Monday, December 31, 2012

Hard of Hearing

When I was in second grade, one of my best friends was a boy of the Jeff C. He was a quiet, artful and gentle spirit, more-so than the other boys in our class at least. He was also the first to introduce me to the life of the deaf, Deaf and hard of hearing.

Both of his parents were deaf, as were several of his siblings. Jeff was often required to serve as a translator between the hearing and deaf worlds as he was able to bridge the two worlds. I loved how he moved his hands, his graceful gestures and the dancing of the visual language. Sadly his family moved at the end of the year, so that his deaf siblings could be closer to schools that better provided for their needs - but I never ever forgot him.

While on my way-ward journey to acquiring the credits and classes I needed to apply to various Physician's Assistant programs, there was one semester in which I needed 5 credits in order to be 'full time' and receive the benefits associated with that status. Looking through the university's catalog I found a first level sign language class that fit perfectly into my chaotic schedule.

For 16 weeks, 5 days a week, I was part of a class of folks who came together each day to learn how to talk with our hands, not our voices. It was one of the easiest and hardest things I've ever had the opportunity to do, and I loved nearly every minute of it.

It turned out that like French and Spanish, I had a talent for American Sign Language and given my varied interested and educational background, relaxed personality and skill set I was offered a position working for the university to provide deaf and hard of hearing students with captioning services. I attend lectures with the student I'm paired with, and caption or type the words and material that the Professor presents during lecture. This service allows students with hearing challenges to read what their classmates hear verbally in class and it allows them to have a 'transcript' of the lecture material that can be later referenced.

At first the job was overwhelming, but after several months, I fell into a rhythm, and became more comfortable with my own shortcomings in signing. As with any other language, becoming comfortable with my rudimentary fluency in ASL allowed me to accept help from more knowledgeable 'speakers' and provided me with the opportunity to practice as needed.

Over the last year or so, I've come to befriend and rely on the people that I work with, and as the semesters come and go, we become closer as friends as well as colleagues. I pray that I never insult or offend those I know and have met with hearing difficulties through my own ignorance. I admire and respect the folks I've had the fortune to work with and I hope that I have the opportunity to see them succeed in life.

Several friends have shared their experiences as well as other resources that have helped me to become aware of the simple and so offensive things that the hearing ask, say and do. I know that not everyone has this opportunity, so I wanted to share a few here, so that you yourself can learn of another culture and become more aware in general. I am by no means a 'spokesperson' for this beautiful culture, but if the information I share can spare one hard of hearing or deaf person from being talked to in a shouting, drawn out manner then it's been a good day.

I've found that most often times, it's not the people I've met who are physically unable to hear who are hard of hearing, it's those in the hearing world who have the ability to listen but who CHOOSE not to hear, thus the title of this post.

These blogs are created and maintained by individuals who live with hearing issues as a part of their everyday lives.

http://mylifeisdeaf.tumblr.com

http://becomingdeaf.wordpress.com/2012/07/24/10-things-you-should-never-say-to-a-deaf-person/

If you are interested in the deaf culture, or learning American Sign Language, I encourage you to sign up for a class with your university or community college. You'll be amazed at how much you will learn, the experiences that you will have and the awesome people you will meet.

While this site is no substitution for an actual class, where you have the opportunity to learn the nuances and grace of the deaf language and culture it is a great resource for refreshing learned signs, and simple words.

http://www.aslpro.com/

Use the dictionary with care, as placement of hands can mean very different things. One example is the sign for umbrella. Incorrectly placed, this gesture is the sign for masturbation.  And what one assumes to be the sign for unicorn, is in fact NOT. No, in fact that gesture has a far different meaning. But, that is for you to find out...





Sunday, December 30, 2012

How Unfortunate

With all of the raccoons, red tail fox packs (yes, they do run in packs), skunks, squirrels, and a vast array of unique and colorful birds within our backyard, JB and BW don't seem to realize is that most kids their age only learn about such wildlife through books and pictures found on the Internet.

To them, it's all just part of our environment. Even though we have a cornucopia of wildlife, on occasion we see something so out of bounds that words fail us.

One of the gifts I received this Christmas was a bird waterer. Coupled with the squirrel proof bird feeder we have in our backyard, we have a smattering of wrens, sparrows, finches, chickadees, flickers, woodpeckers, jays and many other interesting characters that visit each day.

On occasion, a little bird flies off a bit too eagerly and knocks himself silly by running into our glass deck doors. Most of the time they are simply stunned, and after a few minutes, they shake themselves and fly off to the feeder, waterer or the nearby shrubs. As the dining area looks out onto the deck, we are casual observers of this circle of life and when a characteristic 'thud' is heard, we look to see if the little one will be all right.

The circle of life became a bit too real one Saturday morning after a little sparrow knocked himself and was hanging out until the dizzy spell passed.  As he started moving about and regaining his footing, what we believe to be a Sharp-shinned Hawk swept down from a nearby tree, grabbed the dazed sparrow, proceeded to settle in the lilacs that line the deck and began dining on his catch.

It happened in just a few blurry moments only a couple of feet from where JB and BW were playing, and it was all a bit too real for them.

Nature is one thing, but NATURE is quite another.

BW realizing what had just happened ran to his room in horror. JB stood there frozen, simply saying 'Oh... wow.' After calming both children and explaining that the hawk was just hungry, they settled down and began to absorb the grim nature of what they'd just seen.

JB declared that she was 'now a vegetarian'. BW pondered for a moment and then said "Well, that was unfortunate for the sparrow."

