Milestone, Signpost, Whatever

I'm not big on ages; never have been. It was clear from a young age that they didn't really mean much... People thought I was older when I was younger - probably because of my height. Ever since my early 20s, people have thought I was younger than I actually am. I had 2 ages I was interested in reaching: 16 to drive (until it became clear I wasn't allowed to get my licence until I was an adult and could get it myself) and 21 to drink everything (we could drink "low beer" at 19, but had to wait for everything else until we were 21). To a mild degree, I looked forward to 18 for my driver's licence, but other than that, 18 didn't mean much. After that, it didn't matter.

A lot of people have milestone ages for whatever reason... A younger friend anxiously awaited age 25, when her automobile insurance rates would go down. Another friend looked at 18 as a goal for "being an adult". Someone else was looking forward to 35.

Milestone. Not my favorite word for this kind of thing. One, it isn't really set in stone - it is only part of you for a year. As the definition has it, after reaching a certain age, there really isn't a stage of development or really any significant change, other than what an individual puts into it. "Signpost" is really more accurate in my book: it's just a bit of information that flashes by as you zoom through life. It isn't like most folks are looking to get off at the next exit after a certain signpost: it's just (insignificant) data.

Our society pulls certain numbers out as milestone birthdays: 1, 2, 5, 10, 13, 16, 18, 21, 40, 50, 62, 80, 100... Fifty seems to be a major one, though... That "half a lifetime" signpost, as our lifespan has gotten to the point where it isn't unheard of for someone to live to 100 years of age. Time to break out the black "over the hill" paraphernalia, gag gifts and old jokes. Whatever. It is mildly entertaining, but for something that so many hold up to be so significant, you'd think there would be more substance and pomp to the thing.

For me, 50 was more of a "get it out of the way" kind of thing. It was annoying to have that "looming" ahead in society's headlights and while it was a small bit of a "hey, I made it this far!" kind of feeling, mostly I just wanted it behind me, so I could get past all the "The Big Five Oh!" and other comments and jokes. It is fun, to an extent, but just like all the "Fool" jokes over the last 50 years, it gets tiresome.

Youth has much time on its hands... vast numbers of years to look forward to... little experience behind... Like many, I spent a good deal of my youth planning (read: fantasizing) about the future and what that would look like. I had semi-goals career-wise. I wasn't much interested in a career, once I'd put the idea of teaching behind me, because whatever it was was going to be interrupted by my big goal: being a mom and having kids.

Okay, I was raised in the '70s, with lots of ideas of women's lib and doors opening up to possibilities for females; I was raised by fairly progressive parents - especially older parents (they were in their late 20's when I was their firstborn) - who did a pretty good job of instilling in me the ideas that I could do what I wanted, regardless of gender. I had many career ideas over the years, from vet to machinist to fashion designer to auto mechanic to model/spokesperson, but through it all I wanted to be a Mom.

I had picked out 7 or 8 names for my kids (the father's wishes and preferences never even entered my thought process), decided how far apart in age they'd be, had hopes for which one would be born in which order and what their interests and personalities would be like. Seriously. I planned out in my head little scenarios where they'd have troubles and I'd brilliantly come up with a solution or punishment or whatever it was that the situation required - and let me tell you, fantasy Mom was Awesome! I rarely ever failed, and when I did, it was just an opportunity for me to be human and to be gracious about my failure. :: grin :: Oh, youth... ! ...I think there was just some inner writer in me that just couldn't put the character development into a workable, readable story in black-and-white. :: grin ::  But, I digress.

When our oldest was born (on my birthday), I'm fond of saying that I "tried to hold out for a few hours" until after midnight (he was born at 10:45 pm), so he'd have his own birthday, but that he apparently had other ideas. I was concerned he'd be resentful to share a birthday with his mom. Other than that, *Best* birthday present *ever*. :: heart :: But what I didn't realize at the time was that my birthday had almost ceased to exist. Not that it was a big deal, because as long as there is cake, birthdays aren't really big on my list, anyhow. There are other holidays with much more oomph than my birthday that I look forward to.

Five years ago was our 25th anniversary. Kind of big, more of a milestone kind of thing for me - definitely moreso than a birthday. Because things have changed financially in the last 6-8 years, my hopes for a big-ish party/celebration fell to the wayside. I was a little disappointed, but the goal was the important part; learning to live with someone else and merge our lives together and *keep* it that way for 25 years is a success in itself - the party would just have been icing.

In high school, I had 2 other close friends that are still friends today. One of them had a big party for her 50th earlier this year and it was pretty cool to see the friends & family who came to help her celebrate. There was fun and laughter and camaraderie and FOOD - yummy, yummy food! - a lot of music, a little dancing, old friends to catch up with, friends' kids to be shocked by their astounding growth. It was nice. It was at about that point that I started feeling a little blue about 50. We did not have the funds for a party - not that it would be right/fair, since Dave didn't get one in November, anyhow - especially with a 17th birthday to plan for our oldest!  Try explaining that to feelings, though. Still, I have so much, where others don't and I can be sad for a moment (or two... or three... ) and move on.

Then, on my birthday eve eve, a good friend (who'd been sick for a while) passed away. There are regrets there and complications of those regrets, but "Only the Good Die Young" has been playing in my head off and on since then. He was a kind, gentle soul who overcame a lot and was a great conversationalist. I *loved* exploring ideas with him and will miss those talks so much...

So, in the shower last night, I came up with an idea to make the most of what I could out of my birthday: my family & I would sit up together (whoever wanted to) and talk and plan my "fantasy birthday": what we'd do if money and logistics and normal "roadblocks" were no object. That would be fun! Then, at midnight, I'd head to bed with my youngest. As I got excited about this idea, I stared planning on what I might want to do first. There was an idea of a trip to a tropical local the night before, so I could wake up on a beach at sunrise after sleeping in to my heart's content (timeflow be damned! :: grin :: ) and a surprise party to wrap it up somewhere down the line, but then my friend popped up in my head and my need to be here to organize my oldest's celebration and I started thinking about the conflict he and I had been going through recently... Darn growing up and separating one's self from their parents, anyhow... Stupid nature. :~P And I thought, well, since we're doing this fantasy thing, I'll get the negative stuff out of the way, first! I'll wish for my friend to not just *not* die 2 days before my birthday, but instead, he'll make a miraculous recovery and live to 110! And then, my teen will come to me and say how much he appreciates me and all that I've done for him over the years and offer to focus on me this year on our birthday.... And, well, by that point, I was weeping in the shower. Happy fucking birthday. So, I went to bed, instead.

So, maybe it is peri-menopause. Maybe it is 50. Maybe I'm emotional because it is That Time of the Month. Maybe it is the hardship of the last few years. Maybe it is my juvenile childish immaturity rearing its head. Maybe it is a combination or all of those. Maybe it is something else. Next week, it'll all be behind me and I'll wonder at the extent of my upset and depression. Right now, it is the morning of my 50th birthday and I have tears running down my face with a heart full of sadness in a quiet house with no plans for myself for the day. I'll go read my birthday wishes on my wall in a little while and find some funny stuff on Facebook to smile and laugh at. I have a day of work & catching up on my craft show to look forward to tomorrow, so things will turn around here at some point. And it won't be too long until that signpost is behind me, with open road ahead to travel. But for now, in this moment, 50 sucks. And I didn't even see it coming. 

David Bowie ~ The quiet, subtle interweaving into our Self....

David Bowie ~ January 8, 1947 - January 10, 2016

I wasn't a "Fan". At least, not in the sense I think of the word: someone who follows the career closely, gathering what creative works by the artist that they can, has much knowledge of trivia and career and personal life facts, one who gets that special, glowing look in their eye when they talk about their favorite artist.

No, I wasn't a Fan, though I could suppose I could be considered a "fan", in the smallest sense of the word. Of course, I knew that his original name was "Jones", I liked just about any music of his I heard on the radio, in film, wherever. I quite enjoyed his look (and character interpretation) as Jareth, the Goblin King. I never collected his music, though I do have an album - the soundtrack of Labyrinth, being one of my favorite movies (though due almost entirely to the story line - not much because it was Bowie). I knew very little (before the 11th) about the numerous variations of Bowie... Pretty much Ziggy Stardust and David Bowie (unless you count Jareth) were all I knew. I'd heard him referred to as "The Thin White Duke", but before Monday, I had no idea it was a persona of his; I just assumed it was his stature and fairness of complexion with his quiet, demi-royal dignity that the name had come from. No clue about any of the rest: Aladdin Sane, The Thin White Duke, Halloween Jack, et. al.

