ooooh that funny funny boy

I'm recovering, from that hellish delight known as the stomach flu. Yum. Try not to be too jealous. And remind me to thank Carlos yet again for getting the big V- I don't think I could handle throwing up for seven months ever again.

Yesterday I am trying to put on my shoes and had to stop to rest. Yeah. Anyway, my darling Nate asks:

"you sick?"
"no Love, mama's just tired and old"

to which my sweet replies

"you too old? I get new one?"

and then runs into our bedroom to explain to my husband that this mama is too old and he needs a new one. Carlos was too busy laughing hysterically with his face pressed in a pillow to comment.

A letter to myself

Wayne State has this silly policy that if you finsih your exam within the last 15 minutes of the test period you can't leave, you have to sit there and wait until everyone is done. If there was an upside, it was that it forced me to sit there, with nothing to do. No computer. Nothing to study. Just a blank bit of scratch paper I didn't use in my Trusts and Estates essay. The result was as follows:

A letter to myself,

Just today, just in this moment, do not worry about the Bar. Do not worry about that first job. Do not worry about whether you will love your work or forever regret your student loans. As Carlos said to you: "Can't you just give yourself this?"

The answer is that yes, you can. You just have to try harder.

Today you have accomplished something you once only dreamed of. How those dreams have changed along the way doesn't matter- you finished what you set out to do.

The fact is, you really don't have to care if people are sick of hearing about it. You did it. You made it. Shut up and take peoples compliments will you? Yes, you do rock. Yes, it is amazing you finished. Anyone think otherwise? Feel free to say so- but not today.

Today, in this moment, no person including yourself can knock you down. You have climbed way too high for that. You are above it.

I am so very proud of you.

Food for thought

This is taken from a much larger article.

Don't Mourn For Us
by Jim Sinclair

Parents often report that learning their child is autistic was the most traumatic thing that ever happened to them. Non-autistic people see autism as a great tragedy, and parents experience continuing disappointment and grief at all stages of the child's and family's life cycle.

But this grief does not stem from the child's autism in itself. It is grief over the loss of the normal child the parents had hoped and expected to have. Parents' attitudes and expectations, and the discrepancies between what parents expect of children at a particular age and their own child's actual development, cause more stress and anguish than the practical complexities of life with an autistic person.

...

I invite you to look at our autism, and look at your grief, from our perspective:

Autism is not an appendage

Autism isn't something a person has, or a "shell" that a person is trapped inside. There's no normal child hidden behind the autism. Autism is a way of being. It is pervasive; it colors every experience, every sensation, perception, thought, emotion, and encounter, every aspect of existence. It is not possible to separate the autism from the person--and if it were possible, the person you'd have left would not be the same person you started with.

...

What it comes down to is that you expected something that was tremendously important to you, and you looked forward to it with great joy and excitement, and maybe for a while you thought you actually had it--and then, perhaps gradually, perhaps abruptly, you had to recognize that the thing you looked forward to hasn't happened. It isn't going to happen. No matter how many other, normal children you have, nothing will change the fact that this time, the child you waited and hoped and planned and dreamed for didn't arrive.
This is the same thing that parents experience when a child is stillborn, or when they have their baby to hold for a short time, only to have it die in infancy. It isn't about autism, it's about shattered expectations. I suggest that the best place to address these issues is not in organizations devoted to autism, but in parental bereavement counseling and support groups. In those settings parents learn to come to terms with their loss--not to forget about it, but to let it be in the past, where the grief doesn't hit them in the face every waking moment of their lives. They learn to accept that their child is gone, forever, and won't be coming back. Most importantly, they learn not to take out their grief for the lost child on their surviving children. This is of critical importance when one of those surviving children arrived at t time the child being mourned for died.
You didn't lose a child to autism. You lost a child because the child you waited for never came into existence. That isn't the fault of the autistic child who does exist, and it shouldn't be our burden. We need and deserve families who can see us and value us for ourselves, not families whose vision of us is obscured by the ghosts of children who never lived. Grieve if you must, for your own lost dreams. But don't mourn for us. We are alive. We are real. And we're here waiting for you.

...


Take a look at your autistic child sometime, and take a moment to tell yourself who that child is not. Think to yourself: "This is not my child that I expected and planned for. This is not the child I waited for through all those months of pregnancy and all those hours of labor. This is not the child I made all those plans to share all those experiences with. That child never came. This is not that child." Then go do whatever grieving you have to do--away from the autistic child--and start learning to let go.

