If you are a regular reader of "Jase-isms," then you know I can't commit to anything "regular," but that's kind of the way life is with me. In fact, its part of living with mental illness. You can go days, weeks, maybe a month if your lucky, without having any major issues, then one day your world collapses because someone forgot to put the milk back in the fridge. It really can be something that simple. So, here's the only promise I can make... What you read here will be irregular, personal, thoughtful, and passionate.
But Jase...this is like your 4th blog, why do you keep changing? I wish I had a good answer for that, but the only answer I have is that I'm having trouble finding my voice as an "adult." Let me caveat that - I don't think anyone is really an adult until somewhere between obtaining a mortgage and procreating, and sometimes that is even questionable. When I was in college, I wrote for the school newspaper, as well as having several technical and research papers published. I've had articles published over the years, even some in the last 12 months....but - I feel like for the last decade everything I write has been forced. Like its not really me...in fact, there's a few things I wrote that literally sounded like another person. That has to stop. I need to write with my voice, no matter what that is. It's time to stop allowing others to decide what topics I can write about and how I should write them. I might be angry about the acne on the butt of a random gay adult entertainer or I might be pensive and philosophical about the nuances of cheese. No matter what it is...I should be able to express myself uninhibited by the masses...be they friend or foe or somewhere in between.
Anyway...that's where this is coming from. That is why I'm giving my blog a new face. I want to write about my life, my struggles, my pain, my joy, my right nipple...whatever...without worry. Okay...I'm kidding about the nipple thing...sort of. The reality is I intend to right about my life as a parent living with mental illness. I've written tons of things about parenting special needs kids, being a teacher of special needs children, etc. Those days are kind of over for me as my kids are all grown now. (My baby just started college.) Now, I want to go back and reflect on the struggles I faced (for better or worse) and put them into words. Maybe somewhere along the way, I've gleaned some wisdom that I can impart to others to make their journey a bit smoother.
With that said, I need your help. If my tidbits are going to make a difference, I need your help in spreading the good news. I'm not asking for shameless plugs and senseless advertising, but...if you could share me, tweet me, +1 me...whatever format you use (all of the above?!?!?) it would be amazing. Encourage people to comment on the blog directly, sign the guest book, and to follow me on Google+. In fact, I'll be doing the same for you! Perhaps if we keep sharing with each other, we'll finally create a world where understanding and compassion are the tools of every trade and tongue. Until then...journey well!
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Autism/ASD Acceptance: Body Image Issues and how it affects us
I started seeing the school psychologist when was I was a teenager, and continued therapy throughout high school, college, and into my adult life. It was something that I considered shameful. A dirty secret that I kept hidden...because I was afraid people would hate me more than they already did. Instead, I spent years in therapy learning to live in a neurotypical world, because I wanted to be accepted. It took me most of my adult life to realize...it's NOT my job to make you like me. I shouldn't have to seek the acceptance of others to value my own life...to be proud of who I am.
Autism/ASD presents a whole set of complications by themselves. While I'm not autistic, I do have an autism spectrum disorder...formerly called "Asperger's Syndrome." Most of us still use that term. I mean, isn't it enough that you had to give it a label. Was it really necessary to change it? Like life isn't confusing enough? We spend a good bit of time either feeling...nothing?...I guess or trying to figure out what we're feeling so we can put a label on it and find a social cue to express it so that you can understand what we're feeling...which is funny since most of us don't even understand what we're feeling. Then there's the anxiety that comes with not being sure that we're "doing it right," because heaven forbid we offend someone because we don't know how to function in your world. Of course that's nothing compared to the depressive episodes that occur for every reason imaginable... everything from guilt for making you feel uncomfortable to worrying that somehow the color of our socks will make someone hate us. We also have this beyond-obsessive hyperfocus-thing that causes us to put all of our attention into the worst possible emotions. It cycles, until we're in a state of absolute emotional overload, and ALL of that can happen in a matter of minutes and last for weeks. The condition is not without its perks, but that's not the point of this blog.
