Reflection

So, I went for it, that opportunity in my last post.  I didn't think it was likely to work out.  I wasn't really sure I wanted it to, but I went for it.  I did it mostly to break free of the fear, but also just for the experience.

As it turns out, I didn't have enough of it -- experience, that is.  But it's funny how taking an opportunity to examine your life and what you want to do with it can help you clarify just what it is that you do want to do, or what you want to try.   I'm not making any major changes, but I'm stepping up my game just a little.  I'm tired of coasting. 

I don't know.  Maybe it's my birthday that is quickly -- so quickly -- approaching.  It's a milestone year, 40 is.  I don't have any real anxiety about turning 40.  In fact, I feel energized in some ways.  Maybe part of it is that life feels like it's going by so quickly.  Wasn't it just Monday night?  And here it is Monday night again?  I want to take advantage of as many opportunities as I can.  Be the best I can be.  Does that sound hokey?  Maybe it's true that we get more sentimental, cheesier as we get older.  Or maybe it's just an appreciation.

My husband threw a surprise party for me Saturday night.  I was completely taken by surprise and it was so much fun hanging out with people from so many different parts of my life.  I looked at my life and realized that you know what?  I've got it pretty good.  It's a good life.  It's going to be a good year.

Take a Moment

The other day as I was leaving work, some crows in a tree above my head were going crazy.  There must have been at least 4 of them and they were hopping up and down on the branches and cawing like crazy.  I looked a little closer and there, nestled among the branches, was a hawk.  A BIG hawk.

The crows must have finally gotten to him (her?) because all of a sudden, the hawk took off.  It wasn't very high up in a tree to start with and when it took flight, it felt like it swooped right over my head.  I might have even ducked.  I was near the bus stop on campus, which was crowded with students.  Do you know that not one single person looked up to watch the drama that was being played out above our heads?

Since then I've seen the hawk three times.  I don't think he's necessarily my spirit guide, like Sarah's (though I *love* the idea of this).  I mean, nothing super awesome has happened after I've seen him.  I just love the fact that this hawk, this beautiful animal, has made his home on North Campus.  I love this little bit of nature in the middle of town.  Hawks are probably tied with owls as my favorite bird and I'm thrilled every time I see him.

This morning it was the crows that again tipped me off to his presence.  Again, I was the only one who saw him.  I wanted to stop and yell out "Look everybody!  Look at that beautiful bird.  Look at this beautiful world we live in."

In the words of Ferris Bueller, life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Friendship: It's harder than it looks

Recently I was talking to a friend about Punkin and her seeming lack of social skills and her self-reported lack of friends at school.  "I just don't think she knows how to be friends" I said.  I've watched her interact with kids in our neighborhood and she just seems...lost.

And I realized over the weekend that the apple truly doesn't fall far from the tree.  I don't know how to be friends either.   I mean, I DO, but I don't feel like I'm good at it.

There have been some times when my feelings have been hurt when I wasn't included in something.  I was talking to Mr. Daddy about it and he said "Well, you haven't really been making any effort.  YOU don't reach out to THEM."  And I realized he was right.

I think some of it goes back to some events in elementary and middle school when a group of girls was mean to me.  That was one of the most painful periods of my life and I think has led to a continued distrust of most females.  It's very difficult for me to let my guard down and be friendly.  I always wonder in the back of my mind, "Do they really like me?"  You'd think after 20+ years I'd be able to let that stuff go.  Not so much, as it turns out.

But I was also never one to talk on the phone as a teenager.  I never asked for a phone in my room.  If my friends called, I'd chat for a moment and then say "I gotta go."  I was always comfortable spending time alone (except for that brief period in college to which we will not refer at this time.  ahem.)

I don't know what it is.  I just get home from work and sort of cocoon into my family.  I think this has been made worse recently by the fact that I'm tired and overwhelmed with work and all of my responsibilities.  I've been working on learning to say no  and some of the pressure feels like it's lessening.

This is not to say that I don't have friends.  I do.  But as I texted back to a friend the other day, I just feel like I haven't been a very good one.   And to all those people who are my friends, this time that old cliché is true.  It's not you.  It's me.

Reflections on 39

So, I turned 39 a couple of weeks ago. Really, it was no big deal. I don't FEEL 39, whatever that means. I feel like I look pretty good for my age. I'm probably in the best shape of my life (cardio-wise anyway) due to my awesome KG Ladies Running Club (that's the cheesy name we gave ourselves) and the 3.5 miles we run 2-3 times a week.

I wasn't freaking out about turning nearly 40, is what I'm saying.

But then. Then I started getting what I would call "wild hairs." And no, I'm not talking about chin whiskers or anything like that. I'm talking about crazy ideas.

Like getting my nose pierced.

Or having hot pink hair.

See, I've always wanted to do those things and now I feel like it's too late. For one, I can't really have either at my job. I could probably swing the nose stud, but should I? Really?

For Halloween this year I did a modified Goth girl costume. I spiked my hair and put fake studs in my lip and nose and ears. Several people who saw me said "Wow, you really pull that off. I bet you've got a little bit of rocker girl down inside." And you know what, I DO!

There are so many things I wish I'd done when I was younger that now I feel like I'm too old for. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying I'm OLD, just too old for these particular things.

I feel like I want to do SOMETHING to prove that I'm still young, still wild at heart if not so much in action. I just don't know what that SOMETHING is.

