone who wants to have that shot of success will have to be belittled and inspected first, forced to fight their governments and maybe even move.  Sigh.

EEG fragment

EEG fragment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But that’s another post.

And by the way, if your dog (or your goat) has epilepsy, and you’re speaking to someone whose child has epilepsy, don’t tell them you know just what it’s like.  You don’t.

Epilepsy Awareness.  Epilepsy Sucks, pass it on.

Oh People, Doncha Just Hate’em?
Woods

Woods (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

You know those getting to know you/riddle questions, if you were alone on a deserted island/in the woods/lost in space what food would you want/book would you bring/who would you want with you?  I hate those stupid questions.

But apparently some people love them so much, they decide to go try it.  Like this guy, who went on a survival expedition in the Canadian wilderness.  He planned to be gone for two months, just a man and his dog.  Didn’t work out so well.  When he was a month late coming home, his family alerted the authorities who found him after 8 days of searching; alive, starving, dehydrated, and alone.  Attacked by a bear, his supplies and equipment were lost/ruined.  His dog saved him from the bear.  Sadly, he ended up killing and eating his dog to stay alive.  I’m not being flippant here, it is sad, and I can only assume if there was a grove of apple trees, a field of carrots, or a stream full of fish this wouldn’t have happened.

I found out about this through a discussion in the writer’s forum.  I don’t generally get involved in those discussions, but they can be fun, informative, and a good way to get to know who’s who.

I have to tell you Fringelings, if you’re a staunch PETA supporter you might want to stop reading here.  I love my dogs, love my fish and sea critters, I’m a vegetarian and have been since I was a teenager.  In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered if I would be able to get myself any meat/fish/flesh if I was literally starving.  And yet I was shocked by the sentiment of people who not only said he shouldn’t have done it/they wouldn’t have done it, but equated it with killing and eating a human family member/loved one. Really?  You’re shitting me, right?  Well played, what a perfect troll session.

Except the conversation began to meander, as these things do, and there were multiple people insisting their pets really are equivalent to their children, and the death of a pet is as devastating as the death of a child.  No.  Just no.   And then proceeded to say it was judgmental for anyone to disagree.

The Intersection of 36th and Troll

The Intersection of 36th and Troll (Photo credit: sea turtle) 

Perhaps for a few people this might be true, but if you are a reasonably well adjusted person, no.  And I don’t care if you’re young, middle aged, or Methuselah.  No.  And if this is being judgmental, well, okay.  I’ll just confess to being a judgmental bitch right now.  And more than a bit horrified that it’s so easy to find people who don’t see a difference between a beloved pet and a beloved spouse, mother, father, child, cousin, or BFF who you’ve laughed and cried with for forty years.

I’ve been very, very sad at the loss of pets.  Cried.  Mourned.  Dogs, cat, fish, invertebrates.  For the record, fish are not disposable pets, they shouldn’t die within days/weeks/months.  Clownfish really have personalities similar to puppies, they come to the top of the tank once they get to know you, will eat out of your hand, and play.  I’ve been riveted and excited to see coral spawning in my tank, see my clownfish do the mating dance.  When the clowns then ate their eggs, I didn’t feel my world had ended.  Didn’t even lose a night’s sleep.  What a cold, cruel woman I am.

Yup, laid her eggs right on this soft leather coral.

Yup, laid her eggs right on this soft leather coral.

(sorry for the out of focus photo, but that’s the only one I could find of her in “her” leather)

But.  But, but, but.  You get a dog or cat expecting it to live 10, 15, 20 years.  Same for many fish and sea critters.  So sad when a creature you’ve loved and cared for over many years passes.  Your child?  Mmm, the natural order of things is for your child to outlive you.   (I do wonder if this makes a difference for people who keep parrots they expect to outlive them, but still, not a child.)  And, yanno, it’s your child. If you get a new fish, and that fish dies when you get it home, or can’t adjust to the new tank and refuses to eat so it dies within days, it’s sad and aggravating and you’re glad you got the fish from somewhere that offers an “arrive alive” guarantee.  Cause now you’re going to get credit, and they’ll give you/ship you a new fish.  Baby?  Not exactly.  Not even remotely.