At dinner that night we had grilled chicken over tortellini with salads and broccoli, JB once again reaffirmed her dedication to being a vegetarian. Looking over her bowl she firmly stated "Mama, just so you know, I am really, really into this meat eating vegetarian thing, I hope that you will support me in this decision."

When she noticed our confused looks, (BW was shockingly, at a loss for words) she asked what was wrong. To this Charles replied that the word she was looking for was omnivore, as she would most certainly NOT be a vegetarian by eating meat.

When it was BW's turn to be served dinner, he delicately raised on hand gesturing 'stop' and with a serious expression said "No thank you. I'm taking a break from birds for awhile."

All had returned to normal by the time Christmas arrived. Both BW and JB had seconds of the turkey, and to date, the Hawk has not returned. Oddly, though the kids are both keeping watch for him. Whether it's to protect the little birds, or see what happens, we don't know... but we have learned one thing.

We never, never, never ask, "What's next." It's better to take it as it comes than invoke Murphy's Law.




The LSK's

Many, many moons ago, before Charles and I relocated to Colorado, we lived in a small farming town that was also home to the university we attended. For the first several years of our marriage we lived in a series of apartment complexes, some better than others.

The second to last was aptly named 'The Shithole'. It had dark brown paneling on the inside, an enclosed decks and it was so small that not even the tiniest love seat fit within the living area and a table in the kitchen required that we move it to get from the living area to the cooking area. We would joke that when one or the other of us got into 'trouble', we wouldn't be sent out to sleep on the couch, but instead to sleep on the porch (never mind that winter was bitter cold and lasted for more than 7 or 8 months, depending on if it was a good year or not.)

After calling the manager and maintenance staff to tell them that the bathroom above us was leaking and causing our ceiling to buckle, and then watching it collapse in 'slow motion' over the course of a month, and then having to open our 'home' up to maintenance workers for another several weeks we decided it was time to move.

Fortunately, a new complex was about to open, and we were among the first to fill out the paperwork to see if we were qualified to move in. As it was subsidized housing, there were strict limitations on the numbers of units that were 'free market' vs subsidized and being a newer development, the list of interested parties was endless. Thankfully, it all worked out in our favor and we were given the very last 'free-market' unit available for college students.

Being a new community, everyone was friendly and eager to get to know each other and help out as we could. That is, everyone except for the LSK Family.

To be fair, we felt something awful for the head of that household. It was led by a single mom, who's story we never quite learned, except to say that she worked a series of low paying jobs in an effort to create a better life for her kids. Just how many kids she had, we were never able to determine though it seemed to be about five or six and the cast of characters in her life was constantly changing.

The apartment they lived in shared a common wall with ours, but we never got to know them since the entries to our apartments were in different corridors. But we did have front row seats to the circus that unfolded as the year we lived there progressed.

Because Mom worked so much, the children were often left to care for themselves, much to the consternation of the apartment maintenance man - a former Cop who was forced into retirement when, according to him, "A punk shot him in the chest and leg shattering his knee and rendering him unable to pass the physical." It was nearly a daily occurrence that we heard about the latest act of vandalism that Randy had to repair due to what had become known as the activities of 'the brat pack'.

It was, though the following story, that when shared with Randy, made him laugh out loud and wave goodbye with extra friendliness whenever he saw the mom leaving for work. As he lived on the opposite end of the complex, he was never privy to the weekly show that took place at our end of the building.

The only day of the week that Mom had off was Sunday. And even though she was young, she was determined to make certain that her children knew the love and guidance of the Lord. Every Sunday, at ten minutes to 11:00, the family would burst out of their apartment in a flurry of chaos, dressed in their Sunday best; Mom in the lead and the kids in tow, looking as uncomfortable and unhappy as possible.

Mom would set her mug of coffee on the roof of the Oldsmobile classic, dig about in her purse for her keys only to remember that they were in the apartment. As she would furiously stomp back to the apartment she would shout over her shoulder "Ok guys, get in the fucking car, I'll be right back out and we need to get to church - lets try not to be late this week for Christ's sake!"

And that was when the show really began.

Kid 1, the eldest of the bunch was a girl around the age of 12 would attempt to round up the team of boys and get them into the car as Mom directed. Her shouting and swearing resulted in the bunch of them running about the car in an endless loop that was accompanied by lots of vulgarity (we were honestly shocked at all the words these kids not only knew, but used).

At some point, Kid 3 would make a break from the group, jump up on the hood of the car and start bouncing up and down on it as if it were a trampoline.

Kid 2 would continue to egg on Kid 1 renewing the track meet about the car. Kid 4 would jump up on the hood of the car, forcing Kid 3 from the hood onto the roof. At this point, the entire car would be shaking, warping and protesting the two kids jumping up and down on it, never in time with each other.

Kid 6, who was more of a toddler than a Kid, would be standing in the same place she'd been left, looking onward to the circus with her own clothes a disheveled and hair not quite in place.

Kid 5 had usually gone rogue by this point and had dragged the hose used to water the foundation plantings out from where it was stored. Just as the circus seemed to be running out of energy, the hose would be turned on and everyone sprayed with icy-cold water.

Seeing that Mom's coffee mug was still in place on the roof of the car, Kid 3 would momentarily stop jumping, take aim and with all his might, kick the mug off the car and down the parking lot.

It was usually at this point that Charles' would critique Kid 3's kick noting both the distance and array of the coffee splatter. "That one was impressive... it's certainly better than last weeks. It's almost as though he's been practicing. Ope! It's now 10 after. They are really running late this week."