I miss my blog

You might not believe it, since I seem to have abandoned it so readily, but I miss my blog. I had lunch with the lovely Mir yesterday for the first time in about a year and she commented that I had retreated into my cave for a while and I suppose I did. My online presence has certainly diminished.

There was a period there where things were just kind of blah. I wasn't sad, but I wasn't really happy. I didn't really have anything that felt worthwhile to say to the larger world.

I also "quit" blogging for another reason. Now, this is going to sound extremely egotistical and self-centered, but hey, you're getting the real me here. I quit blogging because I quit getting comments. Oh, I'd get a few from my lovely, loyal readers (you know who you are!), but the traffic that I used to get was gone. And it hurt, I'm not gonna lie. My self worth as a writer was tied to the number of comments I received or how much traffic I got that day. I couldn't help but compare myself to those bloggers that I considered my equal whose traffic only seemed to be increasing. And I was jealous. And I didn't like feeling that way, so I just quit. That's the easiest way out, right? Instead of working to be like them, I just quit.

I was having lunch with a new writer friend a week or so ago and I was talking to her about how when I was younger I always wanted to be a writer and she interrupted me to say "You ARE a writer." And that stopped me cold. Am I? Maybe I am.

I'm not going to make any promises about posting here regularly. I hope I will. My intentions are good. But we all know what road is paved with good intentions, right? So. I'm back. Sort of. Maybe.

Yes? No? Maybe?

So....yeah, I suck.

But, y'all, I have been SO busy. Since I last posted Punkin has turned five, I've been going to boot camp two nights a week, and we go to church on Wednesday nights. Nobody reads blogs on Friday (so they say) and my weekends have all of sudden been consumed by College Football (woot!), birthday parties, and sleepovers.

Also, there's been a lot of stuff brewing in my head and when that happens I find that it becomes harder and harder to just sit down and write. In part because I'm still struggling to define my thoughts about this issue and in part because it will be nearly impossible to convey the wild swings my brain takes whenever I start to think about this. But, the only way through it is to do it, so here goes.

Y'all remember the whole saga about the Autism specialist to whom Punkin was referred, right? That's a lot of links, so if you don't feel like reading it I'll sum it up for you:

• daughter was referred to Autism specialist at 4 year well visit, though to be high functioning Asperger's
• called Specialist and found out there was a lengthy wait AND they don't take our insurance. Cost: $350. High but do-able. Began wait for appointment.
• 9 months later, called by Specialist. Daughter's behavior had vastly improved so we weren't sure what to do.
• Interwebs (and gut) said we should take the appointment just to see what they had to say.
• Found out that testing had increased to $1400 and they still didn't take our insurance. The cost plus our feeling that she was "okay" caused us to decline our appointment.

Fast forward another several months. Punkin's behavior continues to improve, though she still has issues with being extremely shy and still occasionally prone to meltdowns. However, at her 5 year well visit, her pediatrician followed up with us in regards to last year's referral. I confidently explained that I didn't think Asperger's was her problem and that we had declined the appointment.

At this point he asked me about a gazillion questions regarding her behavior and by the end of the questioning, somehow, I was again concerned that she DID have Asperger's. The pediatrician's main concern was what he called her "lack of warm fuzzy feelings about her peers."

I immediately thought of all the times Punkin has come home saying "No one will play with me on the playground" or "My friends don't like me." In her 5 short years, this has happened more than you'd think. I've also noticed that while she's friendlier than she used to be to kids she encounters on playgrounds, etc., she doesn't actually play with these kids as much as she plays beside them. For those of you unfamiliar, children with Asperger's often have difficulty with social relationships because they don't know how to read facial expressions and social cues.

Is it Asperger's or is she just shy?

I asked her parapro what happens on the playground and she said that Punkin would come up to her and complain that it was too hot, that she didn't feel like playing.

Was it really too hot or did Punkin just not know how to navigate the social jungle that is the playground?

Then, last week Punkin got a "card pulled" at school for yelling at a little boy. I followed up with her teacher to see what had precipitated the yelling. Punkin was playing a game with a little boy and he wasn't following the rules. Punkin got very upset and yelled at him. More than once. Children with Asperger's are big rule followers and tend to get very agitated if others aren't doing what they're supposed to do.

Is it Asperger's or is she just a rule follower like her mom?

The truth of the matter is, I don't know. But I've spoken with her teachers and we have an appointment with the Assistant Principal, Punkin's teacher, and the School Psychologist next Tuesday to begin the process of having her evaluated. I'm going into this meeting feeling very confused because honestly, I don't know the answer to any of my questions above. And, if my conversation with Mir the other day is any indication, we may not really know anything after the evaluation because it is sometimes difficult to determine at this age what is Asperger's and what is just "being a 5 year old."

There are some (hi, mom!) who wonder why I'm doing this at all. Heck, even I sometimes wonder it, especially when I see my little girl smiling and telling jokes and acting goofy. But there are also other times when I feel like she is unhappy. That there is a social aspect missing from her life. So, I'm doing this because I want to do what's best for my child. I want her to be the best Punkin she can be and I want her to be her most confident self.

So, we have her evaluated. If there's nothing "wrong," we've lost nothing. If it turns out she does have Asperger's, well, then we'll go from there. But at least we'll know.