After you've started that letting go, come back and look at your autistic child again, and say to yourself: "This is not my child that I expected and planned for. This is an alien child who landed in my life by accident. I don't know who this child is or what it will become. But I know it's a child, stranded in an alien world, without parents of its own kind to care for it. It needs someone to care for it, to teach it, to interpret and to advocate for it. And because this alien child happened to drop into my life, that job is mine if I want it."
If that prospect excites you, then come join us, in strength and determination, in hope and in joy. The adventure of a lifetime is ahead of you.

for a change...

This year I did my best to tell my husband exactly what I want for my birthday. I still think I failed. The problem comes from wanting a feeling for your birthday instead of a certain thing. I want to be rested, I want to be loved, I want to be happy, I want to be appreciated. At the end of the day I want to say something other than "well that was that."

I have a love/hate relationship with my birthday. Not because of getting older...that part doesn't phase me. Tangible goods don't really do it for me anymore. I just want that sweet sweet blend of time by myself where I don't have to be "mom" for a few moments and time when I am surrounded by those who bring me the most joy, my husband and children. I want to not think about it, I want it to just happen. My birthday is my White Whale- I keep chasing the perfect one and keep feeling let down when at the end of the day I still feel like me, same old me. This year my goal is to expect absolutely nothing and be happy with whatever may come, be it changing poopy diapers or chilling with my kids while my husband goes riding or getting take-out from my favorite Indian place. I have a few days left to get in the proper mindset. I will love my day.



Fly me out the window.
Somewhere far away.
News on the radio,
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday.

I have issues.

Thanksgiving came and went, yet somehow I felt unfulfilled. So, yesterday I roasted a 14lb turkey for my husband and I. I had some sausage in the fridge and really, what is a turkey without stuffing so whipped that up too. And when you have a big bag of Yukon Gold it just seems a shame not to mash them all. And gravy, if you roast a turkey you need gravy. And fresh rolls. Two dozen should be plenty. And pie...pumpkin pie. Not one but two. Crud there is some pumpkin left...may as well make a couple dozen pumpkin spice muffins. Way too much turkey left over so may as well make some turkey pot pie filling and toss it in the freezer.

I
have
issues.

It's good to be a bike widow. Mostly.

To be fair, before I married Carlos I should have known I would wind up a bike widow. At that point...I guess it could be said that he had terminal bike riding? I don't think I quite realized then the extent to which biking would take over our (erm, his) life, it hasn't all been bad. For example:

1. If he is going to have another lover, wouldn't you want it to be his bike? Yes your husband is gone for hours on end, but he comes home smelling in such a way that you can be sure no one else has had or would have sex with him while he was gone. Mountain bikers seem to be a faithful bunch- but don't be fooled, it isn't loyalty- or rather, it isn't only loyalty. Some of it seems to be a simple cost/benefit analysis. Mistresses cost time and money. Time better spent biking. Money better spent on bike parts. Why add into your schedule another person to complain they never see you when you can just get a new bike fork?

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2. You always know his weakness. This leads to a lot of useful conversations. Case in point: "You know, if we were to have another baby you would probably need a new mountain bike, huh?" Then just sit back and let the magic happen.

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3. Your husband actually looks really good in spandex. Yes, even the weird full-leg unitard thing. How many women can say that about their 30-something hubby?

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4. A few off-hand words can make him swoon. A simple comment while in the car, something along the lines of "psh, honey look at that roadie wearing a Camelback" both lets him know you are listening and reminds him why he married you.

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5. If the ecomomy ever gets really REALLY bad...you can insulate the house with the stockpiled issues of Bike, Mountain Bike, Dirt Rag, Mountain Bike Action, and still have plenty to burn for warmth. I am pretty sure we can go for an entire season just using magazines in a wood burning stove. Of course, he would have to be willing to part with them in order for this benefit to hold true.

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6. Good people. He could do way worse in the friend department. I hate to make such sweeping generalizations, but a biker's friends are fun and loyal. You never have to worry about your husband's friends leading him astray. Leading him to the bike store is a different story.

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7. If you are going to be a widow to something, it may as well be biking. Hunting widows have to deal with husbands who rub animal urine on themselves to mask their scent and the sight of a freshly bagged and not yet processed deer on top of what usually serves as her mini-van. World of Warcraft widows have to deal with...well...we will just leave that one be for now. Just trust me that it could be worse.

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8. If your husband comes home saying he wants to try something new...chances are he means he wants to buy a single speed.

Undervalued Assets

Originally posted October 16, 2007

When I don't understand something, the thought of it stays in this little room in my brain, walking the floor over and over until a door opens and bammo! I get it!

