steer, deer, and....

So my husband had to travel to Texas and last minute, he says, hey wanna go? Last minute as in, the kids' bedtime is in 8 hours,dog boarding is an hour away and closes in 5 hours, and the need shots first, and oh we need a rental car because what noise did ours just make, and the kids' mobile video system just broke and we need dinner and the laundry is dirty and omg breathe. We rather uneventfully leave and traverse a good portion of the desert southwest, and lay our heads to rest in El Paso, Texas at mearly midnight. I barely sleep, hyped up from the drive, plus my usual insomnia and an unfound fear I'm going to get shot because are those huge ball park type lights within ball throwing distance the border with beyond super deadly Ciuidad Juarez? Yes! Anyways...I wake after maybe two hours sleep, put my son's shoes on backwards, my moby on backwards, and my throat is on fire from all the dust storms. Yee haw. Welcome to El Paso, where I feel like I'm hungover and in Vegas. Really, it reminds me of Vegas minus you know, Vegas...slot machines and stuff. To quote the guy we met in the elevator, supernatural. We trek across Texas, prettier than I would expect (but pretty doesn't come to mind) and even more sparsely populated than expected. We encounter a border patrol stop, and unlike California where they show signs of illegal families running across the freeway lanes cause umm..that's probably realistic (I've never even had to slow in the patrol crossing) here they mean business, everyone stops and their car gets a once around by a dog who, I must giggle, excitedly snifffed the rear of every car. Too many hours later we end up in Fredericksburg, its like shangrila, like a step back into a 1950s quaint downtown with a main street and clean, quaint brick buildings...meets...Germamy...meets the Portlandia show. There are bier hauses all around. It really had that quaint main street americana feeling. Outside of it, Texas Hill Country abounds. I get far too excited over horses and cows, sheep, goats, ostriches, peach orchards and omg is that a wildflower farm? Full of....bluebonnets, my favorite flower? And look, a herd of wild deer. And a deer processing shack (no bambis were harmed in the herd I saw). And wait? Tuscany of Texas? Wineries! Art galleries! Grass Fed beef, quaint cafes, fresh peach pies, farmers markets, deer hunting stores, and mansions on acreage. Seriously where else on earth can you sipfine wine, eat an organic burger, browse an art gallery, hunt and gut a deer, and pick wildflowers all in one block? This place is awesome! And housing and food and gas and everything is chesper! I'm convinced there's a catch. After midnighg the gremlin come out. Or zombies.no,zombies with pet gremlims.

ouch

My son will revert to, say, age one when he is upset...he ends up forgetting all his words and signs and just cries. So yesterday, when I went into the other room real quick and heard a thud and an "ouch" from the living room, I knew it meant trouble. I came to find my sonn had fallen off the couch, normally something not deserving of an "ouch". I kissed him and snuggled up to him and whispered "shh its ok" but all he could do was cry...and say "ouch". As stated, communicating during crisis doesn't happen with him so "ouch" spoke volumes. He held his left arm and balwed, refusing to let us near it. I tried turning on tv, fedding him ice cream, giving him his favorite trains to get his mind off the pain as sometimes he gets "stuck" and needs distracting. It didn't work. The three year old didn't want ice cream. Icce cream! This meant trouble. I went to get my shoes on to go to the hospital and....he fell asleep on the couch, cradling his arm. I woke him about a half hour later, due to concern for his arm. He awoke bawling and screaming "ouch" again. We got him in the car, buckling him in meant extra hollering as I had to move the poor guy's arm. Each turn of the car meant a yelp. 45 minutes later, we got to urgent care (I reserve the ER for life-threatening or middle of the night stuff). He started to calm a bit, distracted by other toddlers and babies in the waiting room. But I knew he was suffering, as he refused to eat his goldfish crackers and refused to touch his trains. He kept his arm cradled and if I even went near it, he freaked. The slightest movement sent him yelping, and his happier moments were interrupted with whimpers of "ouch". 1.5 hours later, we finally went into a little room where we waited another ten minutes or so. The doctor touched his arm (more crying) and my son refused to tell anyone if it iwas his hand, arm, or elbow that hurt. The dr ordered xrays just in case, and brought in codeine so he'd be able to manipulate the arm for xrays. We waited another 45 Min and then suffered through xrays. I had to move his arm and twist it as he screeched in pain, thrashing, telling me "doh!" (No!). I felt so awful, causing him more pain, but I had to do it. Then we went back into the little room for a half hour, my son again having some calm moments and some moments of screaming in pain. The dr came in and....no breaks, chips, or fractures....his elbow was dislocated in a way that caused pain in the forearm and wrist. A dislocated elbow! Lemme repeat...dislocated elbow! Totally ouch-worthy! The dr then told me to hold my son up against me tightly and I grimaced in anticipation of what I knew was to come...popping his arm into place. The dr grabbed his arm (scream!) And yank! Pop! I felt a shudder ripple through his body and....the dr said "move your bad arm, buddy". He waved with his good arm. I demonstrate movin both arms. He moves his bad arm's thumb almost inperceptively. Then the fingers. The hand. The arm ever so slightly.... and the dr then taight me how to (shudder) pop his bone back in place, as (shudder) once his elbow dislocates, its much more likely to happen again. We drove home, my son finally suckin his thumb on his "bad arm", proving he was healed and doing much better. Kid injuries suck.

