Uncle Billy

A six year old girl, sweaty hair falling out of her blond ponytails, plays in front of her grandparent's house. She is alone, not unusual for an only child, but this only child was usually surrounded by a half dozen or so cousins, aunts and uncles, who were all close to her age. Across the street, a man sits in a car. If asked to describe the car, the girl could not; cars are of no interest to her. She doesn't look up until the sun catches the driver’s door window as it opens. A man is getting out and this piques her interest just enough that she continues to stare instead of looking back down at the ants she had been watching. The man is looking at her too and there is something about his gaze that says he is there to see her. She stands up and puts her hand over her eyebrows to get a better look at the man who is now crossing the street. There is no fear in her, just curiosity. As he gets closer, the girl says " I know you! " and points at the big bear of a man. His face, his strangely familiar face breaks into a wide smile and he laughs " I know you too! "

At the same time, the girl's mother is walking up the long driveway. She stops a few feet away from where the girl and the man stand. " Time for supper! " she says. Her voice is louder than it needs to be and sounds angry for reasons the girl can only think have to do with her.

She grabs the man by the hand and says " Mom, Uncle Billy's here! " The mother tells her to go in and wash up and that she needs to speak to Uncle Billy. Her tone makes it clear that she is not to be questioned about this, so the girl reluctantly walks towards the house. As she turns the handle of the door, she looks back and sees her mother's arms flying out at her sides and hears her angry voice. The girl feels sad and ashamed, though she isn't sure why.

The girl sits at the table, after kissing her grandfather on the cheek. " Hiya, Pretty! " He says. This usually makes her feel happy, but at the moment, she is thinking of her mom and Uncle Billy outside. She suddenly gets up and runs to the window… in time to see the car ( it was blue ) drive up the hill and away from the house. She sees her mom walking back to the front door, her face seething.
The girl sits down next to her grandpa again. He strokes her hair and gives her a smile. He takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze. As she looks up at him with teary eyes, her mom comes in and hands her a gift.

"it's from Uncle Billy " she says and walks into the kitchen to help Grandma with the food.

Gifts are meant to be happy things but the girl felt very unhappy as she opened this one. It was a tea set. She was a tom boy, but swore through her tears that it was the best present ever.
Her grandmother came in then with her milk and the bread and butter. She was starving a half hour ago, but now the thought of eating made her feel sick. She wanted to lay down and cry instead of eating her grandma's good meatloaf .
Her mom put some carrots and corn on her plate as her grandma handed around the meatloaf. She stared at it, then at her mom. She knew she'd have to eat it all. What's more, she knew that there would be no more conversation about Uncle Billy today. What she couldn't know was that she wouldn't see him for 11 more years.

Somewhere along the line, Uncle Billy became the bad guy. He was to blame for any sadness in her, any feeling of difference. After all, he hadn't called or written or tried to find her out in front of her grandparents house again.

But, he was there, she found out much later - too late. He was there at her softball games, just far enough away that she wouldn't recognize him. He was there when she finally rebelled and reached out and then cursed him for leaving her. He was always there, in little ways and especially in the gaze she saw looking back from her mirror. Always, always there.

Uncle Billy died much too young. Too young to hear her call him Dad again, like she had when she was small, so small she couldn't remember. Before he learned that she had forgiven him, that she knew, finally, that it wasn't all his fault, that he had tried and failed and tried and failed again.
Parents are fallible.

Death to October

I always get depressed around K’s birthday and deathday.
I guess this time of year doesn’t help matters. I HATE November, which is closing in fast. I like Thanksgiving, but that is it. I would prefer to be in a coma for the rest of the month.

Here is a blog I wrote about K last year around this time:

My favorite song to listen to when I am depressed is "Smoke" by Ben Folds Five. You can feel his despair in the way he bangs the piano keys and in the catch of his voice.

But, the lyrics...therein lies the magic.
"Here's a secret...no one will ever know the reasons for the tears"

That line says it all.

It's hard to lose someone that you love, but I've found that it's the sadness no one understands that is the hardest to deal with.