None of his songs (that I recall) were instant cause for me to raise the volume and cry, "This is my *favorite*!". I never desired to see him in concert. I didn't watch interviews with him or read stories about him, though I did see him perform a handful of times on television. I vaguely admired his uniqueness and the quiet way he stood firm in his manifestations and beliefs over the years. Though some of his personas were loud and colorful in their uniqueness, I was never aware of Bowie hauling them to the forefront as an example or trumpeting their stance... ...I could be quite wrong in my interpretation... as I said, I never Fangirled over Bowie... and his career began before I did much of my own delving into individual artists that suited me... The point being, he was not ever a big part of my life, not much of a blip in my awareness. Just another bit of background music in my life - so vague as to not even identify an era or decade.

Why, then, has his death hit me *SO* incredibly hard? Why do I feel it so deeply - to my bones? Why, 3 days later, is my soul still heavy, my heart aching, songs stuck - ear-worm style, but *deeper* - in my brain and gut? ~ * ~ I needed a break from the grief, several hours after finding out on January 11th about his death the day before, and went to take a nap. I was a little disturbed to wake, finding I'd tossed and turned with Bowie songs of all sorts (I hadn't listened to any - that's how deep my grief was) running through my restless sleep, images of his face looking at me in that deep, melancholy way he had, slowly fading in to each other in front of my eyes... I've never had anything like that happen before - even with people I'd known... Even with people I knew well and loved dearly... ~*~ I find it a small bit frightening and quite a lot baffling that his death, for one: has effected me so strongly, for two: that it is still effecting me so deeply this long after having heard.

I keep posing possibilities to myself: Was it his reinvention, making him seem like a "new" guy each time? Was it the shock factor - his unknown cancer struggle and seemingly-sudden death? I ruled out the massive flood of outpouring, because I'd found out in the wee hours of the morning, before most were awake and talking about it and sharing grief - otherwise, I'd likely have attributed it to that. Was it his ability to seem magical? Was it his aura of immortality, weighing heavily (for me) on Jareth? I recalled, as I struggled to define it, recently finding out about his marriage to Iman (I *really* was not a "Fan" - I had no clue he was even married.) and delving into some Google-searches and Wiki reading; I'd though, "Wow! He's almost 70... that must be why he's looking a little thin and drawn, but he's still rocking. Cool" - none of my usual back thoughts of only having a limited time left to enjoy his work as I often do with aging entertainers and artists. It didn't even cross my mind, oddly enough.  None of my possibilities really struck a chord with me.

I'd been a sort of Fan of Robin Williams, who also had an untimely, shocking death... I'd followed his career much more closely and actively sought out interviews and watched anything I could where I could enjoy any of his work. And as saddened as I was by his death, it was not nearly so deep or so encompassing of my "self". (Hence my concern.)

Maybe it was a combination of all those things and some not yet discovered or named. Maybe Bowie, in his quiet way, just managed to weave himself into the fabric of our lives more deeply and more indelibly than we knew - until he died.

I'm a little relived to keep reading, days later, of others who are baffled by the depth of their grief for this man. People - who normally don't do so - bursting into bawling fits at work because of a shared tribute... People who are curling up and nesting on couches with kleenex and a library of Bowie tunes.... People who are turning to social media to find pictures and tributes and shared favorite songs of others to mourn with. People who, like me, are baffled by the depth of their grief.

What is this strange, haunting magic Bowie has woven through our souls - not just in his home town or country of birth, but around the world? Before January 10th, the term "beloved" would never have come to my mind in describing Bowie... I'm not sure it would now... And yet...

Though I've listened to 2 of his songs from the new album (Lazarus and Blackstar), and yesterday, a couple of songs I hadn't heard before, I am not listening to my Bowie favorites - *especially* not Labyrinth music. I fear it will be my undoing. I've had tears streaming down my face for the better part of 3 days - I am pretty sure listening to any of "those" songs will be my undoing, and I will end up bawling. Maybe some day.

I find my kids (16 and 11) are completely unaffected, even though they are fans of Labyrinth, too... And know a little of Bowie's music from the radio and playing it repeatedly with their parents on Rock Band. Is it a generational thing? I don't know... I *do* know I feel like a little magic is gone from the world. As someone stated yesterday, that there is less color in the world, now - that it has returned to black and white with Bowie's passing.

Though my desire to know *why* eases with each new comment I read with someone else wondering why his passing has hit them so hard, I think I will always wonder (never to have my curiosity satisfied) why David Bowie's death has effected me (and others) so deeply and strongly.

The more tired I become, the less cohesive my thoughts are, so I will quit pondering for the night. Maybe I will ponder more at a later date, but for now I'll leave you with a link to my post on Facebook where I collected some of the things that moved me over the last few days and...                            
. ............     

Test

Nothing to do with my usual posts. Just checking how the google image search upload/view works. Here's the image I'd like to see on Google images:

Although, I can't figure out how to make it searchable and public... Hmmm.... 

Well, let's try plopping it in here in a different size... 

Royal Story Winks

Sharing the Imperfect Moments

"Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new." ~ Albert Einstein

I guest blogged for Flo Gascon, today, and it was a tough post to write. It is about one of my worst parenting difficulties (and one that I was concerned about avoiding almost all my life). To think of it (even though it is in the past) makes me regretful, ashamed and horrified, as I told Flo, "...that I saw that train wreck coming and did not - could not - pull my children out of the way of it"; they were not kept from harm, though I hope that they did not suffer permanent damage.

It was both hard to write, because of the shame and horror (of it happening despite my fears and attempt to avoid), and yet it came out easily, because it was something I'd been keeping inside for a long time and I needed to let it go. Funny thing, writing... At least for me. It can be nearly as vivid in the retelling/reliving as the actual events/experience, bringing me emotionally to exactly the same place again. And yet, writing has always been therapeutic for me. There is something so natural about the flow of thoughts, emotions, images, sights, scents, sounds & sensations from my brain through my arm into my fingers and then onto paper or into keys and onto the screen. It is one of the few things I can't seem to describe fully - at least to my satisfaction - or convey to someone else. I don't know if it is a "writer" thing (you'd think I'd discuss that kind of thing with other writers! :~) ) or if my skills are just inadequate. But I digress...

As I also told Flo, I feel that the process, the mistakes, the flaws should be shared more with other parents. As hard as it was to write, and as hard as it is knowing that other people are learning of my worst parenting difficulty, I feel it is important to say, for the sake of others. When I first started looking into radical unschooling, I continually felt lacking and "not good enough", because all I read on the groups was perfect success stories of perfect mamas with unending patience, continual energy to fulfill all their children's needs & no lack of ideas for solutions and exciting plans and amazing games and the ability to boost their children's interests with innumerable "connections" (as in, this things leads to that thing, which leads to the next thing). Of course, I know better, now, but there was a time where I nearly gave up on radical unschooling/respectful, gentle parenting because I didn't feel like I was the right personality type, like I wasn't perfect enough to succeed. I believe that more experienced unschoolers and gentle parents need to step up and share their non-stellar moments & experiences and tell those who are just starting out, "You're going to screw up. I screwed up. You may screw up horribly, but if you keep at it and get back on track when you slip up, and keep doing better, you'll get there; and your kids will be better knowing that you're not perfect, either, that you make mistakes, too, and they'll love you more for trying to be a better parent.

That's not to say that "anything goes" and that I'm patting anyone on the back and saying, "Good job.", "You're doing the best you can.", or "Well, you tried." I am saying to keep in mind when you stumble that nobody's perfect, no matter what it seems like when you're reading about better parenting. Everyone has made mistakes, but the reason that there are folks with experience to give good advice and help others be better parents is because they didn't wallow when they slipped. They got up, dusted themselves off, and tried again - most likely, they tried harder. They looked up from the mistake to focus on the goal they were aiming for and went forward. :~)

That is one of the reasons I started this blog in the first place: because I didn't see enough of the mistakes (learning-takes) and errors and "failures" - in fact, I don't remember seeing any. Mistakes aren't optimal and they're not the focus, but knowing that those who have gone before you have fallen repeatedly and struggled to continue along the path of their journey to find success along the way makes it so much easier to pick ourselves up and find the determination to continue on when we stumble. 

Time and Again

Time. Really, basically, it is just an idea, not something tangible… Yet how powerful it is! Like the wind or fire, it can be soothing,  destructive, beneficial, distressing… It has a definition known to all and is yet an enigma. Maybe all this is why time is so fundamental, so significant in our society. Maybe our very mortality is the cause for the constant discussion and perusal, vilifying and worshiping of time. 

I think most of us move along our path of life looking forward. Likely, this is why milestones stir up feelings of nostalgia; they are a huge mile marker that has us pause to consider, which so often includes at the least, a glance back to see how far we’ve come. When your path has been joyful and interesting, it is more likely than not that the traveler will be quite surprised at the distance, the time that has become “the past” imperceptibly.

I didn’t start out this blog with the intention of so many of my words referring to that passage, those benchmarks, the looking back… and yet, it seems that has more impact in my psyche than I’d expected – and I knew how sentimental I was long before there was such a thing as “blog”.