Most weeks, it was at this moment that Mom would reappear. Seeing the pandemonium she would yell out "What the Hell?!" and it was as if time stood still; all movement and noise ceased and the kids stood frozen in place. Mom would typically continue spouting off a series of commands blended in with swear words, and as though in shock, Kid 5, hose still in hand, would turn to face Mom with a look of fear on his face. And nearly every single week, she got nailed right in the face with a jet of ice-cold water; sometimes more often than others.

She would stop mid-word, her mouth in a perfectly shaped 'O', shake her hands to flick the water away, look at her watch and after taking a moment to realize what time it was, shriek "Holy Shit! We are so F'n Late! Get in the G'D Car we need to GO!!"

With that, the stooges all piled into the clown car, mom managed to get it to sputter to life one more time, they would pull out, and head out to church with a trail of black exhaust behind them.

As silence returned to our neighborhood, a nearby neighbor would go out, turn the water off and return the hose to it's proper location. Over the course of the week someone, usually Randy, would collect up the coffee mug and any other wayward belongings.

"Well, that's one more adventure with the LSK's" I said one weekend.

"LSK's?" asked Charles

"Yeah, Little Stephen Kings. They seem like the sort who grow up to be a character in one of his books."

"Oh, I thought you meant Little Shit Kids."

"That works too."

Thusly the perfect covert description for terribly behaved children came to be.




Monday, December 24, 2012

Banta

The Christmas spirit is certainly present in the Olson household. It's Christmas Eve, and the day has been filled with Christmas movies of all genres and flavors, reading Christmas related books for school, eggnog, frosting cookies, dancing for snow and of course, bickering.

The kids, eager to prepare for Santa are busily asking Charles and I for chores that need to be done, areas to be cleaned and what time they need to go to bed in the hopes that Christmas day arrives all the sooner.

JB remembered that we forgot to build the Santa Trap that was the focus of so many energies a few weeks ago, and rather than suggesting that we whip it up tonight, shrugged her shoulders and said "Oh well, we can do it next year!"

When told that cleaning off the stairs that connect the bedrooms to the living area, JB excitedly remembered that one of her school friends shared with her and the class, that if the house was not in order, if the children did not obey mama and daddy, then Banta, Santa's evil twin brother would come instead and no one wanted that to happen!

Banta was indeed an evil twin brother because "he takes all of the good presents from under the tree and leaves only underwear, socks and coal!" Both BW and JB responded in horror at the idea, and quickly collected their belongings and stashed them in their rooms.

Thusly the house is now spotless (save for the kid's rooms), the classic 'A Christmas Story' is playing, and both kids are eagerly gnawing on candy canes while regularly checking out the time. Charles and I quietly laugh at the kids' new found understanding of the movie's humor as we wait for them to tire so we can stow the presents under the tree. (We started this practice years ago, after several presents fell casualties to the inquisitive nature of two busy greyhounds.)

BW wistfully asked if we can watch Polar Express before trucking off to bed, and it is with that lone question with the softened look of warmth and holiday spirit that I knew that we had one more year, hopefully more, before the magic of Santa is no longer found within the hearts of the little ones.

And, knowing this, the Christmas Spirit has arrived within this Mama's heart.






Monday, December 17, 2012

Pleading the Fifth

Today, while the minions were at school, Charles and I took advantage of the kidless time to finish up some last minute gift getting for JB and BW.

While reviewing what we'd collected to date, I asked if Charles' had seen the cord collector critters that I'd picked up along the way. He replied that he had, that they were in one of the piles in 'The Room that holds all gifts Magical and Not-so'.

To his response, I ruefully replied, "Well, it's not as thought BW will actually use it, it seems beyond him to wind any cords up."

"Oh, he just models his behavior after what he sees."

"Pardon me, are you saying that I'm not good at putting things away?"

"I didn't say it."

"So, you ARE saying that I don't."

"No, I didn't."

"You just smiled. You did. Are you also saying he is MY child."

"I plead the Fifth."

"Brat."

"Yup, I plead the Fifth."




Sunday, December 16, 2012

The Tangled Yarn

I just published what is likely my last post on my prior blog. And while those words left me feeling a bit of sadness, the overwhelming feeling is of warmth, comfort and joy. And an eagerness that is irritating the hell out of my little family.

Over the last several months I've come to realize that along the way I have outgrown this blog, this space that has allowed me to work through and share so many many adventures. I am no longer the 'CAD Monkey' of a Landscape Architect that took to the 'Internets' to try and create something, some place that was an indication that I truly existed, even though many times it felt as though I was an invisible S@HM who was swallowed up by the tasks and obligations of small children after having slayed many a dragon as a once upon a time professional working mother.

My god that was a long sentence. *Phew*

As a blogger since 2008, I've seen my writing improve, I've grown as a person and I've found my voice. Where I once thought of myself as a 'Drafting Monkey' I now realize that I am that, but so much more and this blog, this place no longer represents who I see myself to be.

Over the years I've shared stories of my children growing while I hold on by what seems a single thread of sanity during long summer vacations. I've had countless laughs as I put words onto paper of interactions between the MinYons and we their parents. Heartaches and tears have also been shared in talking about the loss, the mourning and the growth achieved from the actual loss of AunT and the virtual loss of my parents and siblings.

And that will continue. I have no idea if I have an audience to 'hear' my voice, but if you are out there, I invite you to join me as I and my little family continue to grow.

I've spent the better part of the weekend moving most of my posts to this site, so that they will continue to live and breath on. You will notice that many of them have been removed from my former blog because like most if not all good things, must come to an end. That included my former blog.

