My little man

I promised I wouldn't have a "mom blog". Sure, this blog isn't much about mother hood but this post is. Oops

My little man who is now three and a big brother, is often on my mind. As every mother does, I worry that I am a terrible mother. I try my best to not have his delays and quirks worry me or cause me to think, "If only I....he wouldn't...".

I'm always on a quest to help him, especially cause it seems the red tape of health care and education do anything but. For example, I waited two months for a referral for a consultation only regarding his recurrent ear infections and glue ear. Never mind his other problems. That doctor wasn't even taking consultations so I had to do another referral. That doctor was out of network even though it said he was in. After hours on the phone, the third referral clears and the representative says oh there's no doctors in your area. I think Well sure, since I live in the sticks, but there's something like ten million people within two hours of here so there has to be a ton of doctors! Right? She says no. I lose my cookies or marbles or whatever. She does some trickery and finds ONE in the entire area. Now I have to wait three more months for an appointment. And after that, any and all treatment must be in network...even though the network solely looks in my son's ear and says "yup...infected....here have some killer antibiotic and here sign up for ear tube surgery. Again. A third time." So I will go down the same path that has failed me twice.

I am trying everything and might seem like a hypochondriac to some, as I bookmark things on autism, SPD, hearing loss, verbal apraxia, and more. Like having a label will cure him....and yet I continually seek a label to explain my sickly, language delayed, tantrum-crazy super sensitive most awesome little man ever.

I want a label so when he has a tantrum in he grocery store and kicks and cries and makes me drag him around (literally...as he loves to play dead possum), I can give onlookers some snarky retort about them gawking at a special needs child. I want a label for when people ask him how old he is (he says nothing) and then ther guess one or two (since he is super tiny and a.picky eater up barely even eats what he loves), I have an answer..."well ma'am he has XYZ but he is three and amazing don't you think?"

I most of all want a label because then I can find a cure. Better diet? Behavioral training? Medicines? More visits to the chiropractor? Surgery?

I most most most of all want to get to the bottom of all this. I never ever want to hear "he will grow out of it" or "just wait and see".

When I interact with his brother, I hate to compare the two but his brother is so so so much easier and calmer. I can do dishes while he sits in his high chair. I can go to the bathroom without a twenty minute tantrum. But does that make his little brother better or more loved? Certainly not.

My little man is overly sensitive but that also means he is so loving and kind. He loves to play with the pets and other children and kisses me when I cry. He brings diapers to his brother when he cries. He notices people's moods better than anyone and often remarks on them. For example, on Thomas and Friends, Sir Toppemhat lost his hat. Right as he did, even though Toppemhat was not yet looking sad, my son says, "hih ha, huh ha he sa" (his hat his hat he is sad) and starts signing the ASL sign for sad.

I love my special little man and that is that.

Superhero

(A fiction piece for The Speakeasy at Yeahwrite.me)

It ain't easy being a superhero. The power, electric like, pulsates as you feel your wings form and take you to new heights. Proverbially speaking.

Hell, I'm no superhero. Society sees me as the shitty ass piece of scum I am. As I walk down the street, people veer left and right, my superhero forcefield shoved them aside; maybe it's just the bugged out eyes, my tweaking gyrating dance my body performs without me as the chemicals make me their puppet.

Its all a dance, a well choreographed ballet. Dance mother fucker dance. As an introvert, the ritual of getting my fix itself needs a fix. I gotta arrive without suspicion, lest the neighbors call SWAT or ATF on my sorry ass. Already jumpy and paranoid, my hyper senses notice the curtains across the street move, and my heart jumps into my brain like a ping ping ball. Your serve.

Hell, I gotta be a bit high to get my high and to dance the dance. You can't just stroll in, "gimme my fix", toss down a twenty and leave. It's like a first fucking date every time. Small talk reigns, about non-intellectual bullshit like sports, tits, even the dammed weather sometimes. You finish the awkward date and its onto a counseling session, bitching about the old lady nagging you or whatever. Then, the magic show begins, QVC and Vanna White make a discreet appearance, as if its a fucking secret that you're here for dope.

If you loathe the pointless conversation and drawn out process like I do, you gotta be high to get through it all. But not so barely high that it wears off quick, causing nervous awkward chit chat that can signal you're a narc, making your very life at stake. But you also can't be so high that when you sample the goods, you can't tell shit from good and you get a bum deal.

I hate myself for my addiction but it isn't just the addiction that keeps me high. It's the mother fucking best feeling, being high. Self doubt, pain, troubles melt away and you're like a kid in a candy store. You become immortal. A superhero. Nothing can stop you.

I engage in this daily masquerade, the real me and the high me, battling reality, perception, relationships, the bills. Who knows I'm an addict? Do I wear the "normal self" mask well? Do I play the part well, hair in place, the right face on? Am I fucking kidding myself? Everyone knows. So, am I a superhero, an addict, scum, myself, or a ghost of my former self?