Our youngest, Storm, is nearing 7½. Dave and I have recently begun starting quite a few sentences with, “I remember when… “ :~) Today was another bittersweet look back in surprise of where the time has gone; far, far more sweet with just a taste of sadness at what will never be again (though as I write this, more and more of those “never again” moments pop into my brain… ).

Storm has had quite a variety of sleeping arrangements. Far more than Wyl, though Wyl’s were much more like “leaps” than small adjustments. Wyl slept *hard* through the night from birth. I was a new mama and still feeling my way and when the well-meaning doctor told me that he needed to eat every 4 hours (me, being the people-pleaser/Good Patient I was), set my alarm and attempted to schedule breastfeeding. We tried *everything* we could think of: putting the nipple in his mouth while he slept, trying a bottle, making silly voices, taking off his onesie in a cool room and making him cold, jiggling him upright, talking with him loudly, tipping him upside down, sticking his hand in lukewarm water; in cold water, wiping his face with a wet washcloth… We’d spend an hour, sometimes, trying to wake that boy – never worked *once*. We still had some old-fashioned ideas that we were trying to meld with our new ones we were picking up with attachment parenting ideals we were reading & hearing about. Dave and I are both big people – both frame-size and weight – and though we were willing to accept co-sleeping, the possibility of the 2 of us or one of us smashing our baby in the night was too scary to attempt. So, he slept in his crib in his room during the night and we co-napped in the afternoon. At 2, he was climbing over the rail of his crib and falling on the hardwood floor below. He wasn’t getting hurt, but I was worried he would. Again, I still had in-the-box thinking and though I scolded him, the only solution I could think of was to put him in his own bed, since the distance was closer to the floor and had a pieced-together rug under it. Around 4 years old, he began to fear the dark and kept turning on the light after I’d tucked him into bed. I again scolded, taped the lightswitch down, and finally removed the lightbulb from the overhead light. Why I couldn’t think of the dozens of alternatives I can *now*, I don’t know, but it wasn’t a happy solution.

About that time, I started learning about unschooling and partnership-parenting and hearing “wild”, out-of-the-box ideas and my thinking started shifting. For quite a while, Wyl slept downstairs on the couch. Or, on the floor in a nest next to the couch. Sometimes, we’d take him up when one of us went to bed, but for the most part, he slept downstairs where parents & light were. The next sleeping spot was in a bed next to ours. That kept on for several years, working fairly well (though sometimes problematic, with Wyl having trouble keeping calm and quiet enough to keep from waking other family members up) with a few guidelines coming up as they were needed to keep it a win-win situation.

Around 11-12 years old, he began moving toward puberty and somewhere in his 12^th year, he decided he wanted to sleep in his own room, again. I left space for  him in our room, should he feel a need (briefly for a night here & there or for several nights, a week, whatever he needed) to come back or need reassurance. Though, once his decision was made, it seems he knew he was ready for it, because he hasn’t slept there, since – and he’s just a few weeks from 14, now.
Storm, on the other hand… I smile warmly at the thoughts… First, he slept on my chest under my hospital gown in the NICU. I was ever so thankful that the nurses either “allowed” me to hang out in the nursing room off the NICU nursery or that they “forgot” that I was there with a baby out of the crib. Sometimes, I’d get a couple hours in, dozing lightly while he slept peacefully right under my chin on my bare skin, all curled up in a tight little ball. They’d come in and take him and say they needed to get stats and I’d go lie in my room and nap for a bit until I could pump again or visit again. (Maybe some day, they’ll bring the NICU to the mama’s room, so the baby and mama can actually be together all the time… I hope…! )

When we finally got to bring him home, 5½ years of learning after the first baby, we’d come much further in our understanding of co-sleeping, but we still opted for a bassinette right beside me, pushed up against the bed. He seemed *so* frail! Wyl was a big, robust baby, but Storm, being a preemie, was so thin and different than Wyl had been at that age. He curled up in there in his “signature pose”, a tight little ball on his belly, just as he had on my chest.

The bassinette worked for about 2 weeks. Then, I could lower him into it all the way to the mattress, awake or asleep, but the moment my hands started to move away from him or he touched or sensed that mattress in there, he burst out crying! A few times I attempted to make it work, thinking it was an isolated incident, but it was quickly clear that the bassinette would not do, so into our bed he came – curled up in that tight little tummy-ball. The crib was in our room, too, along with our queen-sized bed and Wyl’s double bed (plus 3 dressers!), but I don’t remember if we tried to move him from the bassinette to the crib before he came to our bed, or if that was just a standby. (There was a lot of missing sleep and my memory isn’t the best, anyway… :~)  ) Many nights, we’d move him to the crib after he fell asleep in our bed, and on the rare occasion he couldn’t be calmed in the night, we’d bring him back.

I’ll digress at this point to mention that I don’t really know what the definition of “sleeping through the night” *really* means. Clearly, Wyl did that, by any definition of the phrase, never waking – even now, he’s probably only woken in the middle of the night less than 10 times in his life. Getting him to sleep was sometimes rough, but once he was asleep, he was down for the count. Storm, however, would fuss a bit and/or cry out, though not usually coming full awake and could be back-rubbed or cuddled (or moved to the bed) back to sleep, usually in moments. I could probably count the times my sleep was actually disturbed by his night “adjustments” on both hands. I never really counted that as being outside “sleeping through the night”, though recently, sometimes I wonder what it truly means.

When Storm was somewhere around a year old, he preferred the crib. He was happy to snuggle in the bed with someone until he got sleepy, but then he’d fuss and toss and grouch until he was in the crib and then he’d sigh, turn over and go right to sleep. After a while, he figured out to gesture & point to the crib when he was ready to fall asleep! I was so astounded at first – from all I’d read, babies didn’t *ask* to be put in a crib alone!! But, that’s what he wanted.

It didn’t last *too* long, though I’m not sure how long it was. He started coming & crawling into the bed when he stirred in the night, then he decided he wanted to sleep with us again. Occasionally, he’d want to sleep in the crib again, but most of the time it was in “the big bed”.

At one point, we got a loft bed, trying to make a separate space for everybody, since Storm was always tall for his age and *I* felt the crib was too small for him. Yet, even after the loft was there, after Wyl moved into his own room leaving even more empty space, Storm wanted his crib. It was draped with dark blankets in a tent-style (top & sides) to keep out the cats & block the light, so maybe it was the “coziness” of it, I don’t know.

Eventually, he left the crib behind (he was quite a ways into his 6^th year), unsure, yet firmly deciding to put it away – he enjoyed helping me take it down! :~) He moved into the double bed & we draped it all over like the crib had been, put in a string of dark purple lights, used the sheets he wanted… basically made it *his* space to his specifications. Yet, every once in a while, he will mention wistfully that he misses his crib…

A couple months ago, he decided he wanted to try to sleep in his (single) bed in his room. Dave hung out in there with him, but after a short while, he decided it was too noisy (our room is in the back of the house, Storm’s is right in the front, just feet from the street), with all the cars going by.

A week/week and a half ago, he decided to try sleeping in his own bed in his own room again. He hasn’t said anything specifically, but I get the feeling he has the idea that he is getting “too big” to sleep in our room. Plus, he’s really wanting to have friends sleep over, and I pointed out recently that he probably didn’t want to leave a friend alone in his room while he, Storm, came & slept with me. :~)

We made things all cozy to his delight, me giving him ideas to help make him comfortable in there (like having a small fan running to help block the noise) and when my back started hurting from hunching over there, I reminded him he could stay all night or come sleep with me whenever he needed, then went to wait in bed. I only waited a few minutes. :~) He was back and disappointed and complaining the fan was too loud. I reassured him and was happy to snuggle him a while.

Tonight, he wanted to try again. I needed a nap & went up early, so Dave stayed with him while I was sleeping. I fully expected to wake with him in the next bed, but when I did wake, I was alone.

I thought about parents I’d seen on t.v. shows, struggling to get their kids to stay in their own beds or their own rooms through the night and how they’d likely cheer, but I was a little sad. Just a tiny little bit, for the time passing too quickly for my liking. I am too comforted by the ideas that this is how it is supposed to be: children growing up smoothly, making transitions from stage to stage seamlessly, happily without struggle. This is what is *supposed* to happen – they grow up with our guidance with as little stress as possible; that is my job as their mama: to make it a journey that is tackled with me, as their partner and guide.

And yet…

As Storm snuggled with me, a bit sadly (he feels these milestones, too – all too much his mother’s child in that department! :~)  ), it cheered him as I talked about all the ways he’d slept over the years. I smiled softly as I told him how much I’ve enjoyed snuggling with him and we discussed all the different ways we could *still* snuggle, even if he slept in his own bed.

