Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

Out of respect for my husband, I don’t put Christmas decorations up until after my birthday (on the 7th of November). Out of respect for the military, I don’t put Christmas decorations up until after Remembrance Day. Once the digital clock rings 11:12 on the 11^th, however, all bets are off.

Up came the boxes of Christmas stuff, down went my husband into the basement where he claimed he could “put off Christmas until at least next week” by avoiding the glitter-soaked, pepperminty red and green extravaganza.  My kiddos, wanting only the best for their beloved father, turned up the Christmas music extra-loud so he could be included (no matter how hard he tried to do otherwise).  Ha.

The children and I eagerly opened box after box of Christmas decorations, ooh-ing and ahhh-ing over this little thing or that. Oh look, there’s the ball your grandmother gave your father when he was a child and now you can play with it during Christmas. This is the stocking my mother made me, and I made you a stocking, isn’t that special?  Oh yes, it was like The Hallmark Channel all over the living room.

It wasn’t until I opened one box in particular that I truly had the Christmas spirit all over. In fact, for a reason I can’t quite figure out, the children (sensing danger?) told me I could open that box all by myself. I unfolded the box top slowly and, like an archaeologist opening a mummy’s tomb, when daylight, 2012 hit the contents of this box, a dust bomb was triggered.  Poof!

I sneezed until I was sitting from the dizziness, rubbed my eyes and asked (once the air had cleared) what the heck was in that box in the first place.  The children looked inside and shrugged. It seemed to be empty. 

Concerned that we’d inadvertently opened some version of Pandora’s Box, I peered in. Just as they’d surmised: Empty.  Astonishing. It had weight before I opened it, I thought. What happened?

Then, my son looked at me and said, “Momma look like Christmas.” 

My daughter’s eyes got the size of Jolly Ranchers and she said “Momma! You look like Lady Gaga!”

I looked in the mirror and dusted off my hands. I was covered in glitter. I brought my hands to my face and tried to brush the glitter off. Glitter, for those of you who don’t indulge your inner Martha Stewart on the regular, is the cockroach of craft supplies.  There’s nothing that will kill it and once you get one speck of it, it’s everywhere in your house in a matter of hours.  If we added Glitter to Rock, Paper, Scissors, it would beat everything and the game would be dead. Dead.

I brushed my (surprisingly) glitter-free hands onto my face. Not. One. Piece. Moved.  I mean, it was glued to my hide like… well like someone had glued glitter to my skin. Oh, and say what? I have to get groceries and go to a Christmas open-house and … oh all in the next hour? Oh that’s fabulous. 

Unable to remove or even just move the glitter to a new location, I took my Twilight-self to the grocery with my (confusingly) glitter-free children.

By the way, Guys, I get it now. I had no idea the looks I was giving my male friends while they grew their Movember  ‘staches for prostate research.  You see, every friend I saw at the store (and there were many) kept glancing at various parts of my face, while trying to pretend they weren’t looking, and yet were listening to what I was saying.  Some friends protectively drew their children closer to themselves all while smiling a “What the heck is going on with your FACE? Do you know? You must know so why haven’t you done anything about it? My uterus is scared for whatever your problem is.” 

I got my (abridged) list of groceries, stopped in at the open house and returned home hoping I’d left a trail of glitter like Billy from the Family Circus cartoons. I even hopped on a couple of picnic benches and squirmed through a tire swing, just to leave a reasonable facsimile, but the dang glitter remained.

So, if you see me between now and the New Year, please just assume I’m either a) returning from a Theatre Kent audition and I really REALLY want the role of Mirrorball or I’m b) just super-crazy festive! Woo hoo!

Happy Glitter-mas, everyone! 

Out of This World

I have a real problem being on time for things; my husband has a real problem if we are late for things. You'd think our kids would be right.on.time.  And, probably (hopefully) they will be, but not until I stop having to get them places.

Every Fall we put the kiddos in eleventeen things to help further their brains and bodies and (in general) keep them from becoming serial killers.  So far it seems to be working, but they're only 5 and 2 so it’s a little early to call it. 