Regular Fringelings know I have a few friends who’ve lost children to fatal diseases.  I’ve had some terrifying times with Flower Child.  I have more friends whose children face horrendous diagnoses.  I’ve been zombified at Husband’s bedside in the Cardiac ICU more than once.  I’m not special, my family isn’t special.  There are thousands of families who face these events throughout the world, every day.  Many of them have pets they love and have loved.  Not one will tell you the loss or imminent loss  of their child/spouse/sibling/other is the same as the loss of Fido.

You love your dog/cat?  That’s wonderful, me too.  Swear you wouldn’t eat him no matter that you were facing certain death otherwise?  OK, I tend to doubt that I would eat mine either.  Can’t say for certain, seeing as I’ve never been lost and starving in the wilderness and I’m unlikely to ever be.  Besides, Big Senile Dog is old and tough and scrawny.  I will admit that Little Incredibly Dumb Dog’s back legs bear more than a passing resemblance to fuzzy chicken legs when she’s wet and in the bath.  Plump, too.

Humans are animals too.  Yes, we are.  And we’re at the top of the food chain.  I intend to stay there.  Now I’m off to eat my pasta with meatless meatballs.

Good Peasant Stock

This morning I gave up.  When I woke, it was 42* outside, windchill of 37*, probably 33* when factoring in the wind tunnel of my terrace.  That’s right, I cried uncle and put socks on.

Sock Prayer Flags.

Sock Prayer Flags. (Photo credit: knitting iris)

I have a love/hate relationship with socks.  Mostly hate.  I prefer barefoot or flip-flops.  I always make sure I have at least one pair of shoes that are fuzzy inside so I can delay the dreaded opening of the sock drawer as long as possible.  But then…there are so many cool socks out there.  Patterns, colors, silky, cozy, cushy, and itchy.  Can’t forget itchy.   They can be a boost on a cold morning, getting your toes warm and bright yarn to pierce a gray sky.

I always preferred barefoot.  When I was a kid and running down the outside stairs without shoes on, my grandmother would yell behind me, “Fringie, the dogs make sissy out there!  There’s glass!”  Both true.  Remember, I didn’t grow up in the country, these were the streets of South Brooklyn, no garbage cans on every corner, cracked cement, before NY was cleaned up for tourists, before the young and hip discovered the outer boroughs,  before pooper scooper laws.

Here in Manhattan I don’t often see anyone barefoot outside.  Once in a while, though, usually a young woman late at night or early in the morning carrying stilettos.  Even I want to yell at her, “The dogs make sissy out here!”

As a teen, I would go to the beach and walk the boardwalk barefoot.  The boardwalk used to be wood, no practical composite materials.  Old weathered boards.  At night, I could be found in my room with a pair of tweezers, picking the splinters out of the soles of my feet.  By then, my feet were so calloused I didn’t feel the splinters going in or out.  What did I do with my shoes while I was on the boardwalk or the beach?  I can’t remember.

Coney Island, New York boardwalk on a foggy night.

Coney Island, New York boardwalk on a foggy night. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now, I’ve got the feet of an old peasant.  Makes sense, I am an old peasant.  Doesn’t matter if I spend 99 cents or $8.00 on a pair of socks, the average lifespan is a season.  Or it would be, if I threw them out once they had holes.  I don’t.  Not until the holes can no longer be twisted and arranged so my toe doesn’t poke through inside my shoe while I’m walking.  That’s uncomfortable.  I’m sorry Man Child,  you got my feet.

Husband has the feet of royalty.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear through a pair of socks.  And he wears them :shudder: all year long.

English: Feral Goat on Island Davaar. At the t...