So, at some point, when it feels right it will cease to exist except as a memory. But to me that is not a sad thing. It is something to be celebrated - and so I invite you to join me and I welcome you here, in my little space. Where the only children or dogs allowed are part of the story.

~ Amy





Saturday, December 15, 2012

The Loss of Innocence

I find it both ironic and sickening that I as a volunteer at River City's hospital,  I had to attend 'Active Shooter Training' earlier this week. Yesterday, the airwaves and media are filled with the news of a lone gunman who entered an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut and for reason's yet known, opened fire and took the lives of 20 kindergardeners and several adults.

My heart goes out to the families who's little ones never had a chance to live, to those children who no longer have the blissful joy of childhood ignorance, and for the community forever changed. With only 27,000 members of the town, it is a near certainty that everyone living there knows many of those lives taken or destroyed.

This morning I awoke to find that beyond the sentiments of sorrow from a nation in shock at this tragedy, the news and media are filled with polarizing sentiments regarding the serious nature of the cursed situation that befell the families and community members in Connecticut.

Please, to those who are calling for action at this moment, do not diminish the loss of these innocents by politicizing the behavior of what is one sick individual and to not cast blame without knowing the details of the situation.

This is not about guns, this is about something far deeper and it will not be solved if we do not come together as guardians of our young and without casting blame and declaring who is more righteous than the other.

Now is the time to pause and mourn the innocence lost. Once the tiny souls have been put to rest, let us then begin the process of preventing this from happening again.




Sangria Sampler

The holiday swing is definitely underway if it's any indication of the shorter days punctuated by the bright holiday light displays, not that one would be able to tell by looking at the weather report. No, in spite of the season it's sunny and warm outside and not one snowflake has been seen in the ... well, beyond current memory at least and a bit longer for certain.

Even without the snow to bring about the merriment of the season, bright eyes, reddened cheeks, frozen noses and the swishing of snow pants, holiday parties are solidly upon us.

For those hosting a gathering of sorts I post this recipe for a Sangria that is bound to be a favorite in the hours before guests are expected to arrive.


The Sangria Sampler

Prep Time: 5 minutes
Ready in: 30 - 45 minutes

Ingredients:


  • 1 Bottle of your favorite red wine
                   (Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Rioja, Zinfandel, Shiraz)
  • 1 Lemon
  • 1 Orange
  • 1 Lime
  • 1 Cup of raspberries or strawberries
  • A decorative serving bowl


  • Preparation:

    - Place fruit on working surface.

    - As you open the bottle of wine, look at fruit.

    - Drink red wine while poking fruit.

    - Put fruit into a bowl while drinking wine.

    - Poke fruit some more as you 'sample' wine.

    - If needed, select another bottle of your favorite red wine and repeat.

    - Enjoy!

    Best of luck with your party (may it be the talk of the town!), and Happy Holidays!




    Friday, December 14, 2012

    On Creativity

    Much of this last year has been spent reading, writing, running, and juggling several different schedules while maintaining the focus needed to excel at both school and work. I can comfortably say, without bragging, that I am very good at what I do, and people rely on me to continue to put forth high quality work while maintaining warm and nurturing relationships with those I engage.

    In order to succeed at this, though, the insatiable urge to write, to put words on paper and release the emotion, creativity and thoughts that occupy the ever increasing corners of my mind is put on hold. Without tending to these 'creative juices', I've found myself becoming increasingly tense and resentful towards those around me who assume that I will take up any slack that arises. Outside of school and work, "I'll take care of it." is a phrase that I've uttered too often these last several weeks leaving me with fewer and fewer stretches of time to commit to the creativity within.

    I've asked for advice and guidance from those I know who are creative on the manner in which they have been able to overcome the distractions, the 'To Do' lists and countless demands that render me too tired to spin words together in cohesive thought.

    Most of the sentiments, well intended but lacking in detail were of the nature that 'If you want to, you will.'

    Charles, though, sent me a presentation he'd seen at work by John Cleese of Monty Python fame, in which he talked at length in a humorous manner on how one unlocks their creativity. It took more than a month to force myself to set aside the ever expanding 'To Do' lists: no internet searches or emails, no multi-tasking of any kind. Watching this 35 minute presentation was amongst the hardest things I've had to do in a long while. But the information Mr Cleese shared was exactly what I'd been looking for and needed (as well as the laughter that went alongside it).

    As a planner by nature, I seek information. Without the answers to 'How to' or 'Why' I am left grasping for a plan of action. His advice was simple, obvious and yet profound. If you are looking for ways in which to unlock your own creativity, I recommend that you cut out a few precious moments from your day and take a look at what he has to share.

    To summarize his wisdom on getting into the 'Open' or creative mode you need:

    • Space - a reliably available location in which you can get away from all of the pressing demands in your life.
    • Time - a specific space of time with a definite beginning or end that allows you the 'permission' needed to release the responsibilities of your real world so that your mind is free to create, to ponder and play.
    • Time - once your boundaries on creative time have been established, recognize that you need a period of an hour and a half in which your mind is allowed to relax and become free to wander, to delve into the impossible and explore the absurd. Less than that and you do not allow yourself to fully engage.
    • Confidence - allow yourself to believe that whatever happens in your creative mode (within reason of course), it's ok. Make sure that your 'play' friends are those you like and trust and that you give yourself as much time as you need (or is possible) to explore all of your ideas before you pick one to follow. And when you do pick one, don't turn back. Be committed.
    • Humor - there is a difference between being serious, and being solemn. Even the most serious of topics are made easier to embrace with humor.
    It is a certainly that life is not going to become any easier. As Min and BW grow older, their schedules are becoming increasingly complex as are the demands on mine and Charles. My work and school will continue to occupy most of my day as does the needs of my little family. 