Deep Thoughts

It seems like a lot of people I know are going through some heavy stuff right now. Having been through some tough times myself, I'm well aware how easy it is to get sucked down into the muck. To despair that things will ever get better. To let one negative thing send me into a spiral of depression.

I'm about to get a little religious up in here, but I hope you will continue to read it even if you aren't religious because I think there is a message here that transcends religion and can touch everybody with a heart.

In Sunday School a couple of weeks ago we watched a video called Whirlwind by Rob Bell, from his Nooma series. We've watched a whole series of this guy's videos and he thinks about religion in a way that I've never encountered. He brings it into real world terms with real world applications. He's caught some flack for his "Hollywood" productions but I guess the reason I like him is that the message he gives urges us to follow Jesus and treat others as Jesus did -- help the poor, the widows, the "least of these."

In Whirlwind, Bell addresses when bad things happen to good people (specifically referencing Job.) We all want answers, but often there are no answers. But what would it be like if we just let it go? And quit wondering? I'm not saying "Oh, there's a reason for everything, it will all be clear eventually." Maybe it will, maybe it won't.

But the most important thing I took from his message was this: when you're sitting in the middle of the shambles that is your job/lack of job/foreclosed house/divorce, just know that your story is not over. Your story is NOT OVER. MY story is not over.

And that, that brings me hope.

This Time Last Year

So, I went to the beach for a week and then when we got back we jumped straight into Bible School at our church.

In planning my vacation, I forgot the importance of a buffer day between one's vacation and returning to real life. On Sunday afternoon we got home around 5:00. I dropped our bags at home, stuffed a load of laundry into the washing machine and ran up to the church to help decorate the Family Life Center for Bible school.

It was a super busy week, one that wore me out completely, but it was a wonderful week, nonetheless. I look back at this time last year, when we had just started attending this church. I wasn't involved in Bible School last year, except to drop Bubba off and pick him up. I got to know a few people on the last night, when we all gathered 'round our minister as she let the boys make an ice cream sundae on her head. That was their reward for bringing in the most school supplies for needy kids. This year the girls won and got to "throw" pies in her face. Our minister, among many other gifts, is a good sport.

But this year was different. This year I was involved, though kind of behind the scenes (as was my request.) And now I have so many friends at my church, so many people I look forward to seeing. So many people that I care about now and that I feel care about me. I'm amazed at what a difference a year can make and I can't help but wonder what amazing transformation I'll be looking back on this time next year.

Anyway, I feel like I've found "my people" here. At last.

Keep Your Politics out of My Social Justice

Warning: This post has some religion in it, but don't be skeered. I'm not a judgmental Christian.

The Bible warns Christians about not bragging about their good works. It even goes so far as to tell you not to let your right hand know what your left is doing, so I hesitate to write about this. But it's on my mind so I'm going ahead.

I also hesitate to write about this because it's going to be somewhat political and I usually do not discuss politics unless I'm almost 100% certain that the person I'm talking to has identical or similar views. However, something happened recently that really made my blood boil and I also find that I'm becoming more and more comfortable stating what I believe. If it makes someone else mad, well, then, that's THEIR problem.

My Sunday school class has recently begun a Food to Kids program with the elementary school my son attends. There are some children in his school who do not have food to eat on the weekends, and frankly, that just breaks my heart. I can't imagine what the lives of those children must be like, but there is no reason that children in the United States of America, children in my own community, should go hungry.

Now there are some people out there who would scream that it's not my job to make sure those kids eat. What are their parents doing? Are they working? If not, are they even trying to get a job? You know what? I don't care what their parents are doing. I mean, yes, I hope that they are trying to work, trying to support their families. But ultimately, what matters to me are those children. They can't help it if their parents are in an unfortunate situation. They are the innocents. They have no control over what happens to them.

Conservative talk show host Glenn Beck recently made headlines (and isn't that really all he's trying to do?) when he said that if your church preaches social justice that that's really just another a code word for Nazism and communism. Really, Glenn? Really?

Because see, the Bible says that Jesus said:

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' (Matthew 25:35-40)

I didn't see anything in that passage that mentioned communism or Nazism. In fact, I didn't see anything regarding politics at all. All I saw was about showing kindness to those in need.

Hell, even if you're not a Christian, putting some good out in the world can only help, right?

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a parent breakfast with Bubba. As part of the program, we played a game using some practice questions for the upcoming standardized test they're going to have to take. Some of the kids' parents weren't able to attend, so the teachers asked the parents who were there to help out. There was a little girl at our table that I helped who broke my heart. Her hands and her face were dirty. Her hair wasn't combed. Her clothes weren't clean. I can't get that little girl out of my mind. So tell me Glenn Beck, am I a bad person because I want to help her?

Hopes Are Dashed, Raised.

And you know what's worse than dashed hopes? When you're the one who's dashed your own hopes. Because you've done the grownup thing. The smart thing. The thing that sucks.

As I said on Facebook this weekend, being a grownup sucks.

I haven't talked a lot on here about mine and Mr. Daddy's financial issues. At first it was because I was a little embarrassed, but then I got massive writer's block and I didn't write much of anything as you all know. But now, now I'm past caring what others think and have come to a place of self-acceptance (mostly).

So, short story long....about two years ago, Mr. Daddy and I seriously downsized in an effort to get ourselves out of a financial hole we had created for ourselves (with the help of an asshat, some Half-Asses, and one severely troubled individual who didn't mean to give me the shaft, but did anyway.).