English: Feral Goat on Island Davaar. At the time he was stood stock still and blended into the background very well. I almost walked straight past within a few feet and not notice him. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s Make a Deal
Publicity photo of Carol Merrill, Monty Hall a...

Publicity photo of Carol Merrill, Monty Hall and Jay Stewart from the television program Let’s Make a Deal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You don’t call me a Feminazi, and I won’t call you a misogynistic asshole, okay?

If you absolutely can’t give up the term, just know you’re aligning yourself with Rush Limbaugh.  I’m not certain that he is the originator of the term, but he is the one who popularized it in the ’90’s.  I know, I know,  you’re really in favor of equality, might even be someone who self-identifies as liberal, it’s just “those women” who you’re referring to.  I understand, it’s only the emasculating ones;  who have the audacity to want equal pay, respect, control over their bodies, and access to quality, affordable childcare.   The right to not be strip searched and molested on the side of a highway.  The right to not be under continual assault for appearance, or choices in love, work,  or dress.

Lest I be accused of a man bashing post, let me stop and be clear.  I’m also speaking to women who use this term.  I know, I know, there’s nothing wrong with being a woman who embraces being a woman, meets Daddy at the door with a martini and a smile, ready to make that deal…blow job and meatloaf in exchange for an allowance.  Because,  yanno, if you’re an at home mom, taking care of the house and children isn’t really work.  And if you work outside the home, you’re still the one primarily responsible for the house and children.  Because, yanno, wimmenz work.  What?  That isn’t what you meant?

I wonder what you did mean, then.  You, a modern American woman.  Perhaps you don’t enjoy the right to own property, a right secured by earlier generations of feminists.  How about the right to not be property? Or the right to vote. That must be it.  Maybe you should share that info with the other women in the world who are still trying to secure those rights.  Or the right to call the police if you’re assaulted, regardless of what length your skirt was, or if your assailant was your husband, your father, brother, or uncle.

I have a daughter, I’d like her to be safe.  I have two sons, I’d like them to be safe.  Silly me, I’d like to be safe.  No one should have to live within a “rape culture,” yet we still do.  Tremendous strides have been made, but no, it isn’t finished.  Our society is a work in progress, and will be until every individual’s humanity is recognized and respected.

Feminazi.  Really?  Fighting for women’s rights is on par with the slaughter of sixteen million people.  How silly of me not to make the connection myself.

Sorry Fringelings.  This rant was brought to you by some disturbing comments  seen on Facebook today.  Not on my page, so I didn’t want to rant there.  Now Mrs Fringe will go back to her thoroughly subversive, militant feminist crochet work.

Tangled up in Blue

Tangled up in Blue (Photo credit: chickeninthewoods)

Have You Seen My

words?

alphabet soup

alphabet soup (Photo credit: bark)

Not those, I want the good ones.  The ones that make sense, build a story.  With feelings and a plot and characters you want to climb inside.  Words you can smell, sentences you can hear, paragraphs you can taste.

Workin’ on ’em.  Story of my life.  Summer is ending, and I’m in a panic.  I haven’t written enough words!  Too many words of suckage!  And who keeps slipping these exclamation points into the blog?  Pfft, lazy, lazy writing.

Sometimes the perfect words are few.

Nerd Child:  “Mom, I saw an interesting movie the other night.”

Mrs F:  “Mm hmm, what?”

Nerd Child:  “This is Spinal Tap.”

My work is done.

 

**One of the Fringelings tells me she was unable to leave a comment on this post.  If anyone else experiences the same, please drop me an email to let me know.  Thanks!

Where Are My Damned Marbles?
Marbles....

Marbles…. (Photo credit: kevinjay.)

I seem to have misplaced a few of mine.  Ok, most of them.  Have any to spare?

Here I sit, twitching.  Is it because I’m pitching my manuscript on Twitter today, or the unreasonable quantity of espresso I’ve already consumed?