The thing is, I have been starting to think maybe all these "anti-serial killer" activities are not so much growing and help my children succeed, but instead are inching me closer to a stress-induced heart attack before I'm old enough to have one. Between prep, laundering uniforms, getting kids fed and out the door again, my blood pressure goes from 120/80 to 600/570-ish. 

Don't even get me started on my Rage-O-Meter-- this is the giant thermometer-looking gauge that tells outsiders whether they should tread lightly or continue with caution when near me. Let's say the lower the thermometer, the more peaceful I am; on activity nights, my meter is bubbling 3/4 of the way up with the chance of the mercury bursting through the top with every red light or set of lost car keys that slows us down. 

At any rate, Kiddo #1 takes dance lessons, music and swimming, Kiddo #2 take dance and swimming. It makes for some interesting after school routines in our house, since Kiddo #1 gets off the bus an hour before her first lesson starts on any given day.  While 60 minutes should be adequate, it is so SO far from enough time to get us all there. 

Basically our routine for the months of September and October were as follows:

3:50:  Get off the bus, show thumbs up/down for how day went

3:55:  Get in the house, toss all jackets/shoes/book bags willy-nilly like a sprinkler

4:00: Proclaim dire need for snackage and flop on the floor dying of hunger until said snack is on the table

4:11: I say, "Honey, it's time to get your [whatever is needed for whatever they're taking] together."

4:18: I say, "Hurry and finish your snack, you need to get ready."

4:23: We're leaving in 5 minutes. I'm getting your brother ready for Taylor's (the neighbour girl who takes excellent care of him). 

4:45: AHHH! It's quarter to 5! RUN RUN RUN we're late and we still have to drop your brother off and get there. AHHH! GAH! RUN!

Despite our routine, getting to dance includes us squealing into the dance studio parking lot. Luckily we're late enough that we won't run anyone over as we Tokyo Drift our way into a parking spot. Heart pounding, rage-o-meter through the roof, Kiddo #1 grabs her bag and we run inside. Every week. Without fail. It’s maddening!

But, possibly because we're 3 months into our "new" routine, and possibly because we're getting close enough to Christmas that I am more aware that Santa's watching (so I must be a good girl), a miracle occurred today; we weren't late! 

In fact-- wait til you get a load of this one: we were early. EARLY! 

As we pulled into the empty parking lot, I was able to slowly and calmly get an amazing parking spot. No running from 3 streets over? Man, early people catch all the breaks! 

Kiddo #1 and I walked (!!) into the studio. A dad and his daughter were behind us and the two girls started chatting about ... whatever little girls chat about. I presume princesses and hockey skates, but little girl voices are too high pitched for my concert-abused ears to hear. 

At any rate, Kiddo #1 and her friend lined up at the wall and put their ballet shoes on. I didn't even know they did that. Best part? There were no exasperated tears (from me) trying to put a ballet shoe on her sticky been-in-a-sock-all-day feet.  It was just the putting on of ballet slippers with lots of time to spare. 

I was feeling slightly dizzy, a little on the vertigo side yet not uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like tweeting birds or fireworks and cotton candy. It was a pleasant feeling that I realized afterwards was euphoria. 

Man! If dance class is this pleasant every week, just by being early, I could really get behind her continued learning! No rage coursing through my veins, no sweat on the back of my neck from the elevator-style blood pressure change... nothing but sheer joy that she's doing something she loves. 

But first I have to finish my time machine. Or at least talk to Evie from that 80’s show “Out of this World” and get her ability to freeze time by touching her fingers together. Oh, would you like to swing on a star…

Silence and School Shootings

To say I haven't be processing the Sandy Hook Elementary horror is a big, fat, lie.

I haven't allowed myself to process it. I am self-imposing a media blackout of as much information as possible, and it's not because I don't care; it's because I care too much. I am terrified that if I find out more about this incident I will lose all hope in the future and I can't do that. 

I just can't do that.

Once upon a time, I taught in Colorado. It was post-Columbine, it wasn't even in the same school district, but I assure you, we felt the ripple effects years later, every year on April 20th. The school in which I taught, for example, was a shining example of architecture in the "Post-Columbine" world. 