I mean seriously downsized. When I write my book about the whole ordeal, I'm going to call it "Living My Life Backward: How I Went From Tree-Lined Suburbia to a Double Wide Trailer in My Daddy's Backyard." Seriously.

In the spring of 2008, we moved into a double wide -- a VERY NICE double wide -- about 50 yards down the hill from my dad's house. My dad likes to joke that the crest of the hill he lives on is called Poverty Ridge and I joked to Mr. Daddy that if Daddy lived on Poverty Ridge, then we were at Rock Bottom. And at first it felt that way.

But, downsizing allowed us breathing room with our bills. It allowed us to live without feeling like our noses were to the grindstone every minute of every day. It allowed us to take some small, camping vacations. It gave us the money to allow our kids to do some activities. And next month, I'm going to pay my car off.

For the last month or so, Mr. Daddy and I have been working on plan called a debt snowball. This is where you take any extra money that you have and apply it to your lowest balance revolving debt. Once you've paid it off, you then take that extra money you have, plus what you used to pay on the debt you just paid off and apply it to your next lowest balance. And so on. We've also begun taking a class at our church taught by Dave Ramsey. You might have heard of him -- he's written a couple of best-selling books and has a radio and television show. Anyway, we've been planning to use my car payment money to pay off our debts and we have figured that by the spring of 2011 we can be completely debt free, including the car that Mr. Daddy just bought last summer.

But last weekend, everything changed. We found a house. And it was a really, really good deal. The house was on five acres and was structurally a great house. But, it was a foreclosure and it needed a LOT of work. But Mr. Daddy can lay tile and laminate flooring, and we're both good painters so we weren't really intimidated by the work that needed doing. All we could see was HOUSE. Bigger house. Bigger rooms. A basement.

And we were bewitched by the idea of having people over, our new friends that we've made in this community. We wanted a house that we're not (just a little bit) ashamed of. Our house is so small and even we wonder sometimes how we ended up in this situation. Even though we've come a long way about how we feel about the whole thing, we're still a little nervous to let people know we live in a double wide.

We started picking out paint colors, carpet colors, flooring samples. We talked about what we'd fix up first. Bubba and Punkin picked out their rooms.

But then the grown-ups showed up. Our inner grown ups. And they began to talk and unfortunately, they were making sense. I tried to block them out, but it wasn't working. What we began to realize is that yes, we could buy this house. We could buy it, but our situation wouldn't change. We would just be treading water, nose perilously close to the grindstone once again. We wouldn't be able to pay off any bills. And finally, the lure of being debt free won out over the need for a house.

We have a house. It's not my dream house, but it is a home -- warm in the winter, cool in the summer. What I began to realize is that this house is a means to an end. And that end IS my dream house. Once we're debt free our options will so much greater. And though I was severely disappointed to have pass on that house, I have hope that when the time comes the victory we will have won will be so much sweeter.

The Art of Being You

Before I launch into my Deep Thoughts, I wanted to give y'all an update on Punkin. I didn't really tell y'all about this, but Punkin's eyeball under her upper eyelid was blood red and it was freaking me out. Her pediatrician deemed it a subconjunctival hemmorhage, and while freaky it is basically harmless. He also cut her antibiotic dose in half which has alleviate her stomach troubles.

When she returned to school today all her friends greeted her like Norm walking into Cheers and Mr. Daddy said they all came up and hugged her. Her sweet little smile when she was telling me about it did my heart good, especially when I think back to those months when I worried about her social skills and whether or not she had any friends.

Anyway, back to my Deep Thoughts.

A week or so ago I read a post Alice Bradley wrote over at Finslippy talking about fear. Specifically, she was talking about the fear people get when they've done something creative like write a blog post, or a poem, or paint a picture. There's always going to be someone out there who has something negative to say about whatever topic is at hand. Most of us have had trolls on our blogs (though, thankfully I've had very, very few of them and they actually weren't very troll-y) or have read ugly comments on other people's blogs. Unfortunately, because of the option to comment anonymously, I think that this has let loose upon the world a river of hatred, vitriol, and negativity that I honestly wish we could do without. I'm all for free speech, but I believe that if you want to say it, you should be willing to give your name.

Anyway, I digress. Sort of. Because I haven't really been the target of online negative comments I can only imagine that they are quite hurtful and if received often enough, could dampen one's enthusiasm for the creative process.

But what actually came to my mind when I read Alice's post was my friend Sara. Up until about 3 months ago, Sara had long, full, vibrant, naturally curly hair. It was, so to speak, her crowning glory and the thing that people noticed immediately about her. It was just gorgeous.

But, Sara is also a full time student pursuing her Master's Degree in Divinity, a full-time mother, a wife, a friend to many, part-time pastor at her church and other duties as assigned. And I think, and this is partly conjecture on my part, that Sara's hair began to feel like a burden. It was one more thing she had to deal with and it was the one thing that was expendable. Also, because of some other things she's dealing with, I think she wanted to prove that a person is more than their physical appearance.

So she cut it off. All of it. It's pixie short and so cute.

But the reactions she's received. My Lord, you would have thought the world had come to an end. Her first Sunday at church the reactions ran the gamut from "Please tell me I'm dreaming that you cut all your hair off" to "Oh, don't worry, it will grow back!" as though she cut it off by accident. People have actually seemed to be offended that she dared to cut her hair. As though it were THEIR hair.