And, 6 hours after he was asleep in his own bed, he’s still there. Another milestone I wasn’t ready for. It *may* not be completely past, yet, but we’re there. I am awfully pleased with the people my children are growing to be… I am ever so grateful to have them in my life and to have a good relationship with both of them… Yet, I sure would love to nurse that baby again… bathe a wiggling little chubby boy again… discover a soap bubble blown from a wand with him for the first time again… hold a tiny little newborn baby and feel the weight of importance of responsibility and the awesomeness of new life in my arms again…

Time.

As my time as a closely nurturing mama coming to a close (and new times open), benchmarks like these, replete with the inevitable wanderings through the past, spurs me to grab the moment, do my best, to make the most of *this* moment… It will be gone in a flash, with nary a chance to “do it right” again.

Now is the time. 

“Friends” - Catching Up on the Past Half Year - Part 3

I am going to go a little outside my usual post “flavor” to address some things that have really been bothering me the past few months. I’ll preface all the entries with this disclaimer & that way it will be easy to differentiate for those who would rather not read negative things. Seriously, this post/entry has nothing to do with unschooling: it is part of a hashing-out on my part, a venting of my feelings on recent happenings, a “getting it out in full view” to avoid secret whisperings and wonderings about recent events. Ive gone back-and-forth over whether to actually post these words or not, and usually when I do that, I get a definite feel for it (after sleeping on it) if it is certainly a bad idea. I haven't gotten that feel in over a month of pondering, so if it turns out to be a bad idea I figure I've a lesson to learn from it.

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Part 3

Well, I’ve been working my butt off at the shop, this last month & a half I’ve been avoiding Facebook. I’ve gotten on to take care of shop business & keeping up with the occasional business contact, but I’ve avoided reading friends’ personal posts & comments. There’s been an item or two I would have liked to share with everyone, but I just wasn’t ready to dive back in. I’m still not positive I’m totally there, but it is getting to be more difficult to work around Facebook (because of the shop’s Facebook page), and tough to keep up with homeschool events.

I knew this would be a three part series before I began writing it, but after I finished up part two, I couldn’t seem to find a thread in my brain for part three. Maybe (I don’t remember what the slant of it was going to be) it was resolved. Maybe it wasn’t and it will resurface later – no problem. I can always blog it then. At any rate, I do have one more thing I wanted to write:

I believe most people would agree with me on this one: It is never anyone's place (with the possible exception of a spouse/partner) - to demand that someone else live their life to their expectations. At least when we’re talking about adults; if we’re talking about kids, I’d surely get some arguments, but the situation I’m talking about was 2 unrelated adults, so we’ll leave it at “adults”.

Sure, there are people out there who are always ready and willing to judge, jump to conclusions, find something negative. I understand that – I don’t have to accept it as the norm (because I know better, now), but I understand. You (that general “you”, again) are well within your rights to have your thoughts & feelings and I’m well within my rights not to like them (or to like them, as the case may be). However, I believe it is a serious line to cross when you try to enforce those thoughts/beliefs/way of acting onto someone else. In any friendship/relationship, there are factors each person is going to have that are acceptable and those that aren’t; if the non-acceptable factors outweigh the benefits of the relationship, that is the time to decide to walk away from the relationship. It is not normal or healthy to believe that you can control the other person, their beliefs, thoughts, actions to suit your parameters. It is the epitome of unhealthiness to try to threaten someone into abiding by your misguided attempts to change them into your ideal.

Along those same lines: respect cannot be commanded. Sometimes, you can command and get results that look like respect, but if it is not genuinely earned, it isn’t really respect.

I'm putting this out in the blogosphere, in hopes that it might help someone. I thought it would be cathartic for me, but it turned out not to be needed so much as was righting my world and putting all the craziness of the last half year in order (where I could) and behind me (for the most part). Now, hopefully, back to "normal"... whatever *that* is! :~)

“Friends” - Catching Up on the Past Half Year - Part 2

I am going to go a little outside my usual post “flavor” to address some things that have really been bothering me the past few months. I’ll preface all the entries with this disclaimer & that way it will be easy to differentiate for those who would rather not read negative things. Seriously, this post/entry has nothing to do with unschooling: it is part of a hashing-out on my part, a venting of my feelings on recent happenings, a “getting it out in full view” to avoid secret whisperings and wonderings about recent events. I've gone back-and-forth over whether to actually post these words or not, and usually when I do that, I get a definite feel for it (after sleeping on it) if it is certainly a bad idea. I haven't gotten that feel in over a month of pondering, so if it turns out to be a bad idea I figure I've a lesson to learn from it.

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Part 2

There are a few things I’d like to address in this post.

I think part of the reason why meanness bothers me (it always has, but even moreso, now – with a bit of shock/surprise that it still happens) is because of the people who have intersected in our lives the past 10-11 years. As I began researching homeschooling seriously and then even *more* as I delved into the principles of unschooling, I found kindness and generosity of spirit and love and gentleness. At first, it seemed “fake”. Surely, people weren’t *really* this cheery, this nice, this all-accepting… ?, I thought. As time passed and I got to know them more deeply, I realized that they were, indeed, “real”.

It seemed like a homecoming, like things I’d hardened my heart to long ago, *were* actually *right*! Some things were hard to accept or reassimilate, but I found new life in myself for these ideals. Accepting people for who they are, where they are. Understanding/accepting that people do the best they can with what they have. Relearning how to trust and love people freely – without grudgingness or a need to “earn” it – was tough, at first. But, it got easier. And with it came peace – a deep, soul-soothing peace. And quiet happiness. And a love of self I don’t think I ever had.

It has always bothered me far more to see others hurt than to be hurt, myself – I think that’s true for so many people. Maybe even most people. Injustice bothers me, deliberate meanness bothers me and enjoyment at another’s expense bothers me. I am a firm believer in people gravitating toward decency: if you are kind to people when others are around, they’ll pick up on that, and echo it, reflect it, absorb it into their own being. That is why I am so bewildered and shocked when, every once in a while, some piece of hidden meanness surfaces & is flung into the midst of the kindness.

Twice, within friends & acquaintances, I’ve had nastiness forced upon me. Maybe I should edit that to say “two people”. At any rate, one was more in the realm of acquaintance. The other was someone I’d thought was a dear & caring friend. One who, last time I’d been in contact, had said, “If you need help, just let me know! Whatever you need, whenever – I’ll be there for you!” and then the next, within a bunch of nastiness, “I can’t continue to be your friend”. Now, what, exactly happened in those 2 months I didn’t hear from her, I don’t know. My only communications were to ask if she was going to be at local homeschool events, as our kids were friends and an offer (from her) of a skirt for my mother’s celebration of life memorial. There was a mention of a public venting I’d put up on Facebook, but it was about how I was feeling, not about anyone else. The biggest part was that it was an unexpected attack and rather surprising, because it came from someone I’d considered an ally, even if it was not a “best friend” kind of situation.

Most people reading this will know, but for those who don’t: I am not a judgmental person. I have friends & acquaintances with quite varied beliefs & ideas – I believe uniqueness makes the world interesting & contributes to growth and learning; as long as you (general “you”) are not trying to force anyone to adopt your beliefs and/or ideals, we’ll get along just fine, most likely. Different religious beliefs? Different political stance/ideas? Different ideas on how to parent? No problem – as long as you’re not forcing them on others. Because our ideas on parenting aren’t the same do not mean one of us is “right” and the other is “wrong”, it only means they’re different, as are our families, as are our children. It is quite possible that my parenting ideals would not mesh with your children, anyhow; quite likely yours wouldn’t mesh with my own kids – in fact, I’ve tried out one or two I *know* do not suit my children at *all*!

At least as far back as jr. high school, I have said I wasn’t really a “girl”. The things I enjoy tend to be things that are correlated with “guys”, added with my body structure (for those who don’t know, I’ve shrunk to 5’ 10” and I have a body-frame structure like an American football linebacker), tends to make me feel out of place in especially “girly” situations/places/events. (Or did when I was younger.) I think a lot of that has to do with the different ways guys & gals interact – especially in school. I don’t think I was ever indoctrinated (or at least not “properly”, if I was) in “girl behavior”. I don’t understand the twisting and misrepresentation of words. I don’t “get” the two-faced thing. I don’t understand the point of, or how to “gossip”. I *really* don’t understand the “code”/game kind of thing: if you are upset with someone, why can’t you just say so? Why the need for posturing or symbolic representation rather than words? I don’t get it. There are a *lot* of gals who don’t get it – we share our bafflement with each other: not only do we not understand it, we don’t understand the point of it, nor the attraction. Just because someone doesn’t share gossip with you or react to *your* gossip in an appropriate way is not necessarily within that “girl code” of symbolism: sometimes, it’s just that it is a foreign language to some of us and we neither understand nor speak it. Seriously – I’d have a better chance of understanding you if you were a mime or spoke to me in Latin (and I’ve never studied Latin).