As I've mentioned in previous blogs, I've had issues with my weight for most of my life. It's no secret that I was "the fat kid" in school, and it was made evident to me on a regular basis that fat = bad. It didn't matter that I played tennis, volleyball, softball, and swam. I was fat...fat is slow...fat is ugly...fat is wrong...fat means you are useless. That's how I felt then...and sometimes that's how I feel now. I no longer look at myself as a monster, but I struggle with body image issues daily. Some days I'm ok with being overweight, and other days I hate the sight of myself in the mirror. My husband tells me I'm sexy all the time. Some days I smile and say thanks, and others I think he's a big ole liar who needs to have his eyes checked. Typically, I get through the bad days rather quickly, but then there's that pesky Asperger hyperfocus. All it takes is one comment from one person, and BAM! I'm in a spiral. In seconds I'll convince myself that everyone hates me because of my weight: 320 lbs of disgusting, wasted flesh. I'll go all day without touching food, until long about the midnight hour my head is throbbing because my blood sugar is in the tank. My heart will race. My blood pressure will go up...here comes the anxiety. "Oh gods, I'm dying." And here we go... I'm in the kitchen shoveling food in my face like a prize hog at a slop trough til I'm so full it feels like my gall bladder is trying to shove my lungs up into my nasal cavity. "Oh gods, I'm dying." Off to the bathroom to hug the toilet and try to throw up. There I sit...on the floor with the most ridiculous, illogical, emotionally charged thoughts pouring through my mind: "I'm fat. Starve yourself. I'm going into hypoglycemic shock. Gorge. I'm having a heart attack from overeating. Puke." Jumping through extremes is what Asperger's do best. I think its mostly because emotional extremes are easy to recognize and label, and definitely easy to express.
At this point, about half of you are feeling sorry for me on some level, and some of you are concerned that I'm bulimic. Some of you are going "why didn't we know this?" Let me address those things. Don't pity me. Your pity is painful and unnecessary. I'm not bulimic. I don't binge and purge with any regularity. In fact, the overeating is a coping mechanism for stress, because I'm over reacting to not having eaten all day, and the purging is because I've overfilled my stomach to the point that its physically causing me pain. Take all that and combine it with my unnatural fear of death and ASD obsessiveness, and its a hot mess. All of it though, stems from 1 thing - body image issues.
This isn't an adults-only problem. It starts way back in kindergarten health class when we are teaching kids about nutrition (which we absolutely should do.) The problem is, we are not doing a very good job of sending the right message. The message should be that "making unhealthy choices with nutrition may cause a person to be overweight, which can complicate health." The message that we actually send is "fat is bad." Children don't look at another child and think, "His weight is going to damage his kidneys. I'm concerned for his health." Children look at an overweight child and say, "That kid is fat and gross." This message becomes about how we look, rather than our health, and it absolutely damages self-esteem. It persists through childhood and into adolescence, a time when development includes changes in body type. Some people get thinner. Some people gain weight. Some people get taller. Some, not so much. Bone structure, muscle density, skin elasticity, oil production, and secondary sex traits all manifest during those years. It's at this point that gym class becomes the bane of every person that doesn't fit "society's acceptable body type." At this crucial moment in psycho-sexual development, we are at our most vulnerable...and at the mercy of our "peers." If you are already struggling with mental illness or neurological disorders, these moments not only mold how we view ourselves, but they become a trigger for sudden depressive episodes, overstimulation, and anxiety. To make matters worse, it doesn't stop in adolescence. Adults are just as bad as children and teens, if not worse.
I hear women talk about body image issues far more than men. I think its because if men do it, society looks at them as whiny or effeminate. Men aren't supposed to express emotion you know, and if we do its a bad thing. "You're acting like a girl" they say...as though being a girl is bad. It's not an ok message. Men shouldn't be forced into feeling like "less of a person" because they express emotion. Aspergers work tirelessly to learn how to properly express it, and then we're told, "but you're a man, so don't bother." It's not OK to equate femininity with negative emotion responses. While we're trying to figure out the difference between happy and content, you're telling us we have to sort out which are "man emotions" and which are "woman emotions." Aren't they all human emotions? I mean, if they were gender specific don't you think that at some point the grand design would have weeded that out by now? Whether you ascribe to evolution (which selects against negative traits) or a Creator (who should know better), the reality is, by this point in human existence, if there was going to be a "man set" and "woman set," it would have happened. And ya know what...to some degree there is. Women tend to be more nurturing, while men tend to be more aggressive, but those same traits can be found in both genders. No emotion is exclusive to gender. We all feel joy, anger, sorrow, grief, laughter, shame, guilt, and regret...unless maybe you're a psychopath.
Women say, "Men objectify our bodies." Don't be deceived ladies...men do it to each other...both gay and straight. Men judge each other all the time. Locker rooms and poker tables are riddled with "small dick" jokes, and I've known plenty of women who remark about a man's genitals and body type. That's no different that someone complaining about small breasts or "muffin-tops". We make statements like "he has no balls," as though having testicles has anything to do with bravery. My Mother is one of the bravest and strongest people I know, and I assure you, she doesn't have testicles. Gay men are notorious for shitting on overweight gay men, which is mind-blowing to me, given there is an entire demographic of people who are sexually attracted to overweight people. That's not the message we see on TV. It's not the message we see in body shaming articles. It's not the message our leaders reveal in speeches. It's not the message we send on the playground. Despite all of the body types in this world, society sexualizes and standardizes young and thin. Women are at the forefront of the "body shaming" dialogue, and somehow....people like me...a man struggling to love his body...get's shoved to the side. And what's more...most of us men who are dealing with body shame, have more than just "being fat" as a problem. Our struggle is real and it deserves to be acknowledged.
