Vanity

Today I saw a boy who was missing most of his right arm.  He was helping his mom load groceries into the trunk outside of the store.  When he was all finished he returned his cart to the store like a good citizen, walked back, got in the car and they drove away.  From my window at work, I could observe his struggles without gawking or making him feel uneasy.  I noticed his compensations –the way what was left of his arm was in a permanent bend and sometimes got in his way; the way he had to reach over himself to close the car door with his left arm; the off kilter lean he had to employ to use his short arm to straighten the cart on a downhill.  I noticed, too, after they drove away, that there were tears in my eyes.  

That was unexpected.  Why had I reacted so emotionally? 

Could it be that I was in awe of how in stride he seemed to take life?  No, I couldn’t be presumptuous enough to know anything of how well or badly he handled life, except to say that I’ve always held people who return their grocery carts in high esteem.   No, that wasn’t it though. 

Could it be that I’ve had too many pep talks with Dia lately trying to cheer her and help her understand her disease isn’t as bad a diagnosis as it could have been?  Perhaps because I’ve been thinking in terms of kids with challenges, having this kid with an obvious challenge just tweaked my already empathetic state?  No, that didn’t resonate either. I see kids with challenges every day.

I was about to chalk the tears up to hormones when it came to me.  Arms.  It was the arms.  

I’d just gone on a walk not an hour before this and as I passed reflective windows I caught a glimpse of my mirrored self in full profile... much to my disappointment.  “Those arms…” I had thought, “I hate those arms.”

I’ve been at war with my arms since I can remember.  I think it started when my modeling friend pointed out how we were the same size everywhere except that my arms were the size of her legs.  My legs were the size of her arms too, which kind of made it worse: skinny legs, big arms…  She had a good laugh about it, but I wasn’t amused.  I’m pretty sure that since that moment, no matter how much I work out or lose weight or tan, my arms are the part of me I hate most.

Yet here’s this kid with just one.  Me?  I have two of them.  They are functional and they are strong.  I can pick Dia up with just one, but I have the other handy in case I need to carry her for awhile.  My fingers can fly on this keyboard using both hands.  I can swim and dance and run without compromise.  Most importantly I can put both of them all the way around my kids and hold them tight. 

That little boy didn’t look like he was hating his life.  His mom wasn’t doting on him.  So I would guess he’s probably pretty well adjusted and would most likely be irritated at me for feeling badly for him (and maybe creeped out a little if he knew I watched from the window like that… sheesh).  Still, he’s never going to know what it feels like to put both his arms around someone he loves. 

Flabby or not, I do.  And for that gift, I really love them.

Happy Father's Day!

So, yeah, I hate Father's Day... (see Happy Father's Day? for reference) ... BUT

For real:

I am honored to know some of the best dads in the world.

At a recent crawfish boil held on another parental holiday (the one for Moms), I watched fathers interact with their kids on a loving level that is unparalleled.  I know they don't realize it - that's part of the beauty - but they are exceptional fathers.  That day and every day since, I am reminded that I am seriously blessed to be in their circle.

In fact, and in truth, my friends and Dia's friends' fathers are uncommonly wonderful.  We have in our midst a tremendous example of what it's like to be a hands-on and, more importantly, hearts-open type of dad.

I hesitate to call you out - I fear I may forget one or two and that would be tragic - but off the top of my head, there's a Twigg, a Bowen, a Murphy.... a Cullen, a Szerman, a Netterstrom (or 2) ... a Burke, a Ballentine, a Harper ... a Butler, a Wright, a Rice ... a Way, a Stacey, a Stetson ... a Sanchez, a Ruys, an Aquilano and a Ridenour.  You are each a beautiful, shining example of fatherhood.

And to Tim Brown, a certain favorite man of mine... I know you aren't a father, but you are the absolute best big brother any one could ever ask for.  What Dia is lacking in fatherdom, you have more than made up for in brotherhood.  I love you.

So Happy Father's Day everyone.  For real.

- KeC

Happy Father's Day?

I abhor Father's Day.

I hate it.

I can't freaking stand it.

If I see one more happy daddy with his happy kid frolicking through another happy field of happy flowers I'm going to vomit up my happy lunch.