The day before I read Alice's post, someone had said something to Sara that had particularly hurt her feelings. They'd caught her on a low day and she began to question herself, whether she HAD done the right thing by cutting her hair. And so, when I read "A few words about fear" I thought of the trolls in our lives, the ones who stifle our creativity with backhanded compliments. The ones who can't stand it when we do something for ourselves, or something that takes us outside of the little box they've placed us in. I think we've all had those people in our lives who try to sabotage us by taking our good and making it bad.

On Ash Wednesday our minister preached about the real face behind the masks we wear every day. I think that as we get older we get more comfortable presenting that real face to the world. We become more comfortable in our own skin, more willing to stand up for what we believe, for what we want to do, for how we want to look.

I'm not going to lie, I've let other people's expectations of me keep me in their little box for many years. But I'm trying to put down my mask and be the real me.

That day I forwarded Alice's post to Sara and told her that I thought of her when I read it. That she is creating Sara every day -- the Sara she wants to be and the Sara that she presents to the world. And if other people don't like it, screw them. Actually, if you want to know the truth, I said "If they don't like it, fuck 'em." I'm sorry for the language, but sometimes I cuss. You should know that about me. Especially when I'm mad. This is the real me.

So, don't let the trolls in your life hold you back. Be you. And I'll do the same.

My Girl

Some of you may be wondering what's up with Punkin these days. As you may remember, when we last left "As the Punkin' Turns" there was some drama. You may also remember that our pediatrician referred us to a specialist. A specialist whose call we are still awaiting.

Yes, it's now been five months. They told us there was a wait, but this is a little ridiculous. If Punkin were in serious need of some help, I think we'd all be at the end of our rope by this point.

But, we're not. In fact, our rope seems to have grown a couple of feet. And, in fact, when (or if!) the specialist finally calls, I think we'll tell them that we're no longer in need of his or her services. It's not that everything's perfect, but everything is SO much better.

Punkin started pre-K at the beginning of August and she got the teacher we were hoping for, Oliver's former pre-k teacher. Miss Anita is a warm, no-nonsense teacher who was wise to all of Punkin's tricks before Punkin even had a chance to try them on her. She knows exactly how to handle Punkin's willfulness, her whininess, and her grumplestiltskins.

Add to this the fact that Punkin is now five months older and we've seen some big changes. Her increased maturity combined with my doing a better job of holding my ground have made things much easier around here.

We still struggle with some issues. Punkin continues to be very shy and doesn't like to have attention focused on just her. She and Bubba have recently started attending the children's choir at our church. Bubba loves it and lends his little voice to all the songs. Punkin, while she goes every week and eats the snacks and does the crafts, has yet to sing a note. I must confess that this drives me crazy.

But this is much more my problem than hers. I've realized that I struggle with the fact that Punkin is different. Different than what, you might ask? Different from Bubba, that's for sure. Different than the other kids, who all seem so willing to take the spotlight. I have to admit that my own lack of shyness and my spotlight-seeking nature as a child makes her very difficult for me to understand.

I feel the need to explain Punkin whenever she starts acting shy -- hiding her head in my leg when someone she doesn't know well says hello, refusing to sing at the Sunday service last week. "Oh, she's my shy one, I'll say," as though people have never seen a shy child before.

And I struggle with how hard I need to push her, if at all. At first I told her that she couldn't go to choir practice if she didn't sing, but I didn't really want to enforce that. It's a great group of kids who go every Sunday night and they do some really fun activities. Is it really all that important that she sing? The choir director says no, let her come anyway, even if she never sings a note. But we've pushed/rewarded/encouraged her to do things in the past and now she's comfortable doing those things.

This morning I was using my quiet drive in to work for some prayer time. I just asked God to help me be the best parent that I can be for Punkin. I asked for guidance to know what's best for her, to help me know when to push and when to hold back. And I asked for help in accepting her for who she is. Because that's all any of us want, whether we're 4 or 40.

Aware

I have found that the times that I feel most alive -- and by alive I mean, happiest, most fulfilled, most satisfied with my here and now -- are the times that I am truly "in the moment." That feels a little "new-agey," "let's all chant together" to me to say that, but it's true.

Those times when I stop to notice the smell of the air, or that little bird hopping on the porch, or to truly pay attention to what my children are saying or doing instead of listening while I'm doing a thousand other things. Those are the times I'm talking about.

And of course, those moments apply to my husband, too. The man who, in the daily rush of life, probably gets ignored more than anyone else. And he's a good husband, too, so that makes it doubly unfair. I may complain about him sometimes, but he's a good one. a keeper. He changed his fair share of diapers, he helps out around the house. He does the things I don't want to do, like making sure the grass stays mowed and crawling underneath our house to replace the salt in our water filter.

But in the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, we are like friendly ships passing in the night, wanting to stop but not always able. A perfunctory kiss as he heads out the door with Punkin, but only if we're not wrangling our respective charges or haranguing someone to put down that DS and put on your socks. An occasional hug in the quiet house as he heads for the coffee maker, before the kids are awake.

But there are times when I truly see him too. Times when I watch him and he's not even aware and I marvel at him. I watch as he spreads his fingers wide to accommodate Punkin's little fingers as they hold hands. I watch him hold Bubba in his lap, Bubba who is almost too big for this sort of thing, as they stare in fascination at some science or space show on the television. I watch him stand up for something he believes in, even in the face of harsh criticism and I am proud of him.