I've been writing for a long time. I've been published several times over. I used to write under a pseudonym with a fake picture, because..who wants to read an article with a fat guy on the cover. But...recently, I had someone say, "How can I be expected to bare my soul, if I can't be proud of the body that holds it?" There's a lot of truth in that. The core parts of who we are...the soul of being human, is covered up by shame, depression, anxiety, and guilt, and more often than not...it's not of our creation. My dear friend Sayward Shores said to me, "We are not our bodies." How wise! My body is only a vessel, one overflowing with talent, intelligence, and experience. My body is simply the container for "Jase." I am a gift that many people will never bother to open because they don't like the wrapping paper. It doesn't matter. The package isn't theirs to open. It's mine. I open the package and reveal to myself all the wonders and possibilities that comes with being me. That's how I fight back. I take my Asperger superpowers of focus and obsession, and I focus on the best parts of me and obsess over the beauty, strength, and wisdom I have to offer. If someone else wants to open the box, I'm happy to share.
I'm sharing a photo that I've never shared before, as a further step in being proud of who I am. There will be some negativity...but I don't care. If they don't like the wrapping paper, they don't deserve the gift...fuck them. I don't give gifts to assholes anyway.
Autism/ASD presents a whole set of complications by themselves. While I'm not autistic, I do have an autism spectrum disorder...formerly called "Asperger's Syndrome." Most of us still use that term. I mean, isn't it enough that you had to give it a label. Was it really necessary to change it? Like life isn't confusing enough? We spend a good bit of time either feeling...nothing?...I guess or trying to figure out what we're feeling so we can put a label on it and find a social cue to express it so that you can understand what we're feeling...which is funny since most of us don't even understand what we're feeling. Then there's the anxiety that comes with not being sure that we're "doing it right," because heaven forbid we offend someone because we don't know how to function in your world. Of course that's nothing compared to the depressive episodes that occur for every reason imaginable... everything from guilt for making you feel uncomfortable to worrying that somehow the color of our socks will make someone hate us. We also have this beyond-obsessive hyperfocus-thing that causes us to put all of our attention into the worst possible emotions. It cycles, until we're in a state of absolute emotional overload, and ALL of that can happen in a matter of minutes and last for weeks. The condition is not without its perks, but that's not the point of this blog.
As I've mentioned in previous blogs, I've had issues with my weight for most of my life. It's no secret that I was "the fat kid" in school, and it was made evident to me on a regular basis that fat = bad. It didn't matter that I played tennis, volleyball, softball, and swam. I was fat...fat is slow...fat is ugly...fat is wrong...fat means you are useless. That's how I felt then...and sometimes that's how I feel now. I no longer look at myself as a monster, but I struggle with body image issues daily. Some days I'm ok with being overweight, and other days I hate the sight of myself in the mirror. My husband tells me I'm sexy all the time. Some days I smile and say thanks, and others I think he's a big ole liar who needs to have his eyes checked. Typically, I get through the bad days rather quickly, but then there's that pesky Asperger hyperfocus. All it takes is one comment from one person, and BAM! I'm in a spiral. In seconds I'll convince myself that everyone hates me because of my weight: 320 lbs of disgusting, wasted flesh. I'll go all day without touching food, until long about the midnight hour my head is throbbing because my blood sugar is in the tank. My heart will race. My blood pressure will go up...here comes the anxiety. "Oh gods, I'm dying." And here we go... I'm in the kitchen shoveling food in my face like a prize hog at a slop trough til I'm so full it feels like my gall bladder is trying to shove my lungs up into my nasal cavity. "Oh gods, I'm dying." Off to the bathroom to hug the toilet and try to throw up. There I sit...on the floor with the most ridiculous, illogical, emotionally charged thoughts pouring through my mind: "I'm fat. Starve yourself. I'm going into hypoglycemic shock. Gorge. I'm having a heart attack from overeating. Puke." Jumping through extremes is what Asperger's do best. I think its mostly because emotional extremes are easy to recognize and label, and definitely easy to express.
At this point, about half of you are feeling sorry for me on some level, and some of you are concerned that I'm bulimic. Some of you are going "why didn't we know this?" Let me address those things. Don't pity me. Your pity is painful and unnecessary. I'm not bulimic. I don't binge and purge with any regularity. In fact, the overeating is a coping mechanism for stress, because I'm over reacting to not having eaten all day, and the purging is because I've overfilled my stomach to the point that its physically causing me pain. Take all that and combine it with my unnatural fear of death and ASD obsessiveness, and its a hot mess. All of it though, stems from 1 thing - body image issues.