If I have to view one more touching video mash-up of dads and their special kid moments I swear I'm going to smash-up my screen.

Am I a tad bitter?  Oh yeah.  Just a tad.

Early this month I made the mistake of asking Dia if she wanted to get her dad a card for Father's Day.  She did - more because she likes looking through the singing cards than because she wanted to brighten his day - but still she liked the idea.  Now I have this card I need to send.  Well, she needs to send.  Fortunately, there's no 'greatest dad' crap in there.  The sad, or truthful (or whatever) fact is that she would have nixed a card that said that anyway.  Still, it wishes him a happy Father's day and sings "Kung Fu Fighting" to him.

We will send it.
On time.
Without any chemical warfare secretly tucked inside.

Oh no - now before you go thinking I'm some psycho ex or some crazed housewife from Texas, let me get serious for a second.  It's not that I dislike him or wish him harm.  In truth, I don't.  It's just that I have this tremendous conflict.  See, there was this holiday some people make a big deal out of - Christmas?  You may have heard of it.  Well, she didn't hear from him at all during that season of joy.  In fact, 26 full weeks after his last visit, he finally delivered her Christmas presents - in March.  She declared them an early birthday present, but he refused that label and insisted that they were, indeed, Christmas presents.

He had that little hint, by the way, in case it had slipped his mind that her birthday was coming up.  Yet, on that special day he sent nothing... did nothing.  And because of that, the petty little childish non-compassionate horrible side of me feels like he doesn't deserve anything on any of his special days either.

Yet I should feel proud of Dia.  She wanted to give him something regardless of what she got in return.  That's pretty awesome and rare these days.  I should feel proud of myself too because somehow I instilled that in her - or at least didn't kill it with bitter words.  Those I swallow (talk about a bitter pill). She knows little of my disappointment in him.  It does her no good to know my opinion and it's not hers anyway.  She has the right and ability to make up her own mind.

And because of that, it is her decision - not mine - to send the card.  I'd rather deliver a big bag of burning manure to his doorstep, but I'm childish that way. 

- kec

Perspective

We'd been gone most of the day.  I walked into the house and immediately recognized the crime that had been committed.  I understood, by the damages, it must have happened soon after we'd left that morning.  The throw rug in front of the door was soaked through.  There were splashes of standing water under the dining table and the table cloth was a dark, wet version of itself.  Flowers were strewn across the floor.  The vase that once contained them, miraculously unbroken, was laying askew near the wine rack.

Starting Young

I knew who had committed it too. Obi's relentless quest for alternative drinking sources has often led him to cram his head into vases, lapping up the water inside.  Foolishly I had left him alone that day with a vase full of flowers (and their water) right out in the open.  (You know - like how they do in normal households where one doesn't hide their fresh flowers in a pantry or a linen closet... )  This tradition of actually displaying flowers was where I went wrong.  I knew better, and I paid for my oversight.

Assessing the water damage on my 1) wood floor and my 2) wooden dining table and my 3) wooden chairs ... was more than I could stand.  I just lost it.  "AAAaarrrggghhhhh!  Feck! Feck! FECK!" I roared out.  Despite frantically pulling up the linens and rugs and sopping up what lay underneath, I knew my efforts to save the floor boards was futile. They were already done-in having been sitting in pooled water for four hours by this time.  It was just one more thing.

That was the thing.  It was one more thing.  Mopping up the mess, I started ranting about how this was so not what I needed.  My poor house already has two broken sliding doors, a leaky garbage disposal, a doorframe that needs to be finished, walls that need touch-ups, others that need re-painting, and carpets that are begging to be replaced.  Oh, and my car has taken to screeching with every cold morning start-up...

My finances do not currently allow me to fix any of these matters. My little company is struggling to survive it's late start-up stage despite all of our constant attention, so salary increases must wait...and wait.

I'm listing off all of these things under and over my breath while Dia was literally cat wrangling to keep him out of my crazed way, assuring him he's "in a heap of trouble and should stay hidden for the rest of the night."  I didn't think she was listening to me.  But she's always listening.

"...and when I DO spend money on extras, it's never a trip, or new clothes, or a night out or something FUN, it's dropping $600 on the rheumatologist!" 