For example: If your cat/dog/significant other dies, everyone knows why you are sad. If your high school boyfriend that you hadn't seen in three years dies, people are sympathetic, but only to a point. When it's been a year and you are still talking about it, people wonder what is wrong with you. When it's been almost 20, they just think you are crazy.

"They were broken up!" They say to themselves. They think they know the whole story. But, they don't.

They don't know about the stolen moments that the two of you shared. They don't know about the soul connection that you still have. They definitely don't know that you dream about him at least once or twice a month and that you still wake up in tears when you realize that it was just a dream.

In the dreams you are as young and beautiful as he is. Perpetually twenty, full of energy and youth. You are still his girl, the one that despite the obstacles, like, oh…death, he still needs to be near.

No one thinks that the one they love will die young. They think that they will have forever.

When we last parted, it was as enemies. My beautiful man did not need to see me with a new guy. He really didn't need it on his turf, especially. The pissing contest ensued and I left in tears. It was ugly.

A few months later, I was packing to move three thousand miles away from my birthplace, thinking about him; wondering if I should call...wanting to make up before I left.

But, no, we would have time. We would have plenty of time to have another “drink” together. We'd laugh at that stupid fight, because we knew that no matter how much time went by, or who we were with, we would always wind up back together. We always had. It was how it was meant to be.

This is the lesson I am meant to learn. I need to cherish those I have now and leave little room in my life for regrets. My regret carrying case is now full, thank you! No more!

Four of the Five Stages of Grief

This kid is impossible. He is. He is maddeningly cute and funny and maddeningly destructive and disruptive.

Yesterday, I got another call from the school nurse. This was the fourth time in five school days that I had received such a call. To say that I was beyond weary of them is a gross understatement. The story was the same: "Hem, hem... (if you've ever read Harry Potter, this nurse reminds me of Professor Umbridge in a big, big way) Mrs. Hernandez, this is M, the nurse at (Your kid's) School". As if, by now, I didn't recognize the phone number on the caller id or her wanna be six year old voice.

"Charles fell down in lunch again today" Silence on my end...

"He fell backwards off the bench" Silence...

"There was no one around; no one pushed him, he just fell" Crickets...

"Mrs. Hernandez?"

Me: "Is he hurt? Is he bleeding? Does he have any bumps?"

Hesitation... "No"

"But, Mrs. Hernandez, I can't just let this go!"

Ummm, why?

Let's pause for a moment, shall we?

She has already established that he is not hurt, so why is this a medical issue? Shouldn't it now be a disciplinary issue? He is being disruptive. He is doing something that could cause injury to himself. Where is the medical issue? AND WHY THE HELL DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME????

Back to the conversation:

Crazy, evil nurse:

"Mrs. Hernandez, have you ever considered a helmet for C?"

Maniacal laughter on my end, followed by an uncomfortably long pause...

Me: "Um, NO!"

Crazy, about to get fired for being an idiot nurse: "Well, do you have any suggestions?"

Oh...I had a few...

How about:

take some people skills classes

take some social skills classes

read about Down Syndrome

look at the calender; it's 2010, not 1950

stop giving it so much attention

take a flying leap

have you looked into muzzles for yourself?

and...breathe...

The only one I could suggest was the one about not giving it so much attention. I mean, she is doing exactly what he wants; she is paying attention to his acting, she is letting him lie down with an icepack, she is giving him time away from class, she is bringing up the possibility that maybe I need to come and get him... I mean, what kid doesn't want these things? Who hasn't wanted to get out of class/work/jury duty/phone calls with people who complain the whole time from time to time?

He is working the system!!!!

Don't you get it?!?!?!?!

No. She doesn't.

And then, I had to go to work.

Once I got there, I began the Five Stages of Grief.

Actually, by the time I got there, I was up to number three; Bargaining.

Numbers One (Denial) and Two (Anger) were pretty much covered by the time I parked my car and walked into the building.

Denial: A HELMET?!?!?!? YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS THAT YOU ARE SUGGESTING THIS?!?!?!? Charles is fine, he's just acting out, being silly, etc., etc...

Anger: I vented to my Facebook friends and to a close friend who totally "gets it". I wished all manner of terrible, terrible things to befall this ridiculously clueless woman. And, then I vented again.