Like when I was registering for my wedding shower and all of the sudden really and truly *got* the concept of delayed reciprocity...something I had studied two years prior in an anthro class but didn't sit right with me. This tribe somewhere or other made these huge gifts to each other...basically giving massive gifts of livestock and western goods to each other. Then they just had to sit and wait until it was their turn to be on the end that gets the gifts. This seemed so bizarre to me- delayed reciprocity: you'll get your crap back eventually, but not from the person you gave it to. Then I got married and *got* it: people give gifts to start you off and someday you will give them gifts to start them off, or your parents gave them gifts to start them off, or grandparents and so on. The end result is that everyone gets a start that they alone couldn't purchase because we as a society have entered into a delayed reciprocity covenant with each other about marriage.

I took accounting for lawyers and got the pleasure of learning all about undervalued assets, which lives in that room in my brain where I put things that don't make sense. Basically there are two ways that an asset can be undervalued: a person can have something that the value of is hidden from them- you have a diamond that you think is glass, you have a picasso on the back of a farmhouse painting. The other possibility is that a person has something of value but for whatever reason refuses to see the value in the item or lacks the desire to get the full value. Therein lay my confusion. How can you have something that you should know is precious and believe it to be of little value? We were presented with examples- real estate, offensive but valuable memorabilia, but I still in my head couldn't believe that someone could have a precious stone in their hands and continue to say "what, this old rock?"

The door has opened. I get it now.

If you ever meet my friend Marissa, know that she is a diamond. If your thought is ever to list her in your inventory as a rock you may wish to consult further with your accountant.

Ellisa Days

Originally posted June 23, 2007

I am going to start bottling Ellisa and selling her on the black mama-market. Limited quantity, and no, you probably don't have enough cash. If you DID though, you would want to get in on it because I am telling you, there is nothing on this Earth that will get you out of that

mykidskeepscreamingmylaundryisexplodingthedishesneedwashingmyhusbandsgonebikingmyworldisfallingapart

funk like an Ellisa day will. No price is yet set, but if what you need is the calm comfort of that person you never need to be anything but yourself with, bottled Ellisa is the thing for you. Lasts one day, but one day is sure to get you through until the next Ellisa day. An Ellisa day is just that good.

...and Ellisa, no worries- the crazy amounts of cash that I make selling bottled Ellisa are just going to our Chicago trip fund...how else will we ever get there?

The problem with Rachel

Originally posted March 8, 2007

The problem with Rachel is that she claims to be too old for MySpace. It isn't a real problem...I mean not in the world hunger or starving kittens sense of the term "real problem". The problem with Rachel and her myspace denial is that ever so often I come across a truly amazing song, one that I don't have on CD or cassette or even a dusty record of somewhere. I will hear the song and think "dang! That's a great song! I loved that song! You know who else probably loved that song, Rachel!" And if Rachel were on myspace, she would call me up when she was in the car or something and laugh at me and tell me about how she wore this or that and danced to the song at some club by her university. Or maybe she would tell me that she liked the Nirvana cover of the song better and I would hang up on her but then call her right back so that she didn't think I was actually mean. Or maybe I wouldn't call her back right away, because Nate would have managed to dump an entire box of cocoa puffs into the bathtub or something- and she would be OK with me not calling her back because she needed to clean Cap'n Crunch out of her bathtub anyway. And then the next time we hung out, we could sing Molly's Lips and maybe some RevCo, and then I could write a blog to her about how nice it was never to have to explain where I was as a kid, because she was right there too.

But the problem with Rachel is she isn't on myspace, and I am left to refresh my page so I can hear Molly's Lips one more time. Maybe tell Carlos about it...but then he never really liked the Vaselines.

Being There

Originally posted January 24, 2007

Today I saw a baby born. Today I was there.

Women...mothers...are all connected to each other through this act, this ritual. We share the pain. We share the tears. The joy. The love. I didn't get that before. Not really anyway. Even having my own children...it's different. The pain and the anticipation and the fear distract you from the fact that you are feeling what your mother and your grandmother and every mother before you has felt. Your tears are their tears. My tears are her tears. We all weep and birth together. We all moan and pace and when we think we can't do it somehow we find more strength. Somehow we do it. She wept. She paced. She birthed. She moaned with the voice of all women who went before her and I was allowed to be there. To bear witness.

Thank you Ellisa. I love you. Welcome to the world baby Max.

Moving on over

I give up on myspace. It hates me and freezes when I log in, so in retaliation I am telling it to piss off and moving my blog here. Thanks to M. for blogging on this site- so so so much easier.

I'm going to move my old blog over to this site to keep it all together.