"Am I not WORTH it?"  she interuppted.

I looked up.  She had a grief-stricken look.  "Isn't it worth it to have ME?" she reiterated.

If you have never felt like a complete and total asshole, let me tell you it is unmistakable.  It storms through every vein in your body, courses through your system and seeps out your pores.

"Oh, no! Of course, you are worth it sweetie!"  I dropped the cloth in my hand, scooped her into my arms and held her in the biggest hug of our shared life.  Though the words that followed were reassuring and confessional that I was, indeed, a big jerk and that there was NOTHING more important to spend my money on and so on..., my thoughts were on wishing so much for a time machine.

Whoever believes in 'sticks and stones' and the crap that follows is fooling themselves.  Words do harm us and worse, they don't heal like a bruise.  They stick.  They become part of who we think we are.  That's why - even when your ridiculous rancid-water-drinking kitten ruins your new(ish) wood floors, you just have to count to 20, or 2000, and find your center, consider what's really important and shut the f*#$ up.

Lesson learned.  Again.

-kec

Attack of the Mommy Drones

SIGH!!!

I received this little tidbit in the newsletter from my daughter's school.  It appears we have lost our collective minds.  My comments (in red below):

(From Love and Logic by Dr. Charles Fay)

The "Energy Drain" approach was created to give adults a practical way of creating logical consequences that teach responsibility. Simply stated, the child (or teen) is required to replace energy "drained" from the adult by their misbehavior.
He lost me at "hello."  This is so NOT a logical consequence.  "Oh, John, how do you plan to replace the energy you drained from me when you blew that sale?" said no boss ever.

Deliver a strong dose of sincere empathy. "This is so sad."    
This isn't sad.  Puppies dying is sad.  Back-talking is not sad.  Let's not mix up the kid's emotions.  If we are going to deliver a strong dose of anything here, it should be "I know you didn't just (fill in the blank)." or, if we're going the feeling route, "Now you've gone and pissed me off."  Both are appropriate responses.

 Notify the youngster that their misbehavior drained your energy. "Oh sweetie. When you lie to me (or almost any other misbehavior), it drains energy right out of me."   

Said Scarlett O'Hara.  

Ask how he or she plans to replace the energy. "How are you planning to put that energy back?"  
Seriously?  You are asking a CHILD this?  Children don't know how they are going to put the orange juice back in the fridge half the time. 

If you hear, "I don't know," (You'll be lucky if you hear that much.  You'll probably just get a look like you are some sort of alien.) offer some payback options. "Some kids decide to do some of their mom's chores. How would that work? (Um, are they supposed to answer that honestly?) Some kids decide to hire and pay for a babysitter, so their parents can go out and relax. How would that work?"  
Oh for the love of God... You tell me, Mom.  How does that work? I don't see the kids caring that their hard-earned cash is being spent to get rid of you for an evening of burned-through bedtimes and junk food.

If the child completes the chores, thank them and don't lecture. "Thanks so much! I really appreciate it."  If the child refuses or forgets, don't warn or remind. Remember: Actions speak louder than words!     
Forgive me for being so literal here, but I think what you've said here is that 1) your child is being punished by being made to do your chores 2) your child didn't do said chores 3) you aren't warning them or reminding them of said chores 4) you believe they will eventually get around to it  5) you really haven't done this before, have you?

Oh, but what you want us to do is:

As a last resort, go on strike OR sell a toy to pay for the drain.  "What a bummer. I just don't think I have the energy to take you to Silly Willie's Fun Park this weekend." Or "What a bummer. You forgot to do those chores. No problem. I sold your Mutant Death Squad action figure to pay for a babysitter tonight." 

What kind of ubercrappy mind play is this?  Are we serious?  This is the very kind of back-handed manipulation that makes supertastically awful adults.  Don't you love those people?  You know the ones.  "Oh gee, since you didn't call me back when I texted you 50 times yesterday, I just figured you didn't care about your computer files any more so I deleted them all.  Bummer." 

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DISCLAIMER:  I love my daughter's school.  Seriously love it.  In no way is this a reflection on the school itself.
DISCLAIMER #2:  I do not yell at, spank, or disrespect my children in any way.  I was the original Attachment Parent (see Dr. Sears).
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