So, we were up to Bargaining. "If I could just get him to listen! What consequence will he care about?" This was a tough one, because, what could I say? I had everything to lose and nothing to gain from this. Charles holds most of the cards in this situation. The only lousy card I have is "T.V. and Wii restriction"...Big Whoop.

On to Depression. This could take a while...

"Why?" "Why does he do these things?" "Why do I have to be called out and embarrassed on an almost daily basis?" "Why is he giving this stupid woman any power?" "Why am I?" "Can't he just go to school, have a good day, come home, THE END?" "WHY DO SOME PEOPLE JUST NOT GET IT???!?!?!?!?!?????!?!?!?"

So, I'm here looking at Acceptance. I've accepted my kid. I accepted him before he was even born. I accepted him with all of the faults that we could see on the ultrasound (the major heart defect that would need two surgeries and of course, the Down Syndrome.) I accepted these "bad" things because I wanted to learn all the good things about this kid. This kid has shown me love, empathy, laughter in the face of obstacles, a whole new world of friendship, understanding, belief in the human race... so, so much.

I'll be DAMNED if this person won't accept him as she would any other kid.

So, I accept my kid, with all his faults and misdeeds and quirks and sillyness.

I DO NOT ACCEPT THIS WOMAN. I don't accept that she "doesn't get it". I don't accept that she would have made the "helmet" comment to a parent of a "normal" child.

I accept that it is my responsibility to see that C stops this behavior.

I accept that I need to go to school and talk about all of this.

I accept that I need to be part of the solution.

I do not accept this woman's ignorance.

I accept that I must teach her what it means to have the privilege of working with my son.

Orgasmic Chicken Breasts

I've been reading Jennier Weiner's new book "Fly Away Home". I like her stuff, usually. I really liked "Good in Bed" and"In Her Shoes" and liked the latter movie almost as much.

But, here is what I hate: I hate that being conscious is somehow always written as a character flaw instead of what it is; being conscientious. For example, in this latest book there must have been a reference to "organic chicken breast" at least twenty times. That in itself is a joke, which I will get into later, but, it would have been fine if it had not been the uptight, holier than thou sister who kept buying this literary organic chicken breast.

Why are people who are concerned about putting added hormones into their bodies portrayed as uptight? Again, chicken breast in any form is not health food, but, I'll get to that, I promise. I mean does a character have to fit into the stereotype of "cheeseburger eating American" to be a protagonist? Are people not deeper than their shopping lists?

Of course, this organic chicken breast mother also limits her son's screen time. "Screen time" is even in quotes and the good, cheeseburger and milkshake (and beautiful) sister laughs about it with her hunky, meat eating boyfriend. HEAVEN FORBID!!! I MEAN, WHAT WILL A SIX YEAR OLD HAVE TO TALK ABOUT IF HE HASN'T SEEN THE LATEST EPISODE OF GABBA GABBACKYARDIGANS?!?!?!?!? Seriously?!

Why is normal seen as being lazy and tuned in to garbage on the t.v. and abnormal seen as sweat producing exercise?

Sweating and exercise are good for you! Sweating rids the body of toxins! Exercise releases endorphins and helps you sleep! Why is it seen as weird?

Why is food that has been shown to cause Cancer in study after study, like cow's milk, good and virtuous and soymilk elitist and somehow evil?

Aren't authors smarter than most of us? I mean, Jennier Weiner is successful, she graduated from Princeton, she is presumably well - read; how is it that she can still uphold such ridiculous cliches?

I'm not saying that Jennifer Weiner is worse than those doctors prescribing Viagra instead of telling their patients that they have early stage heart disease; maybe eat some plants. No. Of course not. She is a ditsy writer, writing ditsy novels for ditzes like me. She has no obligation to create believable, upstanding, witty and lovable vegan characters. But, I wish she would.

Doctors, on the other hand, should not be treating impotence with a pill. They do have a serious obligation to sit down with these men WHO TRUST THEM and tell them that they need to change their lifestyles. It would be infinitely cheaper, safer and let's face it, WAY SEXIER in the end than taking that stupid pill so you can have a hard on tucked under your bloated belly. Oh, and maybe you won't die from a heart attack either; that's a plus.