And just what am I doing on Twitter, anyway?  I should be wearing purple and making dates with ladies who lunch.  Shouldn’t I?  I tendered my resignation to Hope a while back, so what is all this? I keep saying I give up, I accept my small life, my downward mobility.  And yet, I keep writing.  And trying.  Not just querying, but things like this twitter pitch event.

Several months ago I saw a new lit mag being formed, looking for submissions for their debut issue.  Reputable names involved, and the theme for the issue seemed perfect for a story I had in the files.  Dusted it off, polished it up, submitted.  Said lit mag seems to have disappeared into a black hole of cyberspace.

When we moved into our current apartment, I did so with the understanding I’ll be here until I have the big one, join ‘Lizabeth, and Husband slides my stiff cold body down the compactor chute.  Funerals are so expensive, they’ve got to be bourgeois by now. I’d best stop gaining weight, it’s a narrow opening. So how come I keep watching HGTV, and studying real estate websites?

moon rises over the crumbling sand castle

moon rises over the crumbling sand castle (Photo credit: sandcastlematt)

A long long time ago, in a land of hope and extreme gas shortages, there was a movie titled The End, starring Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise.  It was a black comedy about a man (BR) trying to kill himself, who keeps screwing up, aided by a delusional mental patient (DD).  Yeah, so I feel like the Reynolds character.  If I had a cavity I’d probably be sucking down an ice cold milkshake.  I’m supposed to have stopped this nonsense by now.

I’m a mother of three.  Special needs/Medical Needs, plain old Growing Up Needs, they are my priority.  That’s supposed to be enough, knowing I’ve done/am doing my best to raise three well adjusted, responsible people.

 

Husband is off today.  Flower Child keeps hoping to see me packing the beach bag every time I get up.  “Is Daddy off?  Why is he dressed?  Why aren’t you dressed?  Are we going to the beach?  Why is it clouds today?  Why does it matter how many times you Twitter?  Do you have an agent yet?  Are we going to the beach?”  But I’m glued to Twitter for the day.

I’m well aware of priorities, well aware of *what’s really important.*  Health and well being of children, important.  Mom’s dreams?  Much further down the list.  I should be crossing them off.  Should have crossed them off long ago.  I thought I did.  I think it must be some kind of gag ink, those irritating fantasies of me-as-a-person keep reappearing.

My Year in Lists

My Year in Lists (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

1001 Questions of Mamaing

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

It’s been an exhausting week for me, lots of ups and downs, how about you?  Two highlights.  One, Nerd Child is home for the summer, hooray!  It was a seventeen hour day yesterday, much of it spent driving in torrential rains that seemed to call for an ark, but he’s home.

What’s the other highlight?  SnapinTime, from The Voice from the Backseat very generously donated her limited time to watermarking some of my photos of Flower Child’s artwork, so I could share it here.  Thank you, Snapin!

I love looking at art, and so does Flower Child.  We’ve spent quite a bit of time in museums together.  My sweetie has a real talent.  It’s newly discovered, or perhaps it would be better stated to say newly unlocked.  I can’t say why, for sure, but it emerged after receiving an iPad to use for schoolwork.  Is it the preservation of energy (a precious and finite resource)?  Excessive fatigue is one of the most, if not the most, debilitating features of her struggles.  I don’t know, but as a mama who watches her struggle with so much–yet she always holds on to the positive–and as a person who is hard pressed to draw a stick figure, this work makes me weep, literally.

Flower Child is indeed, special.  Her thoughts take twists and turns that can be difficult to follow, and clarity is connected to how she’s feeling physically.  The drawing of the dog and bird looks like it was done by a different person, no?  This was a work she produced last weekend, when she was unwell and “crashing,” as we call it, for lack of a better word.  Not completely crashed, because then she’s hard pressed to hold a pencil.  After several hours of rest, sleep, and her evening meds, she produced “woman with dreds.”

I’m hoping to figure out a way to get her art lessons this summer.  We need someone who will be flexible and ok with these inconsistencies, and sympathetic to the &*$#% budget.