brain overload

Excuse my typos and crappy formatting on my nook. Once I find a cheap desk, I get an old laptop and bak! I can blog again, print things, download pictures..... Anyways. The point of this post is brain overload. Recently....I've been depressed. Yup. There. I admitted a huge secret upon the world. Its genetic, with both parents and other relatives afflicted. Isn't depression fun? Not! I ended up hav no motivation at all. For anything. Not even blogging. But I'm seein a counselor, praying, trying to get through it. I had a breakthrough. I was trying to find what makes me happy, what makes me motivated, and trying to fin a job.I thought of making children's books. I still may, little handmade onces to seel on etsy and at the street faire where my mom lives. But I have to be in the groove to do art. So my brain was swirling with cool art ideas, and then....my husband mentioned a time I was truly happy, envigorated, strong, etc. I was speaking to a school board, fighting to keep our site in existence. I had worked with disstrict officials and attorneys and was empowered by knowledge and validation and no one could get in my way. I realized a regular old teaching position might not be for me. And that I indeed often fail in those jobs and that omg that is ok. Not great or ideal but ok. Acceptable. Cause its..."me". That I do better in behind the doors, do whatever you want, challenge the status quo, leadership and brainiac positions. That's what makes me happy and successful. That staying home, depressed, might not be what's best for my kids even though I wish it were. So I'm looking for jobs I want. Not just any job but a job I want for my happiness. My depression is still there, trying to be all...depressing but I'm on a mission.

let me in

We have a closet pole dowel thingy in the rut of the sliding door so that my 3 year old won't escape onto the deck, over 20 feet in the air. So today he demads outside time so we decide we will eat lunch outdoors, on the deck. He runs inside and plays with the pole, so we yell "stop" and he runs onto the porch. Unbeknownced (how do you spell that?) To us, the pole falls into place. We eat and we begin to get chilly as its 50 and windy and we are in tee-shirts. I go to open thedoo and SH1T!!, the poleis in place blocking the door from opening. We are 20-30 feet "in the air", as our deck is on the 2nd story on a steep slope. We can't open the sliding door. We are stuck...husband and wife. 3 year old, imfant, two dogs, and a cat..the other cat, mocking usfrom indoors. We panic and then get crafty...we could call the fire department but how will they get to us without breaking down out very thick front door? Hello, we need a front door. So we wedge a metal outdoor chair leg into the door frame-thank God for vinyl-metal combo doors. It takes a few tries to get it wedged in there. Then we grab forks and try and move the pole with thefork except when you hold a fork by your fingertips, leverage and strength kinda...suck. I consider callin the fire dept but again, broken front doors are bad and my cel works maybe 1% of the time in the boonies where I live. Finally we wedg the chair so that I can barely fit my slender wrist into the gap. We ban the fork into theright shape and finally, pop! I move the pole. It took like...a hakf hour or so of us, pets, babies...stuck on a little 6x6 deck high in the sky...but....we did it! Seriously, had that not worked we'd have been screwed!

M.I.A.

I kinda went missing from the world of blogging. Just simplt didn't feel "bloggy". Kinda a "meh" time of life and I did some soul searching and realized where I want to go in my career. I also have been busy with a crawling baby and fnAlly talking three year old. Grr I had more to say but it floated away from my mind.

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"