    But with the tangible advice provided by Mr. Cleese, I am now able to identify and carve out time in the week to make mine and replenish the 'creative juices' within. And at last, that nervous energy that has been such a distraction has started to ease up a bit.

    Finally.




    Monday, December 10, 2012

    Fluid Expansion

    An actual quote from the girl, while looking over a question on her homework on thermometers:

     "Yes mama. I KNOW what fluid expansion is, it's not like I'm six you know!"

    What she was trying to ask was why did the portions of the thermometer look like they were out of scale with each other. I thought she was asking why the numbers increased as they went up the thermometer.

    My days are numbered.




    Sunday, December 2, 2012

    Like a Woman

    Charles and I were relaxing while the children dealt out their delay tactics one by one in their attempte to avoid bedtime. As they neared the end of their 'play deck' BW began calling out in a demanding squall.

    "Mama!" …

    "Mama!" …

    "Mama!"

    "What!?"

    "JB is talking to me like she is a WOMAN!"

    "How So?"

    "She's being rude to me!!"

    Charles began laughing under his breath at BW's complaint.

    "And she's being bossy!?"

    And with that, Charles choked on his iced tea.

    BW better watch out. JB's only seven.




    Saturday, December 1, 2012

    Pariah

    pa·ri·ah
    [puh-rahy-uh];noun
    1. an outcast.
    2. any person or animal that is generally despised or avoided.

    It was a little more than one year ago, in late March that I received a message that confirmed all I'd suspected, all I knew to be true but did not want to acknowledge. Gordon's phone call was the dose of reality that held me fast and forced me to acknowledge that though I was blood, I was no longer a part of the Gifford family.

    My grandfather, the patriarch that no one ever envisioned as ever being able to embody anything but vitality had passed. Time had made it known to Jack that even he was submissive to its tendrils. His time upon this earth came to an end at home with his beloved by his side, in a manner that a man of his station required. It was not as pleasant as though he passed in this sweet goodnight, but when his time came it was with dignity and respect.

    Or so I'd heard.

    Third hand.

    When the call came, a week after the angels called him home. It was my brother Gordon who informed me that 'it was best if I didn't attend the funeral. That it would be too much for my father, too much for everyone.' and that 'I would be a distraction from the celebration of the life my Grandfather led.'

    I did not attend as requested out of respect for my Grandfather, and my Grandmother whom was left to grieve. I knew that though the words stung, they were true. My father would not be able to control himself in spite of the occasion and a scene would ensue, embarrassing all involved.

    Reading Gordon's blog after it was updated, it was clear that neither my little family nor I were missed. It was clear then, and is clearer now that I am the pariah.
    The one that when a family comes together to celebrate, mourn or play, people worry that I will attend.

    My brother Brady moved sometime last summer. We found out when a birthday card came for Charles a few weeks after his birthday passed in early September. The postmark was Salem, Oregon, where the family home had been in Idaho and no return address was given. We only recently learned where Brady's family now lives, and it's nearly Christmas.

    Thanksgiving is about family, coming together and sharing those things, those people and the intangibles in one's life that they are thankful for; even when you don't get along.

    After being a focused upon subject in school for a few weeks, BW and JB asked if my parents, their grandparents, were still alive, as we'd not heard from them since they last saw them at AunT's funeral in Spokane. That, and so many of their friends have grandparents who are active in their day-to-day lives.

    Charles's parents who live 4 hours away by plane take part in their lives as much as they are able and for that we are grateful.

    To JB and BW, it made sense. If the grandparents weren't present in their lives, it was because they were no longer living; not because the family was so entirely dysfunctional that they could no longer associate with one of their children. But that is in fact what has happened.

    It's the result of year’s worth of misunderstandings, poor communication and missteps on my part as well as others. Together we played a role in what has become the fray of the family. But now my position within that primary family upon which I was raised is clear as is where I stand. And truly where my future lies.

    Those I was raised with do not know me and have not for quite some time. They have made it so very clear through their subtle, subconscious and overt requests that I am not welcomed nor wanted to participate in their lives.

    It wasn't Gordon's phone call late last march that served as the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. No. That was left to the Christmas card that we received in the mail. The one that announced a new child into their lives, to be born sometime this coming summer.

    Gordon deems it an oversight; that life caught up too quickly is the reason he didn't call to let us know that his little family was expecting. But it occurred during a time when we'd exchanged several calls, primarily about the Thanksgiving holiday that had recently passed.

    That I am not welcome to join them isn't what hurts the most. Quite the contrary.
    That acknowledgment is a relief. No longer do we have to go through the stressful and awkward rituals of forced family engagements that leave us all exhausted and dreading the next culturally mandated interaction.

    No. What hurts is the realization that no matter how hard I was to try to convince them through words or deeds, they would mock me and say that I was only seeking attention. That I play the part of a victim or martyr.

    That is not who I am though, and each time that I rise to defend myself from such accusations, I participate in the demise of my own character. And so why post this? To finish this particular chapter, to put the 'fin' at the end of that pattern of behavior and subconscious acceptance of the idea that I am inferior.

    The collective 'they' would disagree. But that is the beauty of it all; I don't have to participate in that conversation any longer.





    Thursday, November 29, 2012

    'The Can'

    Many moons ago Charles sent me a link to a poem called the "Statistical Abstract for My Home of Spokane, Washington" by Jess Walter.  Written by a celebrated author in Spokane, this piece is more apt at capturing the essence of the city than any other attempt I've ever seen.