This isn't an adults-only problem. It starts way back in kindergarten health class when we are teaching kids about nutrition (which we absolutely should do.) The problem is, we are not doing a very good job of sending the right message. The message should be that "making unhealthy choices with nutrition may cause a person to be overweight, which can complicate health." The message that we actually send is "fat is bad." Children don't look at another child and think, "His weight is going to damage his kidneys. I'm concerned for his health." Children look at an overweight child and say, "That kid is fat and gross." This message becomes about how we look, rather than our health, and it absolutely damages self-esteem. It persists through childhood and into adolescence, a time when development includes changes in body type. Some people get thinner. Some people gain weight. Some people get taller. Some, not so much. Bone structure, muscle density, skin elasticity, oil production, and secondary sex traits all manifest during those years. It's at this point that gym class becomes the bane of every person that doesn't fit "society's acceptable body type." At this crucial moment in psycho-sexual development, we are at our most vulnerable...and at the mercy of our "peers." If you are already struggling with mental illness or neurological disorders, these moments not only mold how we view ourselves, but they become a trigger for sudden depressive episodes, overstimulation, and anxiety. To make matters worse, it doesn't stop in adolescence. Adults are just as bad as children and teens, if not worse.
I hear women talk about body image issues far more than men. I think its because if men do it, society looks at them as whiny or effeminate. Men aren't supposed to express emotion you know, and if we do its a bad thing. "You're acting like a girl" they say...as though being a girl is bad. It's not an ok message. Men shouldn't be forced into feeling like "less of a person" because they express emotion. Aspergers work tirelessly to learn how to properly express it, and then we're told, "but you're a man, so don't bother." It's not OK to equate femininity with negative emotion responses. While we're trying to figure out the difference between happy and content, you're telling us we have to sort out which are "man emotions" and which are "woman emotions." Aren't they all human emotions? I mean, if they were gender specific don't you think that at some point the grand design would have weeded that out by now? Whether you ascribe to evolution (which selects against negative traits) or a Creator (who should know better), the reality is, by this point in human existence, if there was going to be a "man set" and "woman set," it would have happened. And ya know what...to some degree there is. Women tend to be more nurturing, while men tend to be more aggressive, but those same traits can be found in both genders. No emotion is exclusive to gender. We all feel joy, anger, sorrow, grief, laughter, shame, guilt, and regret...unless maybe you're a psychopath.
Women say, "Men objectify our bodies." Don't be deceived ladies...men do it to each other...both gay and straight. Men judge each other all the time. Locker rooms and poker tables are riddled with "small dick" jokes, and I've known plenty of women who remark about a man's genitals and body type. That's no different that someone complaining about small breasts or "muffin-tops". We make statements like "he has no balls," as though having testicles has anything to do with bravery. My Mother is one of the bravest and strongest people I know, and I assure you, she doesn't have testicles. Gay men are notorious for shitting on overweight gay men, which is mind-blowing to me, given there is an entire demographic of people who are sexually attracted to overweight people. That's not the message we see on TV. It's not the message we see in body shaming articles. It's not the message our leaders reveal in speeches. It's not the message we send on the playground. Despite all of the body types in this world, society sexualizes and standardizes young and thin. Women are at the forefront of the "body shaming" dialogue, and somehow....people like me...a man struggling to love his body...get's shoved to the side. And what's more...most of us men who are dealing with body shame, have more than just "being fat" as a problem. Our struggle is real and it deserves to be acknowledged.
I've been writing for a long time. I've been published several times over. I used to write under a pseudonym with a fake picture, because..who wants to read an article with a fat guy on the cover. But...recently, I had someone say, "How can I be expected to bare my soul, if I can't be proud of the body that holds it?" There's a lot of truth in that. The core parts of who we are...the soul of being human, is covered up by shame, depression, anxiety, and guilt, and more often than not...it's not of our creation. My dear friend Sayward Shores said to me, "We are not our bodies." How wise! My body is only a vessel, one overflowing with talent, intelligence, and experience. My body is simply the container for "Jase." I am a gift that many people will never bother to open because they don't like the wrapping paper. It doesn't matter. The package isn't theirs to open. It's mine. I open the package and reveal to myself all the wonders and possibilities that comes with being me. That's how I fight back. I take my Asperger superpowers of focus and obsession, and I focus on the best parts of me and obsess over the beauty, strength, and wisdom I have to offer. If someone else wants to open the box, I'm happy to share.
I'm sharing a photo that I've never shared before, as a further step in being proud of who I am. There will be some negativity...but I don't care. If they don't like the wrapping paper, they don't deserve the gift...fuck them. I don't give gifts to assholes anyway.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Body Image Issues:The Monster in the Mirror
Many people have body image issues. It's not restricted to gender, age, race, religion, or sexual orientation — though our body image itself can and almost certainly will be affected by these things. Not everyone grows up the same way or in the same environment, and our view of our bodies reflects those differences in ways we often fail to recognize. (Thanks Jenni for helping me put that thought into the right syntax!)