Another thing, along those lines is the sharing of intimate details. Just because my status updates don’t include the details & recipes of every meal I ate today, the tiny details of how I spent my day by the hour, what my kids studied (or didn’t study), how my family interacted with each other, several cute pictures of my pets & kids, the fight I had with my relative and/or the funny noise the van made today (not that anything is wrong with sharing those things, mind you!) does not mean I’m “lying” or “hiding something”. From as far back as at least jr. high, I have been rather close-to-the-vest about the details of my life (perhaps I was burned by gossip – I don’t remember). I would no more share intimate details of my life than I would ever have flashed my breasts at a rock concert (not that flashing some boob is *bad* - it just isn’t who I am) or dig a booger out of my nose and share it ‘round for all to see the shape of (again, not that I’d condemn anyone who does that… ). There are a tiny handful of people who mysteriously have the key to my reticence and I just spew loads at them – not sure why or how, but I know the number can be counted on one hand. Nor would I expect anyone who likes to share those details to clam up and act more reticent, because that isn’t who *they* are. I love to listen to people talk about themselves & their day & how they process things – I’m just more of a listener than a talker… at least when it comes to stuff I consider personal to me. I can talk like crazy about general stuff and unschooling and games and… ! :~)

Why can’t folks just be more accepting of others? Of differences? I can remember being very young and having a “better than you” attitude and judging people and it didn’t feel very nice. I know that people often gravitate to things that feel good (like acceptance and love and joy), but there’s also a lot of fear around over change and “standing out” from the crowd… It just seems the world would be a better place *and* the people in it would be happier, if there was just more acceptance of others & their ideas & ways… “Different” isn’t “wrong”, it just isn’t the same.

Ahh… One last thing before I quit for the day: a bit I’d written in my notes, but I’m rather tired to search through today’s post and make a place for it. It can stand on its own within this post, I think, so:

*just because I’m not gossiping about something or blaming someone behind their back doesn’t mean I’m clueless or damaged by it or too stupid to comprehend: it usually means I simply don’t care. Honestly, I rarely care what others think or say about me: I’ve said it to most of you. As long as someone I care about isn’t being hurt, I really don’t care what you say about *me*. I don’t care if you don’t like me. If you don’t have the fortitude to talk something out with me or ask me my side of something, I don’t care what kind of twisted/untrue opinion you have of me or what you say about me behind my back. That kind of behavior certainly doesn’t reflect badly on *me*. I and the people I love & who love me know who I am and that’s all that matters to me.

I’m wrapping up for the day. I’m still not ready to jump fully back into FB – probably most of what I’ll be doing is business-related. I’ll be on, sporadically, if folks want to message me there again, though.

“Friends” - Catching Up on the Past Half Year - Part I

I am going to go a little outside my usual post “flavor” to address some things that have really been bothering me the past few months. I’ll preface all the entries with this disclaimer & that way it will be easy to differentiate for those who would rather not read negative things. Seriously, this post/entry has nothing to do with unschooling: it is part of a hashing-out on my part, a venting of my feelings on recent happenings, a “getting it out in full view” to avoid secret whisperings and wonderings about recent events. I've gone back-and-forth over whether to actually post these words or not, and usually when I do that, I get a definite feel for it (after sleeping on it) if it is certainly a bad idea. I haven't gotten that feel in over a month of pondering, so if it turns out to be a bad idea I figure I've a lesson to learn from it. 
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Part I

First off, let me begin by going back… :~) Things have been less-than-stellar since Dave got laid off a few years back. The job market around here isn't the best and to top that off, employers are actively avoiding unemployed people – very weird, IMO, but that’s how things are. We made do, looking for work, fully expecting Dave to get another on-the-road job where he’d be away 5 days a week at the least, scrambling to make ends meet when the unemployment income made us ineligible for most programs & help… We figured it was a great time to try to work for ourselves, so we started Dave’s handyman business. Unfortunately, the economy made it tough for folks to hire a handyman, so we kept working at it, hoping things would pick up and continuing to look for work.

In January 2011, we attended our first anime convention, as guests of friends, and discovered Steampunk, which excited us and started our creative processes going. Dave dabbled around with creating necklaces & odds n’ ends, giving what he made to friends. Folks exclaimed over how “great” they were.

The third week in December, two years ago, Dave’s unemployment ran out. Fortunately, that meant we qualified for help and programs. *Un*fortunately, that meant no income to pay for utilities, toilet paper, soap, fuel for the van, clothes, etc. “Where are all the jobs?” we wondered, “Why are we getting so few interviews & no replies from the few we’re getting?” and we marched on.  Thankfully, all the jobs we'd worked 2 & 3 at a time over the years had us paying a whole lot into the system of benefits & help programs and we'd donated loads of time & "stuff" to charities over the years. Not really with this result in mind, but we're thankful, nonetheless.

Snow was scarce that winter, making the snow-removal aspect of the handyman business a flop. We started thinking more and more about Steampunk jewelry and how Etsy had been a jumping-off point for my mother & her jean purses. I researched. So, at the end of February 2012, we took the plunge and added to the job-hunt, handyman-business grind with our Steampunk jewelry (and other mish-mash) store, Smithfits Bazaare Emporium . Friends raved about how incredible Dave’s work was. Sales started happening. Then, as our customer/fan base grew, new people raved. Folks seem to think this was really going to go somewhere and so did we. It hasn't  yet, but we’re thinking it just hasn't been our time to take off, yet. And still, the handyman & job hunting continues. :~D

In April, Dave had some sort of injury to his neck that caused him great pain, numbness and tingling in his neck, shoulders, arms, hands and fingers. He started marching his parade of doctors and specialists after a couple visits to the ER couldn't resolve the problem.

In the last few days of September, Dave got a diagnosis for his injury - a devastating diagnosis: along with carpal tunnel syndrome, he has degenerative disc disease in his neck and osteoarthritis in vertebrae 5 - 7. This will worsen over time and eventually completely paralyze him.

We were trying to cope with this horrifying diagnosis, October 4^th a huge family crisis hit us. I’m still not ready to talk about details in public, but it involved city government and issues with housing code violations (stirred up by our persnickety neighbor) along with other things. Over the last few years, things have piled up inside our house with 2 – 3 packrats and I’ve always been forthright with people about how piled with clutter our house was. I’ve been honest with people that it was out of control. I asked for help a few times, early on, and got some kid-occupying help while cleaning got done without interference. As time went on, I asked for help from a few select, trusted folks and asked and it didn’t come. I got offers of help from a few more people that I didn’t know as well and considered, but had yet to bring myself to accept help from those people who *hadn’t* seen the inside of my house. I was getting close, though…

This situation in October had officials in our house and things came to a head. I explained the situation to a huge chunk of my extended friends and help was forthcoming. Dave looked over the list of folks who’d offered to help and said, “I don’t really want” and he named several names, “in here… “ with firmness threaded with dread in his voice. “*Why*?!?” I asked him. He said that he didn’t want those listed/named people to see our house because they would judge us and probably not have anything to do with us after. I knew that was a likely possibility, but told him that the kids were paramount in this situation and if they were going to react like that, then they weren’t really the best kind of friends to have, anyway. After a bit of thought, he agreed.

It was a very stressful time. There was a *lot* to be done, a lot to decide and where it was overwhelming me before, having people “invade” my private embarrassment and be fully aware of it added all that more stress. Dave and I both got very little sleep, ate very little and marshaled on, coping as well as we could – many people said we dealt with everything with dignity and strength and surprisingly well – that they wouldn’t have done as well if they were in our shoes. I disagree, as I think any one of our friends would power through just as well, but I hope they never have to find out.

At any rate, throughout the 2 weeks of in-depth, deep-clean, hard work, we kept having to deal with officials, spurred on to verify and check tiny details daily by the neighbor who kept calling repeatedly. It was quite clear that something was getting taken care of here and whatever his problem was with it, he was calling the city building department, city council, the mayor and on the weekends when they weren’t in, he’d repeatedly call the police until they got the head of the building department to come out here. The constant harassment made coping even more difficult. Our amazing crew of willing friends (Thank You again!! <3 font="" nbsp="">got an incredible amount of stuff done within those two weeks. We took another couple weeks regrouping and taking care of detail work & dealing with the final points the officials asked us to take care of. Somewhere in all this autumn stuff, we lost a very dear pet cat, Zack (http://and-the-kitchen-sink.blogspot.com/2012/09/our-zachary.html), we’d raised from birth. As we settled into November, things started to settle into place and by the end of November, we were starting to feel like maybe we could start to relax and get into a flow of “normal”, again – even if it was a new normal.

As November drew to a close, my dad started having troubles with his stomach. For a couple days, my parents thought it was probably the flu, but as it didn't improve and the pain got very bad, they started thinking it might be something else. Gallbladder was mentioned. On the 26th, it got really painful and late on the 27th, my mother got him to agree to go to the emergency room the next day if it wasn't better. Now, my dad has a very high tolerance for pain and isn't one to go to the doctor unless it is dire. The man even refuses Novocain for fillings! So, on the 28th, my mother ran an errand and then took my dad to a "stat care" place nearby. 