    The roots in Spoke run deep and they are loyal. Blood means more than anything, and while many of the kids I grew up with were regularly beaten by their own, should you cross the path of one of their 'kin' you better run for cover, cause they will fight you to the death.

    It is a town of extremes, but with a common love for the BMX bike. Even a google street view of my parents house taken within the last few years shows a faceless guy wearing a 'beater shirt', gangland pants riding his seat-too-low BMX.

    It's the kind of Town you love or hate, you want to live in or leave and there is rarely an in-between. But there is one thing for certain that can be said about the town. It has a stubborn spirit and is the source of many a tall tale, but it is the kind of town that won't be pushed around, and has made the news so many times, that when people ask you where you grew up, no state is needed to identify it's location.

    Is that a good thing or not?  I haven't quite figured it out yet.




    Tuesday, November 27, 2012

    MineCraft Lego


    The Possibilities of a Ghost

    During this past Halloween season, BW's scout troop organized a 'Walking Ghost Tour' through the more historic parts of River City for theirs and other dens in the pack. It was a great deal of fun, and the fall weather set the perfect stage for learning a bit of the varied history of our little town, and all present were impressed with the sheer number of stories about lost souls, murders, and ill-timed deaths of former residents of our town.

    To set the mood before we began our tour, our guide dramatically reviewing what ghosts and orbs were, and how to look out for the presence of souls left behind while out and about on our stroll.

    One child, obviously caught up in the spirit of the event, mentioned excitedly that "When ghosts are present the air temperature drops, and you can even see your breath!"

    "That's right!" encouraged our host, "So if it feels cold, it could be a ghost!" Looking around the room it was obvious that the other scouts and their chaperone's were just as engaged as the guide and  the outspoken little one.

    From the back of the crowd, BW could be heard responding "That, or air conditioning."





    Thursday, November 22, 2012

    The Flu Shot Saved My Life

    As with nearly every description for the flu, the aching started in my knees, elbows and shoulders and soon moved into my major muscles.  The sight and smell of food left me nauseous and by the end of the workday, I was running a fever.

    When I awoke the next morning, my fever was in full swing, and every fiber of my being protested the slightest movement. Even my hair seemed to hurt. But this wasn't supposed to be happening since I'd gotten my flu shot well over two weeks before, and it should have provided me some protection.

    After playing 'Flu Bingo' at the Doctors office, I was given a flu test to determine if I was a candidate for Tamiflu, which is said to shorten the severity and duration of the illness. When the test came back as negative, I was sent home with the diagnosis of 'a virus similar to the flu but not the flu' and told to drink lots of fluids and get rest.

    Over the weekend, the fevers ranged from 103 to 106 and I lost nearly 10 pounds from sweating thru all the linens in the house. Monday, after calling the doctor again, I was advised to visit the ER as the sustained temperatures that I'd experienced were life threatening. After vials and vials of blood was taken, x-rays run and tests performed, I was pumped full of fluids and sent home to recover from the same virus I'd been diagnosed with the Friday before.

    Eighteen hours later, the ER called instructing me to return as soon as possible with the message that I was near death could they call me a cab? Upon arrival, my temperature was 105, and Charles had to act as my Power of Attorney due to my exceptional delirium.

    Following further blood draws, a series of CTs, another IV loaded with heavy concentrations of a broad spectrum antibiotic, I was given a bed on the cardiac ward of the nearby hospital. In sweating so profusely, my potassium levels had dropped to 'levels incompatible with life' and thusly I was at an extreme risk for a heart attack. The Doctor in charge told us that none of the doctors on staff nor the hospital records had ever seen the low levels I registered in a live patient.

    During this exchange of information, the nurses were administering a potassium drip. The painful sensation of fire invading my blood vessels was so severe that in my delirium, I tried desperately to pull the IV out before they stopped the drip and diluted it out. The one saving grace was that I was so sick, so incapacitated from illness and fever that I mercifully fell into a semi-conscious state of sleep and I don't remember the remainder of the day.

    It took two days and endless collections of blood to determine why I was so ill and two more days to determine if the medication I was receiving was effective. At that time all they knew was that I had a severe case of sepsis, and that massive antibiotics were being administered in the hopes that the infection could be controlled before any organs began to fail. Finally, the culprit was identified as an antibiotic resistant form of E. coli.

    In becoming so distracted by work and life, I'd developed a kidney infection that eventually went septic and was unaware of until it became so virile that it nearly killed me. As I experienced no pain from the inflamed kidney, it was missed when I went to the doctor and the first time I visited the ER. It was only by having a CT that they were able to find the source of the sepsis, and by that point, it was so far along that the lab had to run a triple titration to achieve a measurable level of CRP indicators for the infection.

    After 5 days in the hospital, I was allowed to go home, with gobfulls of medications and strict instructions that if my fever returned by even a single degree that I was to return to the hospital immediately, and instructions to not do any work, to not lift any weight until my strength had returned.

    After two weeks of light bed rest I returned to work and it took a full year for my body as a whole to recover. I know this because I had bi-monthly blood draws to monitor my organ health. My kidneys were the first to recover, my liver, skin and hair the last.

    Several months later I ran across the Doctor who treated me, and we conversed about how I was fairing. She admitted to me that I was a 'dead man walking' when I'd been admitted, and the staff had prepared themselves for my untimely passing. Even then, with the information she shared with me, I didn't fully appreciate how sick I'd been. Neither had Charles.