In the introduction of Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott quotes "The Wild Rose" by Wendell Berry and it made me think of those moments.

Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart.

Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only shade,

and once again I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.


I chose him. And I'm happy he chose me. Our road has not always been easy, but we've traveled it together and that counts for a lot.

The Evolution of a Blog

So, here's the thing. I haven't written here in a while. And while I occasionally think about it, the longer I stay away the harder it's been to come back. I'm not sure why this is, but I've found the same is true of other things that I've neglected. The more guilty I feel about something, the harder it becomes for me to address whatever it is that I feel guilty about. Exercise, anyone? Counting Weight Watcher points?

I've been thinking a lot about why I started this blog and how I felt about it when I stopped. When I started I felt like I had a lot of stories to tell. I wanted to record the events of my life. I wanted to connect with other people online. I wanted to see if I could do what the bloggers that I loved were doing. And at first it was fun. I made some really great online friends -- many of whom I still consider to be my friend today, even though I've never met them in real life.

But then, for some reason, everything changed. I started to worry more about my comments than anything else. If people didn't comment on a post, or if not "enough" people commented, I took it really hard. Or if hardly anybody commented on what I thought was a great post (one that I'd worked hard on), but tons of people would comment on something I just tossed out there, I was wracked with doubt. What if I'd lost sight of what was "good."

And frankly, that thought still haunts me. What if nobody comments? What if I've lost all my readers?

But today I'm back because I'm trying something new. I'm writing. I mean I'm writing just to be writing. I'm reading the most amazing book about writing -- Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I'm barely two chapters into it and already I'm inspired. People have always told me I have a gift with writing, but whenever anyone says that I always discount their opinions. It makes me feel VERY uncomfortable whenever anyone compliments my writing. I have no idea if it's good or not (and this is not a ploy for compliments), but I've decided to try to write something. I don't know if it will be a novel, a memoir, or a short story. But it's going to be something.

And I'm going to write here. I've missed it. I hope you'll join me. But if you don't I'm going to try not to take it to heart.

That Was (Not) Completely Unexpected

Punkin had her 4 year well check up yesterday and to see it did not go well would be an understatement.

In the whole Punkin saga I detailed a week or so ago, there were a lot of things I left out. There was just too much to tell. One of the reasons we initially sought the help of a child psychiatrist was because of some of Punkin's behaviors that made me concerned that she was suffering from some form of anxiety. Punkin does not transition well. You have to prepare Punkin wayyyyy in advance for everything. And sometimes even if you do prepare her, it doesn't do any good. She's still going to have some kind of melt down.

Also, she wasn't really forming friendships and social relationships in a way that I had hoped. At her old school her teachers told me that she would occasionally yell at her friends when they tried to get her to play. I have seen her wander away from a group of kids her own age to play by herself. And at a birthday party one of her friends ran up to her joyfully and Punkin just cowered behind my leg.

She didn't (and sometimes still doesn't) enjoy participating in group activities at school. At her new school she once crawled, crying, under a table to avoid having to play a simple game.

These things concerned me. But, after meeting with the therapist a couple of times and after seeing the success that we had with the school's reward program, my worry lessened. And she began to make friends, so that eased by concern, too.

But yesterday at the doctor's office, of her neuroses were on display. When I told her that I was going to have to get a urine sample she freaked out. If she were an adult I would have said she was having a panic attack.

Then she didn't want to put on her examination gown. Then she absolutely freaked out when it came time for the hearing test. And then it was the vision test during which all she had to do was hold a little black circle over her eye and identify some shapes. And then it was time for the shots. I'm sure you can imagine what that was like.

When I say she freaks out, that really doesn't tell you much. When Punkin "freaks out" or melts down, or whatever you want to call it, she becomes uncontrollable. She's crying and screaming and panicking and struggling. It is almost impossible to get her to calm down and trying to get her to actually do whatever it is you're trying to do. Our pediatrician said he was really impressed that I got her to do the hearing test because after watching her he didn't think we would get to do it at all.

And so, based on her behavior in his office and my description of her behavior over the past several months, he wants us to see a specialist. He thinks that she may be on the very high functioning end of Aspergers. And that perhaps she has some sensory issues as well.

So.

So.

To say that I have had mixed emotions about this would, again, be quite an understatement. To be honest, my initial reaction was "Yes! Thank you!" because I had wondered several times if Asperger's might be part of her problem. But frankly, I had thought of so many different things to account for her behavior -- in part to help me feel like it wasn't my "fault" -- that I didn't trust my instincts anymore.

And then, in the space of a few seconds, I felt overwhelming sadness. Something is "wrong" with my child. She's having a hard time and I don't want her to hurt. I don't want her to be viewed as different.

And then, just as quickly, I thought "she's the same child she was before we walked in the door 30 minutes ago." She's still my same sweet Punkin who likes to make funny faces, who likes to read books, and who can melt my heart with her sweet declarations of love.

Twenty years ago she wouldn't have been diagnosed with Asperger's. She would have simply been a "difficult child." And so, if the therapist can give us some ideas on ways to help her transition and ways to moderate her emotions, then I'm all for it.

Because I, like all mothers, want only what's best for my child. And I'll do whatever it takes to make it happen.