I’d been having issues sleeping (probably caused by all the upheaval & stress) and was trying to work my way around the clock by staying up to beyond tired, so I could get back to a semi-normal bedtime. On the 28^th, I’d figured on about 5pm to head to bed. At about 4:45, my phone rang. It was my dad; the man known for his pranks & jokes. He told me that my mother was having a heart attack and headed to City Hospital and could I go meet her there, since they wouldn’t release him to go. I asked if he was serious, because with *my* dad, you just never know. He sounded serious and I doubted he would joke about something like that, but it was so unexpected & unreal, I *had* to ask. 

Apparently, my mother had pulled up to the doors to drop Dad off so that he could start his paperwork and went to park the car. She started having chest pains and called inside the stat care place and an emergency team came right out to the car. They did an EKG & some tests and found she was having a heart attack and sent her via ambulance to City. Dad had some tests run, but the results hadn’t come back, yet, so they wouldn’t release him. I headed to the hospital.

I explained to the staff at the waiting room desk what was going on and they were stunned and surprised: both parents at the same time?! Apparently, even in a big hospital like City, that is pretty rare. I made some cursory calls to family, the staff having told me that she’d had surgery & we were waiting for her to come out of recovery & the doctors to come talk with me. Dad called. He told me he was going to be at City in a bit. I was going to argue that he should go home and rest and I could keep him updated, but he said they were bringing him in an ambulance to have emergency surgery because his appendix had burst. I haven’t had a lot of stress in my life the last 6 or 7 years – apparently, my life wants to get it all over with in spaced-out, intense doses.

So, my brother is disabled and not able to step in while I take a break, my grandparents have all passed away years ago, all of my parents’ siblings are dead but my dad’s younger brother, who is in West Virginia and has a wife with dementia/Alzheimer’s  in a home that needs looked after.

I got to go into the cardio ICU when my mom came out of recovery. She seemed to be good color and tired, and worried, of course. I talked with her and gave her cards the boys made for her as I was getting dressed to come to the hospital and talked with her about dad & his situation. She was throwing up a lot and I helped her clean up, since she was required to lay perfectly flat. She gave me a list of things to get for her and bring to the hospital and we talked a bit about her "living will" wishes. She understood that the doctors wanted to wait 3 days to do further surgery (bypass), to allow the blood thinners to leave her system. Just around midnight, test results came back & the doctor decided it was too risky to hold off surgery & that she would go in at 6 am. She had a moment of stark fear & worry as they were pre-prepping her for surgery... I decided to go home and get a few hours of sleep after I checked on Dad, but he wasn't out of recovery, yet, and by the time I got home, it was almost 3 am. I had to get up at 5:30 to make it to the hospital by 6... I got to hold her hand and tell her I would take care of dad as they wheeled her out of the room...

At that point, I spent most of a week running back and forth between 2 hospital rooms on opposite ends of a massive hospital complex, trying to do all I could for everyone. (Which suited me just fine, keeping me very busy with no time for "what if"s.) Thankfully, the staff allowed me to doze in a chair beside my dad’s hospital bed (the appendix had apparently burst long before the operation, spreading bacteria all over the inside of his abdomen & internal organs and had compromised some of his small intestine, which had to have a section removed). It was a very, very uncomfortable chair and I don’t think I got 8 hours of sleep the whole week (and I hadn’t even gone in with any rest to begin with… !). I am stunned I didn’t get sick, myself.

It was a very emotionally stressful time, not only for all the responsibilities that I had, but to see my strong, independent dad so weak physically and feeling so weak & helpless to *do* anything to help the love of his life was devastating. Dozens of times a day, he’d look into my eyes with that helpless, hopeless look of fear… Dozens of times a day, he’d desperately reach or grope for my hand and hold on like it was a lifeline… It kind of scared me a little and it broke my heart. Each and every time it broke my heart. It still does – tears run down my face as I remember and write this…

My dad was very sick and very weak – even weaker than both times he had cancer treatments. The man who won’t even take an aspirin or pain meds for surgery asked not only for pain meds but for morphine – which he made me *promise* I would not allow them to give to him. Later in the week, he also asked for a medication to help him cope with anxiety… I think he had more medication in those 7 days than he’d had in his entire previous 75 years. 

After one surgery to find a blocked artery, another surgery scheduled to do a single by-pass, then during the surgery finding out her aorta burst, things were very much in the air for my mother – a long waiting period after her second surgery, waiting for the drugs to clear out of her system to see if there was brain activity. This heart attack came as such a surprise – no symptoms, nothing to indicate it was coming, and my mother being such a Strong person, we really felt it was only a matter of time before she started the long road to recovery. On December 4^th, a huge amount of staff came in to talk to us and basically told us that she had likely never mentally survived the second surgery. We all went in to say our goodbyes. The most heart-wrenching thing I have ever experienced in my life was witnessing my dad say goodbye to his other half – the love of his life. *That* made me sob more and broke my heart more than any other thing I can ever remember.

After they gave us news that she had passed away, they released my dad from the hospital. He needed someone to help him physically, and I was sure he needed someone emotionally, too. So, I just moved the place I sleep from the hospital to his house. That was a rough time, because at first, he was too weak to do much of anything but sleep. Though they said he was on the road to recovery, in the face of all that happened, it was tough to believe. Especially since his partner of 50 years just died unexpectedly and who knows how anyone is going to react to that... ?

A few days after Dad settled in, my brother was due for what Mom had told us was hernia surgery. Two days after that, Dave's thrice-postponed shoulder surgery (rotator cuff) was scheduled. It turned out that my brother's appointment was a consult appointment to determine if surgery was necessary, so that was a bit of a relief, but it was very, very hard to have to leave my dad, who still needed lots of help (and who, frankly, I was scared to leave alone with his thoughts & funeral home plans & sympathy cards flooding in), to help Dave through his routine (3rd time) shoulder surgery. He'd *wanted* me to stay with Dad, but I couldn't do that, either. I hadn't been sure if I was going to stay at home that night or go back to Dad's, but Dave had a bad reaction with his asthma & the anesthetic and was having awful trouble breathing. He wouldn't go to the ER, and I didn't get much sleep again that night, but he was better in the morning, so I felt comfortable going back to my dad's house.

Being the person I am, I would not force my opinions on him and left so much of the decisions about the memorial service for my mother to him. I truly felt that it was mostly his choice, being her life partner, more than anyone else’s. I think he probably would have been more comfortable with me just taking charge, but I did not feel it was my place, nor is it who I am to tell someone else what they should think or how they should live. I’ve grown too accustomed to accepting people where they are and for who they are in the moment.

Things being what they were, I was quite prepared to stay there with dad for months, but a few days before December 25^th, he firmly asked me to go home. He felt guilty “taking” me “away from the boys” and no amount of explanation on my part would make him understand that he wasn’t “taking” me, so reluctantly I went. I *wish* I had the money to drive over there every day – or even every other day!! But, we do not. So, I rely on the phone. That’s also another source of stress, because I really want to be there for him…

And so, life was starting to balance again (even though I was still feeling terribly out of balance, stressed, confused, sad, badly imperfect, lonely for emotional care for my own self, one of our 2 remaining cats having died a few days before, still not quite caught up on sleep… ), not quite a full month since my mother had died unexpectedly, under 2 weeks since I’d moved out of my dad’s house & back into my own, about a week since a very emotional Christmas for my entire family, on January 3^rd, someone who’d I’d thought was a caring and supportive friend wrote me to unfriend me with a very negative, character-assassinating letter (privately on Facebook), leaving me feeling as if I’d been horribly verbally attacked. Even abused. Not only on behalf of herself, but on behalf of that list of folks Dave and I had talked about (in October, whom we’d likely never see again after coming to help us) plus one other person. All throughout this attack, claiming that I was very dear to them and that they cared about me so very much that it hurt. All I could think of, as I read through this handful of messages, was “kicking me while I’m down”… it truly felt as though I’d been punched – full force – in the gut. Why this person couldn’t just unfriend me, I don’t know… Why they felt the need to write something in such a way as to leave the recipient feeling attacked, I’m clueless… Why they chose such a horrible time to do so leaves me utterly baffled. Unless you (general you – not this person, specifically) purposely *trying* to hurt the recipient, what other reason would you have to say such hurtful things at such a critical time?

That final bit was that proverbial straw on the camel’s back that led to my avoiding Facebook for the past few weeks. I felt the need to curl up and heal for a while and getting “kicked while I’m down” would definitely not further my healing. With my Facebook friends, most of what I experience there are positive, uplifting, funny, fun, interesting, etc. – very little negativity. There *are* negative things to be found floating around Facebook in general without having to have mass amounts of negativity aimed at me directly, so I removed myself from that venue. And that wraps up the “getting the blog up to date.