My weight has been an issue since I was in the 3rd grade. There are enough reasons for that to be a blog post all of its own, but that's not what we're talking about. Being a chubby kid automatically puts you in the "target zone" of bullies. It's in the "Bully Handbook" ya know: "Push around the fat kid." It's like their motto or something. So, many overweight children are forced into one of 2 positions: being a bully themselves OR being a victim. For whatever reason its much harder to see the middle ground when your 9. I was a kind-hearted child, so I of course, became the victim. At that age, I didn't really know what gay was, but looking back, I can tell you that at the very least, I knew I was different than other boys. I already felt like an outcast because of that, and gaining weight didn't help. By the time I was in junior high, I had been made fun of for being a "Girly-girl fat boy" so much that I hated everything about myself. Junior high brought with it "locker room hell." Not only was I more and more aware of my sexuality, but I was fatter, awkward, and unpopular. Walking into the gym locker room was agony. There were some undiagnosed psych issues at work too, but I didn't know that, and wouldn't find out for another 3 years. So here I was: fat, gross, unpopular, socially awkward, nerdy, and gay....getting undressed with 2 dozen other guys. Anxiety much?!? I'd do my best to find a corner and hide, bu inevitably one of my classmates would push me, call me names, give me a wedgie, shove me down, or worse..there were way too many "Worse" days than there should have been. Now, if you're sitting there thinking, "why didn't you stand up for yourself?" then you don't understand anything about the damage words can do to person's self-esteem. By this point, it had gone too far. My mental state didn't allow me the "testicular fortitude" to fight back. Every day of junior high was a nightmare for me. I escaped into books and writing in some pathetic attempt to create a world where I could fit in. I got fatter, more nerdy, and eventually, figured out that I was gay.
Now, I want everyone to understand something about these next few statements... This is NOT an attack on my dad. We mended our relationship years ago, but some of the choices he made contributed to my dissolving mental state. He made comments quite frequently about "fags" and how they all needed to die. When I finally figured out I was gay, those statements included me. He didn't know that, because I didn't tell him for decades...with good reason. I grew up in a very religious area of the country, and "queers" were discussed in Sunday sermons. When you hear you're less than human long enough...it changes you. This, among other things, began my final descent into depression. At 14 years old, I was a fat fag that deserved to die--at least, that's how I felt. I spent the summer between 8th grade and high school dreading the next 4 years. When high school started...things got worse.
At my school only 2 things mattered: sports and marching band. You'd think that marching band would be less stressful than sports as a fat gay kid, but it wasn't. The same people that berated me in the locker room and the classroom in junior high were sitting with me in band...and they didn't let up. Not even for a second. I was too self-conscious about my weight to even think about showering in front of people, and being gay in a locker room full of naked guys my age...well, that was just going to add to my anxiety. So...I dropped band to escape the torment, and I didn't pick up sports to avoid more of it. This left me in social limbo. Did it help....nope! Because now, I was a fat gay nerd who didn't fit anywhere with anyone ever. My spirit was destroyed. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the reflection of my damaged soul. THIS is the essence of "body image issues." It's not just about being overweight or acne or facial features or muscle tone....its a package...an ugly one...drenched in self-loathing and weighted down by years of ridicule and shame. I saw myself as a monster and a burden to my family.
Without getting into details, I was suicidal, and we will leave it at that. On the day I had decided to put an end to the monster, I ran into Eric...this dreamy guy that I had had a crush on for a long time. He was talented and sexy and kind, but why would he want to know a monster? I was sure that he was going to kick my ass for running into him...I mean, I literally ran into him. And you know what he did...he apologized to me (When it was actually my fault) and said, "I missed you at the meeting yesterday." He smiled and we went our separate ways. The rest of the day, I couldn't get that out of my head. For some reason, it stayed my hand, and I decided the monster could live. When I returned to school, I went to the guidance office and told her everything I've just told you. She set me up with the school's psychiatrist on a weekly basis. I got to see him AT school, so I didn't have to tell anyone, not even my parents about my "problem." At this point in my life, only 3 people knew I was gay...me, the guidance counselor, and the psychiatrist. Doc (that's what i called him) helped me understand A LOT about who I was. Consequently, this is when I first found out that I was ASD (formerly Asperger's) and started behavioral modification therapy. The rest of my freshman year was...better. Not great or good, but just better. Mostly because I had less anxiety, and there was 1 place I could be me...in the guidance office. By the time my sophomore year started, I was stronger and more confident. I was learning to use my Aspy-powers to control other parts of my life, and bullies were becoming less of a problem. I joined a bunch of clubs, made friends that were just as weird as I was, and eventually...people left me a lone. Until one day, I became....the bully.