    Ironically, it was that night while watching one of the sciencey medical mystery shows was on that Charles dreads that we both came to realize just how close I'd come to death. Featured on it was a story of a man who was attending a business seminar and turned in early saying that he felt ill from either too much booze or the flu and missed the second day of presentations due to raging fevers. It was on the third day that he was found to have passed away sometime during the night. The cause of his death was determined to be sepsis resulting from a kidney infection.

    It was then that I realized that were it not for having had the flu shot, I would have dismissed the illness I suffered from as the flu, and I could have quiet possibly passed away as a result of an asymptomatic kidney infection.

    I shudder to think of the life my little ones and Charles would lead without me. When the occasion presents itself to talk about this frightening period in our lives we can't help but grow emotional. As we nearly lost all that we had.

    Ironically, I nearly didn't get a flu shot that year. It was inconvenient, and due to vaccine shortages the clinic was really late that year.

    Looking back though, I'm very glad that I did. I don't like to think of what might have been if I hadn't.




    Monday, November 19, 2012

    The Planet

    If you've read the post Good Intentions, you know that I've been dreading one of the many 'talks' to be had with BW about adult and mature topics. It's not THE talk, but one about the Boy Scouts of America and the 3G's; Girls, Gays and Godless.

    Ever since BW began Boy Scouts, it's been a tenuous journey. He and JB are such close friends and whenever JB thought she couldn't do something, regardless of what it was, BW was there to rally her. And none of us liked the fact that the only country where Boy Scouts doesn't let girls join is here, in the United States - the land of the free and 'equal'.

    After dropping JB off at dance class, BW and I were out running errands, and I used the opportunity for some Mama/Son conversation.

    "BW, I have a question for you."

    "Yes Mama?"

    "So, you know how unfair it is that your sister can't participate in Boy Scouts, right?"

    "Um-hum."

    "Well, not only do the Boy Scouts not let girls in, but they also don't let in what they call 'Gay' people."

    "Yeah. that doesn't seem right ... Mama, what is gay?"

    "Well. It describes what kind of person you fall in love with. For the Boy Scouts, it means that when a boy grows up into a man, he falls in love with and wants to marry another man. The Scouts says that isn't ok, and you can't be part of their group if you are like that. But, I'm uncomfortable with that rule because I don't think that it's ok to tell people that they aren't good enough to join your group because of the way they are born. What do you think?"

    "I get what you are saying, and it seems like that rule is kind of silly. JB is stronger and more talented than any of the boys in Scouts. Besides we don't spend our times hugging and holding hands. I wish we spent more time using our knives and learning how to shoot and respecting the blood zone. I need to teach JB about that. You don't want any blood in your blood circle."

    "Well, there is the third G, and that is for people who believe in or have a God."

    "You mean they don't want those people to be part of their group?"

    "That's right. If you don't believe in God, they say 'no thank you' to joining them."

    "Well. You don't have to worry Mama because I have a God."

    "You do?" I asked somewhat startled as neither religion not the topic of God have been a significant focus in our home.

    "Yeah! It's Uranus." Pronouncing it as 'Your-anus' rather than Yer-anus. "We learned all about him in school. He is a Greek God, and he's so important that they even named a planet after him! Isn't that COOL!?"

    "Oh ... Well, I guess."

    "Yeah. So. There, you don't have to worry."

    "And, how do you show respect for him?"

    "Oh, I sit and think quietly. And wonder how I can be like him, and someday have a planet named after me."

    Well. Alright.

    Later that night as we were eating dinner, the subject of God came up again as I mentioned to Charles that apparently BW had one.

    "Yeah! He has a planet named after him!"

    Looking confused, Charles raised his eyebrows and asked, "And his name is...."

    "Uranus!"

    At the mention of God, JB became upset and said that it was no fair, that BW had a God and she didn't. To which BW said that she could have Uranus as a God too.

    "But I don't want Uranus!"

    "It's not spelled MY-anus, it's UR-anus. And he's so strong we can share him."

    "Ewww! I don't want Uranus, I want my own!"

    At that point, Charles and I exchanged a glance, sighed deeply and surfed the wave of chaos. I don't remember much after that as the two began to bicker in earnest about how one spelled and pronounced the God of Uranus and whether or not he could be shared.

    The Greek God. And oh, by the way... He has a planet named after him.









    Tales from the backseat #8903

    Driving home from what was a rare but greatly appreciated uneventful dinner out at a local restaurant JB's happy little voice began singing, to the tune of 'Jingle Bells' a little merry song. It took the entire trip home to figure out what she was singing, and it wasn't until I found myself softly humming along that I realized what the words to her little song were...

    'Eat some food, take a pooh, have a little nap'

    "JB! That's disgusting!"

    "I know mama, but isn't it true?" as she skipped off to get ready for bed.




    Friday, November 16, 2012

    Hair Helmet

    After BW's team suffered yet another crushing loss at his soccer game we were tooling about running errands and trying to figure out where we wanted to stop off for lunch.

    Out of the blue Min cheerily asked "Daddy, soon can I get a hair helmet?"

    Coughing, Charles asked her, "Uh, what do you mean?"

    "I want a hair helmet."

    "A what?"

    "A HAIR helmet! When can I get one?"

    "Well, what, exactly do you mean by a 'hair helmet'?"

    "Silly daddy! It's a helmet that has hair on it so that when you are out riding your bike you still look stylish! They are very cool looking!"

    "Oh, well then. Hum. So, mama, did you hear that? JB wants a hair helmet."