Our Zachary

Warning: sad stuff contained herein. I don't usually write sad stuff, so I wanted to warn those who don't do sad, are not in the place today for sad or are strongly moved by sad things. Today might not be a good day to read, here.

Zachary was our cat who died, today, in the wee hours of the morning after a brief illness. Like most others who have loss, I want to talk about it and him and I figured this was the best place to do it. I can't find any good pictures of him without some serious digging, so I'll put those in later.

Poor Zachie (or Zachary Taylor Thomas, as I called him when I was frustrated with him - after all, you need 3 names to properly address the situation, right?) had a hard end. He was pretty miserable, unable to do more than crawl a few inches, crying out piteously, not clean, unable to blink, unable to be held because movement stirred his pain... So, we took turns sitting with him in the kitchen, talking to him and stroking him, even though for the last few hours, I don't think he was aware of us... He'd started out 2 or 3 days ago with some sniffles and watery eyes and we just figured he had a cold. By yesterday afternoon, it was looking like it was more serious than that and about 10 pm, we were really concerned. It was really hard to watch such a sweet guy suffer, so after the last bout of struggle and calling out, it was kind of a relief to me (I was the only one still up, at that point) that his suffering was over. We'll miss him, but watching such a laid-back, sweet, cheery guy suffer (without being able to do anything substantial to ease it) was torture.

Now that the hard stuff is over, let's get on to Zach's life.

Late in my pregnancy with Wyl, in the end of the winter of 1998/99, we had a small, thin, scraggly mama cat with tabby stripes and almost no white patches who found our porch very attractive. We had a lot of stray cats in our neighborhood at that time and with preparations and anticipations of our first child, we didn't pay much attention. She was so thin, her vertebrae were visible from a distance and her ribs stuck out, almost painfully. She was quite a bit smaller than your average cat, so her pregnancy was hugely obvious - she was almost entirely tummy!

At that time, we had some old, '80s furniture with the Early American designs on the cushions, wide wood frame with no springs - just a mat of S springs & nylon cords underneath and wooden button/stud things here and there on the wooden frame. There was a lot of it around in the '80s - it was cheap and it had been our first set of furniture, and as we'd acquired more pieces, they'd gotten shoved to the peripheral areas and finally out onto the porch. We'd had a whole set: chair, couch, end table, coffee table & 2 lamps - " 'Skitty", as we'd named her from a character from one of the stories in CatFantastic, preferred the chair.

Like I said, it was winter and cold. After she'd hung out on our front porch a few days, it was clear she wasn't passing through. Being a mama, myself, I believed she needed extra attention and care. So, Dave and I found a box, lined it with styrefoam pieces we had lying around, then put in old shirts & towels and if I remember correctly, we even did something to the front to keep the wind out. We tucked that box under "her" chair and she took right to it. We put food and water out for her regularly and when it wasn't too bitter, we'd pet her and chat with her. We already had 3 cats in our house and coming up on my due date with one cat who was *very* particular about who he shared his space with, *and* as scraggly and flea-ish as she looked, we just couldn't bring her in. 

My memory of those days right before Wyl was born is kind of foggy. I don't remember if she gave birth (SIX of them in that tiny little body!) shortly before I went into the hospital or while I was in the hospital, but I *do* remember missing our furkids terribly. We'd only left them before for our honeymoon and a trip to Atlantic City in the late '80s, so it had been a while *and* we were particularly attached to one: C.C., our "baby" before Wyl was born. Anyhow, I remember asking (pestering, really) Dave to care for them each time he left the hospital (don't forget to make sure they have extra food! "We don't know how long it will be until someone can get back to them! Extra water, too! Talk to them! Give them extra attention!" and on and on... I remember being concerned about 'Skitty and her kittens as my own baby was working on being born. All I could think was that it was *cold* - I completely disregarded our snug box and the fact they had fur (and it was late March, so not really all *that* cold). 

After we'd settled in with our new baby, I'd spend what time I could trying to play with the adorable kittens on the porch (at one time, she'd moved them to the big bush across the street - one of the busiest in town! - and I was frantic), but they were frightened of people. We had a very old (1940s?), big stove on the front porch, having 2 at the time and not wanting to throw it a way (I have a problem with not being able to toss out something functional or that might be appreciated by someone else). This became the kitten's play place & refuge. Whenever we'd appear on the porch unexpectedly, they'd scramble for the underside and back of that stove and climb up in the inner recesses of it! You could look and look and still never find them. I'd have Wyl in his versatile baby carrier and we'd sit on the porch, soaking in some sun and they'd slowly work their way out. It was rare if they'd come within petting reach, though sometimes I was able to take advantage of one's distraction and scoop it up to snuggle and pet. They'd not scratch or bite, though they would escape at first chance. Never, in those first months, did they ever show signs of warming to us. As much as 'Skitty would wind our ankles and purr like a can of shaken marbles when we petted her, those kittens did *not* like people. 

While they still resided on the front porch, 3 of them disappeared. They were too young to strike out on their own, so we can only assume that they died some how. Never saw any signs of how or where. Who was left were 2 black-and-white tuxedo and 1 beautifully vibrant tabby with pristine white chest, belly, mittens and tailtip. The 2 black-and-whites clearly had a father in the strays of the neighborhood. He had a white face with a little black Charlie Chaplin-type mustache, and so we called him Chaplin. His two girls who lived with us were Charlie and Little Tramp, whom we called L.T. for short. But the tabby just defied naming. We couldn't think of anything and his personality was so mild, he didn't name himself. And of all 6 originals, he was quite obviously the runt. So tiny, so behind his siblings in development, speed... it even seemed his brain was less developed. Not obviously, just hints here and there. Maybe we thought he wouldn't make it, since he was the runt, I don't know, but we had the hardest time coming up with a name for that guy.

Eventually, 'Skitty moved them to the back porch. I was relieved. That road we live on is highly trafficked and people very frequently do far more than the speed limit (25 mph at the time) and we'd had plenty of cats die on it. 'Skitty was an *awesome* hunter - probably the best I've seen. She thinned our bird population (as a non-morning person, I was grateful!) and harassed the squirrels who liked chewing their way into our attic. We have a peach tree right off the back porch that used to have a branch that went up over the roof and she'd *fly* right up that tree to the roof and catch squirrels. The only thing she left was the fuzzy tail. Oh! How we'd praise her for getting those nasty, wood-chewing house-invaders! I kept trying to win over those kittens, without much success.

Eventually, I hit on the idea of Reddi Whip. I shared it enough with our indoor cats that they *knew* the sound of the stuff coming out of the nozzle! That "ffsssshhhhhhtt" would be immediately followed by a sound of scrambling kittyfeet and pleading cries. So cute! So, I hit on the idea of using whipped cream to befriend the kittens. At first, I'd spray it when they were near and could see what I was doing. That sound is a lot like an angry cat hissing, so at first, they'd take off into the greenery of the back yard. Eventually, with their mama begging, they'd tentatively venture over and found that sound equaled a creamy treat! Over time, I had them licking it off of my fingers. I'd put a spotch on my pinky, my middle finger & my thumb, so each one had their own portion (teat?) and they'd lick away and then when it got thin or was gone, they'd bite with their sharp little kitten teeth. :~) I'd refill. Slowly (over days & weeks), I worked my way from the edge of the porch to the door, then left the door open during whipped cream time, then slowly into the house. I'd leave the door open so they didn't feel trapped and they could go out whenever they wanted. When they were comfortable with that, I started closing the door for a few moments and worked it up to longer periods. They'd stay inside for a bit, looking around, but when they asked to go back out, I'd let them out. The later it got in the year, the more they'd stay in the house. 'Skitty never did come in.

Then, sometime in September, the tabby disappeared. I think at that point, we were calling him "the boy" or something vague like that. The kittens had been spending an hour or two in the house at that point, and sometimes, I'd even have to insist they go back out. They always came when I sprayed the cream, though, and very often when I just called "kittykittykittykittykittykittykittykittykittykitty!!" I didn't think very much of it the first day, but we casually looked for him. The next day, I was pretty concerned. We looked and called and nothing. The third day, I was really upset. I asked Dave to go look in weird places we'd never think to look, to search very thoroughly. I don't remember, now, who thought to look under the car, but there he was. All curled up in a hollow in the dirt. He looked terrible. He was dirty and his whiskers were broken off, he had missing teeth and he was sickly looking and not very responsive. Poor little kitten! We'd had no idea what happened!! I tried to nurse him to health, myself, but he wouldn't take *water*! I had no idea what to do with him if I couldn't even get water into him, so we took him to the vet.