I had spent so many years being tormented by other people that when I finally found freedom it became something different. I was totally able to defend myself, and quite frequently did. I lifted weights, played tennis, went swimming, and eventually played volleyball at OleMiss during the summer. I lost some weight, but not a lot; I was still chubby. I had more control over myself than I ever had, but I was still socially awkward. I was content with being gay behind closed doors with "some people" and eventually told a few close friends...and a few guys who wanted to "Experiment." Despite all of the headway I had made...when I looked in the mirror, I still saw a scared, scarred, socially unacceptable monster. A few years in therapy doesn't erase a lifetime of ridicule and shame. I was angry and bitter, and one afternoon some asshat guy I went to school with said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I LOST MY SHIT! Quite frankly, I scared a half a dozen people, who up to that point, had never even heard me cuss, much less get violent. When it was over, they applauded me. It felt AWESOME, and in that one moment, the monster took on a new form. Vengeance replaced shame, hate replaced fear, and bitterness became the fuel that drove me onward. As my senior year moved on, I took great pleasure in destroying the people who pissed me off. I spent the next 3 years purposefully hurting people, because evil was fun, and NO ONE fucked with me. Sex, drugs, alcohol, fights, overspending...wickedness was my friend. I was still a monster, but at least it was a monster I liked. I was out of the closet to everyone except my dad and a few family members. I embraced the part of ASD that basically makes me a sociopath, and I liked it. No apologies, no regrets. Until 1 night, in a drug-ridden rage, I put one of my best friends in the hospital. Nearly killed him with my bare hands. When I realized what I had done, I decided once more, I needed to change. I went to rehab, returned to therapy, and looked once more into the mirror: sad, lost, and broken...I was still a monster.
The next decade was spent with a litany of horrifying choices: making the wrong kind of friends, going back into the closet, forcing myself to be "christian," raising someone else's kids so they could ignore them, jumping from job to job because nothing suited me, and of course being the subject of rumors and gossip in my hometown...because to most of them..fat gay men are pedophiles. And I'll leave that there. After a string of broken fake relationships, teaching in a school system where parents and faculty called me every foul thing imaginable, and destroying my financial stability...I was back to where I was years before. I looked into the mirror and a fat, ugly, lying, cheating, self-loathing fag looked back. The monster was reborn.
Thankfully, I had some very good friends that reached out to me and gave me a chance to get a grip on my life before I ended up at the literal end of my rope. I moved in with them. Made some great friends, many of whom I am still connected to, and life was better. Once I was on my feet, I got my own place, a better job, and a live-in... Life was good...or so I thought. It didn't take long for the rumors to start. I mean, I was a gay man in a small town...I must be out for kids...right? NO! Idiots! I don't know why so many small town people have such small minds. GAY DOES NOT MEAN CHILD RAPIST! That has to be one of the MOST IDIOTIC notions I've ever heard. But they didn't care.... You know what happened? I was sitting in my living room one night, and my god son was sleeping over. A brick came through the window of my house with "Die Faggot Die!" written on it. Colby was covered in glass. We called the police...and they did NOTHING! A week later, someone set my Halloween decorations on fire in front of my house. Police did nothing. I was called a "stupid faggot" by a co-worker. I reported it...the company did nothing. A friend of mine was beaten til he was unrecognizable...for being gay and not hiding it. The police did nothing. And it was at that time, that I finally realized that nothing was ever going to change in small town U.S.A. I had spent years fighting for my rights and the rights of others. I had tried to fight the stereotypes and rumors. I was in therapy and doing my part. I was finally finding some stability. It was all for nothing. I had to leave. The monster had no place. With help of some awesome people, I made my exit. After a very painful good-bye with my parents, I left my job, my house, my family and friends, and everything I had known...to start over in California. The night before we made that cross-country drive, I stood in the bathroom in my parents house and looked into the mirror...and said good-bye to the monster.
I've lived in California for almost 10 years now. I'm 40. I'm still fat...probably fatter. I still hate the way I look, but...I don't care anymore. I've got wrinkles on my wrinkles, and saddle bags for eyelids. I'm also married to the love of my life. He's my best friend. I'm a dad. My kid is pretty awesome when he isn't making me insane...but kids do that. Life would be boring without him. I've worked to improve the lives of the LGBT community through activism and political protest. We've come a long way in the last decade. I have some of the most amazing people in the world to call friends....not just friends, but family. I still have anxiety. I'm still ASD. I still struggle with my self-esteem. But I don't have to do it alone. I'm stronger, wiser, and honest with myself. When I look in the mirror, I see an older version of a fat, gay, socially awkward, not so popular me....but he's not a monster. He's a war-torn soul that seen his fair share of ugliness. He's a fierce friend who knows the pain of loss and loneliness. He's a voice for those who cannot speak, an ear for those who think no one is listening, and a hand to extend to those who think they walk alone. He has scars...beautiful reminders of where he came from and the struggles he endured. He's not perfect...and that's ok. None of us are. He is David's husband, Jacob's father, Shamus and Archer's pet-parent, and Cheryl and Steve's son. He's a maid, a chef, an educator, a writer, a seamstress, a gardener, and a magical half-dragon genius. I am an individual. I am a human being. But...