    "I did. I think that is a very 'interesting' idea but I'm not sure how to go about finding one."

    "Yup." said JB "I'll be the coolest kid in school! Walking, wheeling Wednesday's won't ever be the same!"

    Under his breath, Charles muttered "You got that right."




    Wednesday, October 17, 2012

    Good intentions

    "L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés et désirs" 

    Crossroads suck. You know, the kind of situation where a decision needs to be made and no matter which choice you make, someone is going to be completely frustrated and disappointed. In all likelihood, this is also a milestone that will be reflected upon as a defining moment in BW's childhood. Frustratingly, the dilemma is becoming an increasingly uncomfortable discussion between Charles and me.

    BW is a Cub Scout and he loves everything about it. The reliability of the meeting structure and order, the variety of the activities they participate in, the ceremonial progression from one rank to another, that he can earn badges and the common experience that he is sharing with boys of his own age from his school, around town and all walks of life. Other than soccer, scouts is the one activity that he is consistently passionate about and that he takes a great deal of pride in.

    He has also developed a great deal of self-confidence as the result of seeing his badges, his accomplishments. Through his involvement with scouts, building friendships has become less of a struggle that has benefited all aspects of his social life. As a den, his group of friends and their families are some of the best people that we could ever hope to call friends.

    But, it's the scouts. And as an organization, I object to many of their positions, but two of them have given me sleepless nights.

    In most other countries, girls are allowed to participate as full members. But not in America. No. In this land of the free and equal, girls are not allowed to participate unless it is a 'family' activity. JB has, a number of times, voiced her disappointment at having been born in the wrong country or as the wrong sex. At first it was easy to dismiss as a good old boy's network, but with each conversation she has pressed me more and more to the point that I've become more vocal that, like her, I don't agree that girl's aren't allowed. I've told her that she is perfect in every way, but that the Boy Scouts of America won't let her and other girl's join because they are afraid of her strength, her mad abilities in art, science, math and English. That NO, just because she doesn't have a penis, she is not less of a person... Quite the opposite in fact. But still the rejection lingers.

    In an effort to help her along with her seemingly second-class citizen viewpoint, I... *sigh*... I am starting up a Girl Scout troop. But it's going to involve more than selling cookies and sing-a-longs and I hope that in some sense I can do right by her.

    But, I agree with her. It isn't the same. So far - it seems like the cub scouts are a heck of a lot more organized and focused on the growth of the child than the girl scouts are. Comparing activity calenders - to the unindoctrinated eye, girl scouts puts a great part of their focus on selling the cookies whereas scouts puts their focus on developing the boy into a man.

    But BW is still a boy. And that is where the dilemma comes from. At the as yet not grown age of eight, BW does not yet understand the concept of 'homosexual' vs 'heterosexual'. He's heard the term gay in reference to friends, but is blissfully ignorant of the full extend of the modern meaning of the word. As his parents, it is our job, our very challenging and often thankless task of raising him to be the best BW that he can be.

    For me that means that he does not disrespect a person due to their color, religion, orientation, social status or education. But scouts doesn't see it as we do. Of course they teach respect, but not if you happen to fall into the categories of girl, godless or 'gay'.

    Unlike some, I believe that orientation is not a choice, but is in fact, an aspect of who a person is - just as if they were right or left handed. So when I read in the paper that a young man believed so much in the scouts that he stuck with it and worked his tail off to earn the rank of Eagle Scout but was denied this honor due to his orientation and his lack failure in his 'Duty to God'.

    Again, it's brought the topic to the forefront. In part because I disagree with this position that the Boy Scouts of America has taken and the fear that people who disagree with the BSA position might express their opinions to the only representation of the organization that they see - my little boy who is dutifully selling popcorn to raise money for his den and has no concept or understanding of the controversy. So, whenever the task of escorting him comes up, the conversation is renewed.

    As a private organization, the BSA is granted the right to set the standards and positions that they choose. And yes, we have the right to reject those and chose not to participate in their... hate. Even though it is apparent that our Den does not agree with the national organization on this stance. Even though our BW simply loves everything about his group. Since he was able to walk and talk, BW has expressed his love for his country and his desire to do his best to represent what freedom means. (This passion by the way, must come from deep within as neither Charles nor I are overt in our opinions on the matter.)

    Neither of my brothers participated in Boy Scouts, and it was never really a past time of people I grew up with, so when BW expressed interest in joining, I approached the situation cautiously with trepidation as I tend to do with organized groups. But Charles, having been a scout himself provided assurance that either BW would naturally leave the group as his interest waned. If it turned out that he developed an interest in it, we would converse with him as he grew older and let him make the decision for himself without feeling undue pressure from either Charles or me.

    I'm not sure that I can wait that long. Nor am I sure that he wouldn't understand that conversation right now. Our last several discussions have been impressively mature with BW expressing his knowledge and opinions with a greater clarity that I could have ever hoped for from a child of his age.

    I know that it is an easy and obvious decision for most. But how do you explain to a child that they can no longer participate in something they love and believe in without having them grow up far faster than they should by participating in conversations that should be reserved for adults.

    Nearly any experienced parent has said at one time or another that kids grow up so fast, and that their youthful bliss and wonder needs to be enjoyed while it lasts. And, in a way, I'm trying to extend his blissful ignorance for as long as I can. But as I celebrate and provide support for gay friends as they pursue the right to marry, it's becoming increasingly difficult to celebrate and support something that the boy loves that is not inclusive.

    I guess I really am a mean mama.

    I wonder if there is a badge for that, 'cause, I think I'm going to earn it.