It was designed so that (I'm not kidding) SWAT teams could descend upon any classroom without a killer, holding kids and teacher hostage, being any the wiser. The doors were either down a short hallway that then became "blinders" for those inside-- you can't see anything in the hallway in any direction from the classroom door-- or they were off to an extreme side of the classroom making it impossible to see 1/3 of the room from the doorway window.  That 1/3 of the room, by the way, is where we were supposed to hide during a lockdown. Duh.  

If you go to school or teach in a building erected after 1999, I dare you to try and see inside the classroom from the hallway. 

Sandy Hook; Columbine; Platte Canyon; the list grows unfortunately longer every few years and I've heard a lot of people expound on why they think the school shootings keep happening.  In fact, I myself was wondering-- I'd never watched Bowling for Columbine until probably a month ago (I was living and teaching in Colorado and never thought it was appropriate).  So, I took the plunge and watched Michael Moore's film.

To say I was horrified that he used actual footage of students being gunned down is an understatement. I was sickened that someone would take the Columbine massacre, edit it, add some interesting yet meaningless commentary on whether or not Canadians lock their doors, and call it a documentary. I cried a lot while watching that film. I cry for the pain and the loss of life that happened.  That film ripped my heart open all over again. 

I tried to be objective so I kept thinking "But what is the point? What is Moore trying to tell us?"  By the time the film finished, I was less sure than when I started watching.  Perhaps I missed the point somewhere, but even now, especially now, I felt sick and used: I felt I was made an accomplice by watching that film, instead of seeing a moral or big picture idea.

Like Michael Moore, I've heard many, many adults, some teachers, some parents, some teens, expound on how the gun control system in the US is out of control and that's the reason for the problems.  Just as I felt while watching Bowling for Columbine, I hear this and wonder, "What is the point?"  

I suppose, as humans we like to classify and come up with neat little boxes to put information in: bad guys wear black, good guys wear white.  But, if you think Sandy Hook and Columbine and (insert the next horrific tragedy) happened because of guns, you are naive and not helping the situation any more than Michael Moore did. 

No, I don't think we all should have guns. True, I'm also not a member of the NRA.  Guns are not things to be trifled with and if you haven't been trained properly, I don't think you should be allowed within 500 feet of one, as far as I'm concerned. But, at the same time, when someone snaps the way that kid (those kids) snapped, it wouldn't matter if he had a gun or a bunch of hairspray and a lighter-- there were going to be fatalities that day. Period.

We know this because of the knifing incident that happened the SAME DAY as the tragedy at Sandy Hook, but in China instead of America. A crazy man entered a school there and stabbed/cut 26 little children. None of those kids died (guns are strictly controlled in China) because they were attacked with a knife, but I think that's my point-- guns are a means to an end, not the problem per se.

People argue that it's poverty, it's immigration, it's guns, it's this it's that.  Those are no different than having a rash, a fever, and burning pain when you pee; if you have those symptoms you'd better get yourself checked out for the bigger problem: Venereal Disease.  Likewise, if you have kids shooting up schools in rich neighbourhoods, poor neighbourhoods, urban neighbourhoods and rural ones, in America, Canada, China, Afghanistan, you'd better start hunting around for the reason.

If you are so mentally unbalanced that you can thoroughly plan the deaths of specific people and a variety of innocents, you will find a way to do it.  The problem isn't guns-- that's a symptom.  The problem is these kids have been so marginalized, so beaten down by parents, family members, teachers, peers that they have seriously, irreparably perhaps, lost their minds.  Insane, beaten-down, marginalized kids grow into homicidal adults unless there is a lot of therapy done to contain it. And I mean a LOT of therapy because you can't argue with a lunatic; they don't believe in the rules of engagement. 

For reasons too numerous to explain, I truly feel that this problem is one of Silence. Our children are feeling silent, out-of-control, marginalized and outcast. Our children aren't being taught how to win and lose with grace. Our children aren't being taught how to think for themselves and how to feel good for doing a job well.  Our children aren't being praised for their intelligence; smart kids are mocked and under-serviced to the point where pretending to be stupid is a more desirable character trait than becoming strong leaders of tomorrow.