Maybe Those Experts Know What They're Talking About

I'm feeling better today, thanks for asking. Not so grouchy, though this morning did not start off well. Also, I'm supremely busy at work right now with our biggest event of the year coming up, plus my newsletter is due in two weeks and I'm not feeling quite as good about this one as I have the others.

BUT, I just got back from my exercise class and I'm feeling pretty good. Must be those endorphins everybody's always talking about. I, frankly, had never encountered them before. When I was running (very briefly) in college, I kept waiting for that runner's high you hear so much about. I never did find that mythical beast, just the shakes after I finished my first 5K.

But when I get home from my exercise class I feel like I could do anything. I have the urge to fight the piles of crap that are lying everywhere. The pile of folded clothes mocks me! I want to take on the world! But unfortunately (fortunately?) it's late and there's only so much I can get done. Also, here I am blogging when I could be sweeping. Oh well.

Anyway, I fully credit this class with helping me reach my goal weight. Back in January I was .4 pounds (that's point four pounds, not four pounds) away from goal. The next week I was EXTRA good. I didn't count my points, but I'm pretty good now with figuring out what I need to eat to lose/maintain. I didn't even eat our Friday night pizza that week. And when I went in on January 19th for my weigh in, I fully expected to be at or below goal. But when I stepped on the scale, I had GAINED .8 pounds. Which now meant that I had to lose 1.2 pounds to meet goal!!

My leader told me not to get discouraged, but I did. I basically went on a bender for the next two weeks, eating pretty much whatever I wanted. And I felt my jeans start to get tight. And I got really pissed at myself. So, I signed up for this class because usually when I'm exercising I try to eat well so that I don't undo all my hard work. If I'm going to have to sweat off the calories, it makes me think twice about what I put in my mouth.

Also, I'm going to be 37 this year. Thirty-seven! That year is significant for me because that is how old my grandmother was when she died (in 1940). That is young, y'all. I can remember when my own mother turned 37 she started running and I can now understand this compulsion for health. You want to feel alive. You want to do everything you can to stay alive, to be healthy, to increase your odds of a long life. To see your babies grow up.

So, I get back on the wagon. I watch what I eat. I am (finally) exercising. And I feel good.

Now, let me go tackle that load of laundry.

Equal Rights for All, Blondes and Brunettes Alike

So, it goes without saying that this was a pretty momentous week. On Monday I was home with the kids since we all had the day off for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. As we were getting up from lunch, Bubba announced "Tomorrow's our 100th day of school! And today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!"

"You know what that's all about, right, Bubba?" His pre-K did a really good job of covering the basics of the Civil Rights Movement and who the major players were, but I was curious to see how much of it had stuck with him.

"Yeah, it's about everybody treating African Americans the same as us. And I know about Martin Luther King's speech -- I Have a Dream."

He then began to ask me lots of questions about "that lady, the one on the bus."

"Rosa Parks?"

Yeah, that lady. He was very curious to find out if she was still alive.

"No, she died a while back. Can you imagine what that was like, Bubba? Imagine if you were sitting on the bus and somebody got on and said 'Hey you, you have green eyes, you can't sit here, you have to sit at the back of the bus."

"Well that's not fair!" he said indignantly. I could see a light of understanding click on in his head.

Bolstered by the success of that I pressed on. "Or if somebody got on the bus and said 'Hey you have brown hair, you have to sit at the back of the bus."

"Yeah," he said. "Unless you have a little bit of brown hair and a little bit of blonde hair, then you can sit in the middle of the bus" he replied thoughtfully.

Hmph. I guess I should have quit while I was ahead.

On a similar topic, if you've never seen it, I highly recommend viewing "A Class Divided," which documents an Iowa schoolteacher's unforgettable lesson on discrimination. You can watch it here. I watched it in third grade and it changed my life.

Stuff Part II

So, I had all these thoughts running around inside my head when I read Anna Quindlen's column In Newsweek called "Why Stuff is Not Salvation." In it, she says, "Americans have been on an acquisition binge for decades. I suspect television advertising, which made me want a Chatty Cathy doll so much as a kid that when I saw her under the tree my head almost exploded. By contrast, my father will be happy to tell you about the excitement of getting an orange in his stocking during the Depression. The depression before this one." (If you'd like to read the entire column, you can read it here.)

We always want a better life for our children than the one we have and I hope that I can raise my children to be free of the stuff-want that I've suffered from. But it's not easy when your children have one set of grandparents who take them to the dollar store every time they visit -- which is often -- and buy them cheaply made toys that don't last. Because of these toy store runs, both of my kids have come to expect a trip to the store with every visit. They also don't value any of these toys and don't take care of them. It enfuriates me but I have held my tongue thus far.

And then we went to my mother-in-law's for Christmas, where she gave Bubba an absolutely fantastic artist's easel. On one side was a dry erase board, on the other a chalkboard and it had a roll of paper that fits in the middle and hangs over one side. She rounded out the gift with some dry erase markers, some chalk, and an eraser. It was a great gift. And Bubba was thrilled....for a second. He looked around for other gifts to open and upon finding that there were no more said "That's not very much stuff."

And my head exploded. I.Was.Mortified. I took Bubba into the guest room for a very serious talking to. I told him that what he said was VERY rude and that it had probably hurt his Nana's feelings. I tried to get him to imagine how he would feel if someone said something like that about his gift. I also told him that Christmas wasn't just about presents, that it was about Jesus and God's love for us. In my anger and embarrassment, perhaps I went a little overboard, but in my defense I was reacting not only to his remark, but to all these issues that had been swirling around in my head and my own struggles with stuff want.