I am NOT a monster. And neither are you.
My weight has been an issue since I was in the 3rd grade. There are enough reasons for that to be a blog post all of its own, but that's not what we're talking about. Being a chubby kid automatically puts you in the "target zone" of bullies. It's in the "Bully Handbook" ya know: "Push around the fat kid." It's like their motto or something. So, many overweight children are forced into one of 2 positions: being a bully themselves OR being a victim. For whatever reason its much harder to see the middle ground when your 9. I was a kind-hearted child, so I of course, became the victim. At that age, I didn't really know what gay was, but looking back, I can tell you that at the very least, I knew I was different than other boys. I already felt like an outcast because of that, and gaining weight didn't help. By the time I was in junior high, I had been made fun of for being a "Girly-girl fat boy" so much that I hated everything about myself. Junior high brought with it "locker room hell." Not only was I more and more aware of my sexuality, but I was fatter, awkward, and unpopular. Walking into the gym locker room was agony. There were some undiagnosed psych issues at work too, but I didn't know that, and wouldn't find out for another 3 years. So here I was: fat, gross, unpopular, socially awkward, nerdy, and gay....getting undressed with 2 dozen other guys. Anxiety much?!? I'd do my best to find a corner and hide, bu inevitably one of my classmates would push me, call me names, give me a wedgie, shove me down, or worse..there were way too many "Worse" days than there should have been. Now, if you're sitting there thinking, "why didn't you stand up for yourself?" then you don't understand anything about the damage words can do to person's self-esteem. By this point, it had gone too far. My mental state didn't allow me the "testicular fortitude" to fight back. Every day of junior high was a nightmare for me. I escaped into books and writing in some pathetic attempt to create a world where I could fit in. I got fatter, more nerdy, and eventually, figured out that I was gay.
Now, I want everyone to understand something about these next few statements... This is NOT an attack on my dad. We mended our relationship years ago, but some of the choices he made contributed to my dissolving mental state. He made comments quite frequently about "fags" and how they all needed to die. When I finally figured out I was gay, those statements included me. He didn't know that, because I didn't tell him for decades...with good reason. I grew up in a very religious area of the country, and "queers" were discussed in Sunday sermons. When you hear you're less than human long enough...it changes you. This, among other things, began my final descent into depression. At 14 years old, I was a fat fag that deserved to die--at least, that's how I felt. I spent the summer between 8th grade and high school dreading the next 4 years. When high school started...things got worse.
At my school only 2 things mattered: sports and marching band. You'd think that marching band would be less stressful than sports as a fat gay kid, but it wasn't. The same people that berated me in the locker room and the classroom in junior high were sitting with me in band...and they didn't let up. Not even for a second. I was too self-conscious about my weight to even think about showering in front of people, and being gay in a locker room full of naked guys my age...well, that was just going to add to my anxiety. So...I dropped band to escape the torment, and I didn't pick up sports to avoid more of it. This left me in social limbo. Did it help....nope! Because now, I was a fat gay nerd who didn't fit anywhere with anyone ever. My spirit was destroyed. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the reflection of my damaged soul. THIS is the essence of "body image issues." It's not just about being overweight or acne or facial features or muscle tone....its a package...an ugly one...drenched in self-loathing and weighted down by years of ridicule and shame. I saw myself as a monster and a burden to my family.
Without getting into details, I was suicidal, and we will leave it at that. On the day I had decided to put an end to the monster, I ran into Eric...this dreamy guy that I had had a crush on for a long time. He was talented and sexy and kind, but why would he want to know a monster? I was sure that he was going to kick my ass for running into him...I mean, I literally ran into him. And you know what he did...he apologized to me (When it was actually my fault) and said, "I missed you at the meeting yesterday." He smiled and we went our separate ways. The rest of the day, I couldn't get that out of my head. For some reason, it stayed my hand, and I decided the monster could live. When I returned to school, I went to the guidance office and told her everything I've just told you. She set me up with the school's psychiatrist on a weekly basis. I got to see him AT school, so I didn't have to tell anyone, not even my parents about my "problem." At this point in my life, only 3 people knew I was gay...me, the guidance counselor, and the psychiatrist. Doc (that's what i called him) helped me understand A LOT about who I was. Consequently, this is when I first found out that I was ASD (formerly Asperger's) and started behavioral modification therapy. The rest of my freshman year was...better. Not great or good, but just better. Mostly because I had less anxiety, and there was 1 place I could be me...in the guidance office. By the time my sophomore year started, I was stronger and more confident. I was learning to use my Aspy-powers to control other parts of my life, and bullies were becoming less of a problem. I joined a bunch of clubs, made friends that were just as weird as I was, and eventually...people left me a lone. Until one day, I became....the bully.