Guess why? 

Oh yes, it falls back on us.

I bought these boots for my daughter about a month ago.  They were cheap, but cute, and they were available locally so I wouldn't have to wait for shipping to get the regular (3x-as-expensive, cuter, leather) boots I usually get for her.  Within 3 days the boots already had scuff marks, and by the end of week one, there were patches of fabric missing.  Yes, my daughter is hard on her boots. No, she's not THAT hard on her boots.  I looked at that purchase and thought to myself, "That's a lesson in false economy." As in, I thought I was making a good, cheaper buy, but in the end I will be spending an extra $30 on the boots I should've bought in the first place because of that "economical" purchase.

It's the same with our kids, really. Instead of making sure our kids are getting their emotional needs met at home, at school, in their activities and (again, this one is important) at home, they're filling up their self-esteem bucket with bullshit they see on TV, on Youtube, and from Bullies.  And silence. They're filling up their self-esteem buckets with a bunch of silence that should be words of praise, of scolding, of love, and of care, but instead they're hearing silence.

Being silenced or hearing silence they both end up making people crazy. And after years of my own therapy, I'm strong enough to say something if you use words to silence others in my presence.

It sucks when I have to speak up to friends.
It really sucks when those same friends point out my silencing words.
Like, it sucks a lot.

But it needs to be done no matter how much it sucks, because frankly, my being chastised for saying something that cuts another person should make me feel awful and defensive. I should feel bad because that's how the person I'm verbally cutting feels inside, too. 

When I want to say something off-the-cuff, especially when I'm angry, it takes a lot of deep breathing and counting to 10 before I will let my mouth speak. So, I breathe because I don't want the [cop who pulled me over, the border patrol guy who is just being shitty for no reason, the micro-manager...] to feel as shitty as I feel, with the flick of my tongue.

I think my ability to shred someone with words is because I was crazy-bullied when I was a kid. Truth be told, I still hear the hate-filled words and visualize the screaming disdain from their eyes when I'm having a bad day. After years and years of therapy I can still hear the echos. I have ways to quiet the sounds now, but they're still there.  I replayed, internalized, and etched all that Hate it into my psyche over and over for so many years that it still comes out in ways that occasionally surprise me. 

Adults, if you ask me, are the worst of the worst-- they know better and despite having been bullied themselves, despite knowing exactly how it feels to be powerless, they perpetuate the pain and anger and impotence to children. Sometimes to their own children. Sometimes to the children of other people.

It's gross, it's disgusting and it's a flagrant misuse of power. 

Teachers can be the worst.  

Coaches can be the worst. 

Parents can be the worst. 

If you think these shootings are because of guns, you need to open your eyes and face the real possibility that you might be an accomplice to what's going on with our children, too. 

Words are just as deadly as weapons, they just don't get national coverage.  I assure you, however, that classrooms, locker rooms, even the homes of our children are being assaulted with deadly weapons every day.

This is why bullying is such a big deal.
This is why gender and racial discrimination are such a big deal.
This is why gay marriage and equal rights for the LGBTQ community are such a big deal.
This is why inclusion and education for both ends of the intelligence spectrum and every point in-between is SUCH A BIG DEAL.

Every day that someone is hated for who they are, for things that they cannot change about themselves, even if they wanted to, is another day closer to that person hating him/herself enough to want to kill everyone who seems happy when s/he isn't allowed to be. ...is another day closer to that person wanting to inflict pain on anyone who might have silenced him or her in the past.

We can't stop the madness overnight but we can try. 

We must try.

We must or the next fatalities will be closer to our own homes.

We must.

Tattoos and Other Semi-perminant Thoughts

A few years back, when I decided to get my nose pierced, it was because I'd been thinking about doing it for at least 5 years prior, off and on. I'd weigh the pros and cons, consider where to get it done and all that jazz. I never got it done though.