It became obvious that I had gone overboard when a few days later I overheard Bubba absolutely berating Punkin in the other room. "You don't know anything, Punkin," he sneered. "It's not just about presents. It's about God and Jesus, too. You're just being selfish," he scolded.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. That's not right either. There has to be a way to balance the normal excitement kids feel about Christmas with the proper perspective on stuff. I called Bubba to me and pulled him in my lap.

"Listen, Bubba," I said. "I didn't mean for you to get the wrong idea about what I said the other day. It's okay to be excited about presents and stuff. Presents are fun. And Christmas is supposed to be fun. I just want you to understand that it's not ALL about presents. Okay?"

"Okay," he said.

And I think he got it. On Christmas Eve as we were leaving my mom's house I asked the kids "Okay, one more time...what do you hope Santa brings for you?"

"I want the car that drives on the wall, Mommy" Bubba said.

I knew the car was in Santa's bag, but I asked "Well, what if Santa doesn't bring that, Bubba?"

"That's okay," he said. "I'll be happy with whatever Santa brings." And he meant it.

"Well, he'll probably bring it," I reassured him. "You told him a long time ago that's what you wanted."

Sometimes I think about Anna Quindlen's father, happy with his orange for Christmas. And it's not that I want Bubba and Punkin to just have an orange, I just want them to be happy with what they have. I want them to have peace.

Isn't that all we ever want for our children?

Stuff and Nonsense

This is my long promised "deep thoughts" post. I hope it's coherent. It should be -- it' s been hanging around inside my head long enough. It's just that for me it's a complicated subject and I've been grappling with the best way to get across to you all the conflict I feel.

Have you ever been thinking about something and then everywhere you turn you're confronted with articles or stories about the very thing you're thinking about? That happened to me right before Christmas.

I had been thinking about "stuff" and its hold over our lives for a while. All the news about the economy and people losing their jobs and their homes had me thinking a lot about the choices that we as a country, in general, have made. We seem to be driven by a desire for "stuff" and I think that desire has led us to hell in the proverbial handbasket.

See, me and "stuff" go way back. I've always wanted "stuff." My mom more than provided for the things that I needed and in most cases she also gave me what I wanted, but there are a few instances when she just could not justify the expense of whatever it was I was craving at the moment. As a parent, I get that. Boy, do I get that. However, as a teenager, all I felt was WANT.

And sometimes I have let my want for "stuff" make me miserable. Why does so-and-so have such-and-such and I don't? Why do they have a new house, a new car, an iPod, whatever? I can remember once, in college, sobbing in the car as listened to Colin Ray's song "Someone Else's Star,"

I guess I must be wishing on
Someone else’s star
It seems like someone else keeps getting
What I’m wishing for
Why can’t I be as lucky
As those other people are
I guess I must be wishing
On someone else’s star

Gah. I can remember as clear as day how much it hurt watching my dreams come true for other people. It was when I was reading The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs right before Christmas that I was struck with a realization. (This is an awesome book, by the way, no matter your religious views -- or even lack thereof. Jacobs attempts to follow all the laws, no matter how obscure or odd, for an entire year. It's hilarious, thought-provoking, and touching. I highly recommend it.)

In one of the first chapters, Jacobs addresses the issue of coveting, as in Thou Shalt Not Covet, number 10 of the Ten Commandments. The actual commandment reads "You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not cove your neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his maidservant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's." He goes on to talk about different interpretations of what "to covet" might mean in modern society, but I realized that's my problem. For most of my life, I've wanted what other people had. To the extent that it has made me unhappy -- very unhappy in some cases. Jacobs says that some rabbis say that coveting means you are so desirous of obtaining material goods that you have veered from the path of being thankful for what God provides.

Even if you don't believe in God, I think that an obsessive desire for what you DON'T have can blind you to all the good things that you DO have. Don't get me wrong -- I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting stuff, you just can go overboard with it.

Anyway, all of these thoughts, combined with the Christmas advertising onslaught, the kids' incessant cry of "I want, I want" and a thought provoking essay by Anna Quindlen, all of these things combined to make me do some serious thinking....which I'll share with you tomorrow. This whole entry is convoluted and long enough for today.

A Gift Can Come in All Shapes and Sizes.

This is not my Deep Thoughts post, but it is moderately deep.

On Friday I was doing a little Christmas shopping. I was standing in line, waiting to pay for my purchases when a couple got in line behind me.

"Let's quit shopping," he said. "Let's do something else. Let's go for a ride in the mountains," he suggested hopefully.

That sounds nice, I thought to myself. Spending the day together, riding in the mountains. But before I could even complete the thought she turned on him.

"Christmas is next week," she snarled. "If I could get some help in getting ready for Christmas maybe we could." I was thrown by the venom and hatred in her voice. She continued to berate him for a good minute or so, outlining all that SHE had done to get ready for Christmas and all that he had NOT done.

I don't know this couple. I never even really looked at their faces. I don't know what their lives are like. I just heard this guy, obviously wanting to spend some time with his wife. Away from all the hustle and bustle. And she, all she could focus on was what had to be done and all the sacrifices she made. My heart broke for that guy just a little bit. And my heart broke for her, too. That she couldn't see the gift that was right in front of her.

I am trying to stop and see the gifts in front of me, too.