Every superhero has a tragic flaw, mine being when the high wanes and my blood turns to fire, my muscles to stone. I sweat buckets and become immobile, crouched in the corner, cursing myself for not getting my fix on time. My demons charge at me, no wall or disguise to stop them. I despise my self and my body, my life, my addiction. I hate the addict in me, the sober and imperfect me that led me to this place. I hate my everything. Yet, I also love the high, ah, what a poetic juxtaposition. I most of all miss the me before the high, before the superpowers, back when I was an infallible man in a simple world.

As I come down from the high, I for a moment consider releasing the bonds of addiction. Every time. But the bonds are suffocatingly tight. As I feebly pull myself up, ready for my fix, I look back to the corner and see my shadow self, multiple shadows crouching in the dark, whispering their farewells to the old me. A funeral procession of sorts, and the shadow me in the casket weeps for the lost self. Always nearly out of sight, that self whimpers for his death yet never really leaves the earth. He haunts me and guards the other shadows, waiting like a lost dog. I shut the door, so no one hears him as he cries out, "I sat there and waited, but he never came back"

Best mom ever

I am still trying to figure out this parenting thing, but being that my kids aren't yet even school age, I've got a while to figure it out. Will I let my teens date? Will there be a curfew? When will I give"the talk"? Will I let them wander the neighborhood unattended? Will I homeschool or public school? What kind of parent will they remember me as?

I saw a Chuck E. Cheese commercial that rubbed the wrong way. A boy praised his mom, thanking her for taking him to Chuck E. Cheese and mentioned how cool she was.

I won't deny my child things like amusement parks and the like, but that isn't what it means to be a parent, and a parent should rarely be "cool".

I want to be remembered not for the fact I took my child to Chuck E. Cheese or bought him hug me Elmo. Sure, I even fondly remember my parents taking me to Chuck E Cheese, but as I have grown, I remember them fondly for more than that; for more ethereal reasons I guess.

I want to be remembered as the mom who gave her children unconditional love, even when that love was spoken through clenched teeth growling, "you're grounded". I want to be remembered as a mom who kissed boo-boos and sang silly songs to make my children giggle. I want to be remembered for making sure my children were thankful, and for respecting elders and helping those in need. I want to be remembered as the mom who pushed for the best education possible. I want to be remembered as the mom who gave just the right amount of independence an responsibility.

I hope they remember more than just the big ticket gifts or amusement park adventures, not just lessons for life, but the little things, like walks around the lake at sunset, cooking meals together, making crafts, collecting acorns, skipping rocks.

I know I will stumble and fall sometimes as a parent. I will recognize my mistakes as a lesson and transfer that lesson to my children, that we humans are imperfect but should try every day to better ourselves and our world.

When my children end up parents themselves, I hope we grow closer, I hope they appreciate the mom I was and always will be. If they forget to thank me, all I will need is to look at the men they will have become and know I did a damned good job.

Semi homemade tarts

I love tarts. Especially the creamy ones with fruit on top. When I went to France for a whole entire day I had had had to get a blueberry and cream tart. Tres deliceux! I'm oddly not much of one for sweets but French desserts are a weakness. I hate cloyingly sweet desserts like birthday cake ...yuck! So the richness of, say, tarts, tickle my fancy.

However, I royally suck as a baker and if anything requires homemade dough or even rolling dough, I don't do it. I know better. My pre made pizza dough ball looked like the surface of the moon meets Swiss cheese. My cakes crack. My pies are inedible and oozing.

So I had to suck it up and tell myself, I am not a baker .

Yet...I made French tarts! Well, sort of. My recipe will never rival the tarts from La Duree on the Champs Élysées. But my version sufficed. And I will totally make them for a potluck cause they look very fancy and like I slaved over the stove for hours! So shh don't tell! If I bring them to your potluck, please appease me and act like I did indeed slave over the stove for hours.

Here is the recipe...
A little under 2 rolls of readymade sugar cookie dough
1 lb black berries or whatever berry
1 8oz light cream cheese
1 jar lemon curd ...well really 1/2 cup but Trader snows is one tbsp over a 1/2 cup
Handful or so sugar (depending on sweetness of berries desire)

Preheat oven to 350 and grease 2 12-cupcake cupcake to a
Let cream cheese soften and curd can be room temp or lightly chilled. The berries should chill a bit in the sugar.

Smoosh the cookie dough into the tins to make cup shapes, I made 14 but could make 16+.

Cool about 15 mi. You want them light gold and cooked all the way through...my convection oven is a good one so you may need 20 mins.

Let cookie cups cool to room temp. Meanwhile once your cream cheese is soft, mix in a stand mixer with the lemon curd and chill.

Fill cookie cups with a spoonful/dollop of the lemon cream. Top with berries. Enjoy.