I work at Whole Foods, which was, of course, mentioned in the book a few times as the place for buying organic chicken breast.

Are some customers snobs? Sure. Do some seem more interested in impressing their friends with their purchases than pursuing actual better health? Yes. But, contrary to popular belief, there are many, many customers who go there because they've received some kind of diagnosis, or their child has, or their spouse. They are there because they truly want to be healthier and live more vital lives.

Sometimes, they are misled, like in the case of organic chicken. Is organic chicken better than regular chicken? Maybe it makes them feel better. Maybe it makes them feel better to realize that they aren't adding anymore hormones to their bodies, but, no. Chicken is not health food, in any shape or form.

Chicken is an animal product that has animal fat and cholesterol (as much as beef) and animal products are not health food. They will not prolong your life. Eaten in quantity (10% or more of your calories) and it will probably shorten your life and give you less quality of life. You'll likely die of the number one killer in the Western world, which is heart disease.

Morbid, I know. Not sexy at all.

But, what if it were? What if some Supervegan (starring Scarlet Johansson) in red tights and a blue cape swooped in and switched everyone's organic or otherwise chicken breast for a lentil burger? Or that fat laden chocolate milkshake with a kale and raw cacao smoothie? And people began feeling good? and they got more done? and the turned off the t.v. to play with their kids? and they had more sex? WHAT IF THE SUPERVEGAN PUT VIAGRA OUT OF BUSINESS??? Wouldn't that be a story worth telling?

Dogs, Laundry and What's Goin' On?

My Lily Girl with her buddy, Dr. Seuss. RIP, sweet girl!

I am trying to eat a giant plate of red potatoes, grilled portabella mushrooms, peas and a Cluckphrey patty covered in a delicious marinara sauce while I write. It's next to impossible.

Ok, done eating.

It was really good.

Down to business.

I worked last night (during what I hope to be the worst Bears' game of the season) and it was one of those nights. One of those nights where everyone who walked through the door was crazy. C R A Z Y.

I thought I was going to have to call the police at one point, fo' rizzle.

I spent forty-five minutes trying to avoid a screaming baby and his impossibly louder, crazy mother. I spent much of the night trying to love humanity instead of wishing for the fire or ice. I survived. Barely.

Yesterday, before work I watched a bit of Sunday football pregame. I stayed tuned in for a while, because they were interviewing Michael Vick. You remember him, right? Good quarterback; Bad person. He couldn't be happy living in a big house, playing a sport he loves for a living, making tons of money. Noooo. He had be all gansta and have a pitbull fighting ring housed right on his own million dollar property. He scores the most points in the "Stupid Idea" column.

I've never heard him say he is sorry for the dogs he killed and maimed. All I've ever heard is he's sorry for "things he did". What things? How about naming them? How about taking some ownership? Now he's a spokesperson for the ASPCA. Really? As much as I would like to think that he has changed in his heart and soul, I can't help but think his agent made him do it. That it is all for show. And it's sad.

I want to think that people can change. I know I want to believe it for myself.

This reminds me of the guy I saw walking down the street today. I was sitting at the light after dropping off the kids and there he was. He was wearing shorts and looked pretty ordinary, maybe a little disheveled, a little dirty, but, otherwise, pretty ordinary. What was not ordinary was the HUGE gash on his calf. I mean HUGE. It was at least six inches long and two inches wide and it looked deep. It looked like he had been surfing with Great White sharks. Um, bandage? Stiches? Something??? I was totally grossing out. I almost pulled over to ask if he was alright, it looked so bad. But, as I gazed at it (I couldn't take my eyes off of it!) I realized it had to be old. It wasn't bleeding or anything, it was just gruesome! Weird. What is going on with that?

Forgive my crazy brain as it bounces from one subject to the next like a pinball with less obvious direction...

I believe the act of doing laundry is not over until the clothes are IN THE DRAWERS. Someone very close to me, who shall remain nameless, does lots of laundry up until this point and then assumes that it magically appears in the correct drawers later on. This person is really smart in almost every other way. How folded clothes actually get into the drawers continues to elude him, however.

Have a nice day!