And then, one day, on our 5th wedding anniversary in fact, as my mother-in-law was flying into Denver for a visit, I dressed Kiddo #1 (who was then 14 months old) and announced, in a smiley, sing-song way:

Me: Bye honey. I'm going to get my nose pierced.
Husband: We need bread.
Me: Uh, ok?
Husband: You said you are going to Costco, right?
Me: No. I'm going to get my nose pierced. But I can get bread afterwards.
Husband: At Costco?
Me: No. Why don't you understand my words?
Husband: Because what I keep hearing that you're going to get your nose pierced but that doesn't make any sense, so I figure you're getting groceries.

See how that works?  Anyway I looked at him and let him know that he wasn't having hearing issues (this, by the way, is a bit of an ongoing joke that Husband is partially-deaf).

He said "Since when?" and I was flabbergasted. I mean, I'd been considering getting a nose ring since not long after we got married! This was no fly-by-night decision, but one that was long overdue! If this decision was a library book, I'd have fines up the wazoo! If this decision was a speeding ticket, there would be a warrant out for my arrest! Why, if this decision to get a nose ring was anything at all, it was thoroughly thought through. 

(Hey, if you're learning English, you'll notice those last three words look extremely similar, yet, they each have completely different pronunciation. Thoroughly: thoroly; Thought: thot; through: throo. As a connoisseur of languages, I am sorry that English doesn't have accents. They're handy little smears.)

And yet, apparently I'd neglected to mention it, even once, to Husband. Interesting.

Off I drove with Kiddo #1 to Ye Olde Tattoo and Piercing Shoppe.  Marlene, the shoppe owner introduced me to Jaspar, the 6'4" guy with a 3 foot blue Mohawk  Kiddo #1 looked shocked to see someone whose hair almost touched the ceiling.

I brought my baby girl, who was just walking on her own, into the piercing room. She (I think) watched me get a piece of cork shoved into my nostril and a needle stabbed into it. Huh. I never thought of it, but probably that's why she didn't cry when she got her ears pierced-- she'd seen it all before and knew it was ok on some sub-conscious level.


I returned home with our baby to hang out with Husband and Mother-In-Law and things were normal like nothing had happened. Turns out getting ones nose pierced isn't a big deal at all. Why had I waited 5 long years?


Now fast-forward to last weekend, 2012 when I got a text at 4pm asking where the heck I was.

Me: Uh, the tattoo shop?
Husband: What?
Me:  I'm getting some work done.
Husband: What?
Me: Hello? Remember when I said this morning, "Hey, can you take the kids for a few hours today while I get my tattoo touched up?" and you said, "Ok."
Husband: No.
Me: Well, we did. And then you'll notice it's on the calendar. And then, you'll notice an email we wrote to each other over the past 3 days where I mention that I'm getting work done on Saturday and how you'll have the kids and here are some things you can do together.
Husband: Seriously? Really this happened?
Me: I love you. I'll see you in an hour.
Husband: Uh, ok?
Me: Love you! :D

And, when I returned home, after fretting about getting a tattoo on my inner arm by my wrist-- it's so visible and visible! What will the neighbours think!? I realized that getting ones skin tattooed  isn't a big deal at all. Why had I waited 5 long years? I am who I am and no amount of metal or ink will change that. Plus, I'm not gonna lie, I feel kinda badass for a Volvo driving soccer mom.

But, I can't win for losing: when I completely neglect to tell Husband about a plan, he doesn't know about it; when I tell him several times over a period of a month, he doesn't know about it.

(if you're learning English, the expression "can't win for losing" is an idiom that makes NO sense. Of course you can't win if you're losing. Duh!)

Maybe for Christmas I'll get some post-it notes implanted on his arm. Then I can write little letters to him that he can post all over his office and car and... never see anyway.  It'll be like that one movie where that guy tattoos his leg with important info about who to trust because he has no short term memory. Oh shoot, what's the movie called?

Either way, there's something super cool about this state of affairs-- see, I figure if he won't remember what I've told him, then I might as well just go out and buy myself whatever present I want, wrap it, and just let him take credit for it. It's win-win because I get exactly what I want and he doesn't have to do anything but reap the rewards.

We are just so dang GOOD together!

Don't you love my 7.8 carat diamond earrings?
I got them for Christmas last year...