Well!! The vet pointed out that all his whiskers were the same length and not frayed at the ends. She said someone had *cut* all of his whiskers off!! Who would do such a horrible thing?! She examined him and I don't remember if she did an xray or not, but as she examined his mouth, we saw that *all* of his teeth between his canines *and* his two canines on the bottom were gone! She treated his dehydration with a shot of saline under the skin in the middle of his back and told us his little, baby lower jaw was *broken*!! Eventually, we put 2 and 2 together and realized that someone had abused this poor little sweet thing! They'd cut off his whiskers to disorient him, then either hit him with a bat or something *or* kicked him in the face!! We were horrified. And so sad. I was so grateful to the vet, Dr. Hanson, who was doing her residency at the Animal Hospital, I made her his namesake. If you'll remember, "Mmmmm Bop" was at its peak about then, and the band was Hanson, and Zach was my favorite, so that's how the nameless little kitten got his name - finally!

The vet had given us (expensive!!) medicated food and instructions to mix it 1/2 and 1/2 with water and put it in a syringe and squirt it into his mouth so many times a day (I forget, now). Since he hadn't met the indoor cats, yet (we always shooed them out of the kitchen when the kittens came in), we isolated him in the bathroom to keep him safe. We spent time in there keeping him company and using a damp wash cloth to keep him clean. The thing that amazed me the most is how attached he got to us. He trusted us from the moment we pulled him out from under the car like we were his mama and daddy. Like none of them had ever trusted us. He curled up and slept on us in the bathroom. He snuggled us and mewed so quietly and begged for our attention. Not only was it unusual for these 3 kittens, but after some human being had treated him like that?!??!! I was amazed. We fed him that special food and water mix and as he healed, he *grew*!! And grew, and grew and GREW!

Eventually, he outgrew his sisters. Goodness, he outgrew most other cats we'd ever known! (All but C.C.'s papa, who was a *huge* orange tomcat, the size of which I've never seen again.) His personality shown through, too. He was just the gentlest, sweetest thing. He often stumbled or lurched into things or had some other equilibrium mishap, but we chalked that up to his injury... Until it continued long after he was healed. Maybe there was permanent damage... Maybe that's just who he was. He loved to play - especially with feathered toys!! I think he got some hunting skill from his mama, because he caught anything that ventured into the house (birds, a couple times and mice a couple times - the disadvantages of an old house!!) and when he played with those feather-on-a-stick toys - !! Oh, *my* was he *fierce*! The intense concentration on his face and that killer look - he was just a different cat in hunter mode.

Yet, as big as he was, until the end, he never did have much of a voice. Thankfully, he only rarely got closed in a room, because you could stand right outside the solid wood door and not hear him unless his nose was under the crack of the door. He had the softest "mew" that always sounded pleading or apologetic. Sometimes, his mouth would open and he'd clearly be making his signature call, but you couldn't hear anything - inches from him and nothing! His purr was more substantial, though. He'd curl up on your feet or beside you or on your lap and just *touching* you was enough to set off that smooth, steady purr. His eyes would half-close in contentment and you'd *swear* a little smile would spread on his face... Eventually, he'd be so enthralled with your stroking him that he'd be unable to resist rolling over on his back so he could get a gentle belly rub. <3 font="font">

I don't remember him ever scratching or biting in play. He'd reach out a paw with sheathed claws and touch your hand, but he wouldn't bat at your or hit you with his claws. He was *so* gentle - with everyone, not just the kids! Though, for a long time, he was quite nervous and shy around Wyl. Wyl tended to move unexpectedly, lurch off in unexpected directions, yell, jump, run and just overwhelm the cats. But, as Wyl got older and came to understand this other beings in his home, he gentled and got more careful around them and he quite doted on Zachie. They were good buds.

After that, Zach was definitely an indoor cat. We wouldn't let him out and take a chance on something happening again. He was pretty content with that idea, himself. His sisters spent a good portion of their days indoors (it was pretty cold by the time he healed) and his mother had rejected him when he came home from the hospital, so he was a housecat after that. We had another incident a few months after that, when we lost L.T. and then Charlie became an indoor cat. She rather balked at that, and we still have a few times a year where she'll sneak outside for a day.

Zachie was always calm, always sweet, sometimes funny, always a good guy to share something with: whether it was a secret, a lap, a morsel, a snuggle, a nap or some play, he remained steady, calm, sweet, gentle, lovable *and* loving. His passing will leave a big hole in all our lives, but we are ever so grateful for the wonderful 13 years we got to share with him. <3 font="font">

Who knew?

I wanted to be a mommy from early on. There were many loves and desires wrapped up in that goal, but I always knew I'd be one. I spend more time planning my parenting skills and daydreaming about how I'd handle certain situations and what I'd name my kids and how many were enough than I spent planning careers - and there were *many* different hats I tried on in the career department!

It is so funny... I was *sure* I knew pretty much how parenting would go, how it would be... Almost all I imagined was so far from the truth as to be almost inconceivable. Then there are the things that never occurred to me...

I would have been the first to tell you, 13 or 14 years ago, that you were crazy, if you'd have told me what kind of parenting I'd be practicing today! I had my ideals and they were nowhere near then what they are today. I had planned out how I'd handle the "tough" stuff... never even dreaming that those things might never come up, and was totally blindsided by other things that I'd never considered: like my 5 year old being terrified of death and dying and his parents dying and not really being able to wave a magic wand to make that fear disappear in a motherly wave of compassion and gentleness.

I fully believed that a parent should not be a friend to their child, and today I am thrilled to count my kids as my friends; they are awesome people and I'm glad they consider me to be their friend, too.

I had no idea that my kids and I would enjoy the same kinds of music - even having the same favorite songs! It never entered my imagination that we would regularly ride along in the vehicle, singing happily together... Nor could I have imagined the peace, joy and contentment that would bring me. Tears-in-my-eyes happiness. Granted, they're often telling me to, "Turn it down, Mama!" - gee... who'd've thought?!

I couldn't have dreamed up a first-born kid that could catch me off guard with his quirky, smart humor - to the point that I spew laughter unexpectedly. :~D

I'd never have conceived that my almost-teen son would not only still want to hug me, but snuggle with me, want his head kissed, want me to tuck him in - prefer that I lay down with him for a while.

I still find it almost incomprehensible that I have a youngest kid who routinely, *daily*, runs around sing-songing, "This is the best day ever. This is the bestest day ever. This is the best day ever." It seems to be his mantra. How incredibly awesome that each subsequent day is the *best* day! And when I think about it, he's right! It really is!

I've been thinking about how I started learning about partnership parenting, lately. I know I've told the story so many times, but I still am kind of awed by it. Reading about unschooling on the radical unschooling boards elicited strong reactions from me. Things like,

"They're CRAZY!"
"Oh, that's just stupid."
"Well, that would never work *here*!"
Very strong, adamant responses - almost to the point of being shocking. But, the other things I read with those "crazy" ways of doing things was about results. About kids and parents who wanted to be together. Who shared with each other. Who *listened* to each other. Most amazingly, though, were the teens - teens who *wanted* to hang out with their parents, who were kind and thoughtful and open and *talked* with their parents openly, who came to their parents first and right away when there was a problem. Families who *trusted* each other. I knew teens. I'd been a teen. This concept was totally foreign to me. I wanted this - and the more I read about it, the more I wanted it. I was not easily convinced that being a partner to my child would end up with those results, but I grudgingly, slowly accepted that the alternative rarely got those results (and never the trust spoken of, that I knew of), and so I dove in.

At one point in my early struggles to grasp the concept, I "threw in the towel", thinking that it wasn't "working", and decided I was going back to traditional parenting! Within a day, I knew I could never be that parent, again - if I ever had totally been that parent. I found that once you learned how to respect someone, you couldn't ignore that and treat them with less value, with less honor just because you decided so. For a day or so, that had me desperate and flailing. Eventually, I found it strengthening - it backed up the ideas I so loved and wanted for my family.

When you find something that makes your heart sing with joy and makes you radiate sunshine and happiness, you want to share it. You wish everyone could be as happy as you are. As I look back on conversations that happened online this week, I see the enthusiasm with which people share these ideas of partnership... I can sometimes get a infintessimal glimpse at how some others might perceive the rush to share as intolerance for other ideas that don't mesh with partnership and respect. I still don't see the threat, though. Even though I experienced a little tiny bit of that when my ingrained ideas were challenged, I had no sort of "fight back" kind of reaction. Maybe I'm just tired, but even after all these years, I still am a bit baffled by the vehement reactions to unusual ideas - to ideas that challenge one's assumptions and ingrained societal "norms"... Is it because it is parenting? Is it because it is personal, rather than a difference in the workplace? When does something change from being two differing viewpoints to an "attack"?

I thought writing it out might help me process it, but at this point, it hasn't. I'll let it stew in my brain for a while.

Today has been music, games, movies, good food, hugs, laughter, learning, idea-bouncing, helping each other - the best day *ever*!