I had spent so many years being tormented by other people that when I finally found freedom it became something different. I was totally able to defend myself, and quite frequently did. I lifted weights, played tennis, went swimming, and eventually played volleyball at OleMiss during the summer. I lost some weight, but not a lot; I was still chubby. I had more control over myself than I ever had, but I was still socially awkward. I was content with being gay behind closed doors with "some people" and eventually told a few close friends...and a few guys who wanted to "Experiment." Despite all of the headway I had made...when I looked in the mirror, I still saw a scared, scarred, socially unacceptable monster. A few years in therapy doesn't erase a lifetime of ridicule and shame. I was angry and bitter, and one afternoon some asshat guy I went to school with said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I LOST MY SHIT! Quite frankly, I scared a half a dozen people, who up to that point, had never even heard me cuss, much less get violent. When it was over, they applauded me. It felt AWESOME, and in that one moment, the monster took on a new form. Vengeance replaced shame, hate replaced fear, and bitterness became the fuel that drove me onward. As my senior year moved on, I took great pleasure in destroying the people who pissed me off. I spent the next 3 years purposefully hurting people, because evil was fun, and NO ONE fucked with me. Sex, drugs, alcohol, fights, overspending...wickedness was my friend. I was still a monster, but at least it was a monster I liked. I was out of the closet to everyone except my dad and a few family members. I embraced the part of ASD that basically makes me a sociopath, and I liked it. No apologies, no regrets. Until 1 night, in a drug-ridden rage, I put one of my best friends in the hospital. Nearly killed him with my bare hands. When I realized what I had done, I decided once more, I needed to change. I went to rehab, returned to therapy, and looked once more into the mirror: sad, lost, and broken...I was still a monster.
The next decade was spent with a litany of horrifying choices: making the wrong kind of friends, going back into the closet, forcing myself to be "christian," raising someone else's kids so they could ignore them, jumping from job to job because nothing suited me, and of course being the subject of rumors and gossip in my hometown...because to most of them..fat gay men are pedophiles. And I'll leave that there. After a string of broken fake relationships, teaching in a school system where parents and faculty called me every foul thing imaginable, and destroying my financial stability...I was back to where I was years before. I looked into the mirror and a fat, ugly, lying, cheating, self-loathing fag looked back. The monster was reborn.
Thankfully, I had some very good friends that reached out to me and gave me a chance to get a grip on my life before I ended up at the literal end of my rope. I moved in with them. Made some great friends, many of whom I am still connected to, and life was better. Once I was on my feet, I got my own place, a better job, and a live-in... Life was good...or so I thought. It didn't take long for the rumors to start. I mean, I was a gay man in a small town...I must be out for kids...right? NO! Idiots! I don't know why so many small town people have such small minds. GAY DOES NOT MEAN CHILD RAPIST! That has to be one of the MOST IDIOTIC notions I've ever heard. But they didn't care.... You know what happened? I was sitting in my living room one night, and my god son was sleeping over. A brick came through the window of my house with "Die Faggot Die!" written on it. Colby was covered in glass. We called the police...and they did NOTHING! A week later, someone set my Halloween decorations on fire in front of my house. Police did nothing. I was called a "stupid faggot" by a co-worker. I reported it...the company did nothing. A friend of mine was beaten til he was unrecognizable...for being gay and not hiding it. The police did nothing. And it was at that time, that I finally realized that nothing was ever going to change in small town U.S.A. I had spent years fighting for my rights and the rights of others. I had tried to fight the stereotypes and rumors. I was in therapy and doing my part. I was finally finding some stability. It was all for nothing. I had to leave. The monster had no place. With help of some awesome people, I made my exit. After a very painful good-bye with my parents, I left my job, my house, my family and friends, and everything I had known...to start over in California. The night before we made that cross-country drive, I stood in the bathroom in my parents house and looked into the mirror...and said good-bye to the monster.
I've lived in California for almost 10 years now. I'm 40. I'm still fat...probably fatter. I still hate the way I look, but...I don't care anymore. I've got wrinkles on my wrinkles, and saddle bags for eyelids. I'm also married to the love of my life. He's my best friend. I'm a dad. My kid is pretty awesome when he isn't making me insane...but kids do that. Life would be boring without him. I've worked to improve the lives of the LGBT community through activism and political protest. We've come a long way in the last decade. I have some of the most amazing people in the world to call friends....not just friends, but family. I still have anxiety. I'm still ASD. I still struggle with my self-esteem. But I don't have to do it alone. I'm stronger, wiser, and honest with myself. When I look in the mirror, I see an older version of a fat, gay, socially awkward, not so popular me....but he's not a monster. He's a war-torn soul that seen his fair share of ugliness. He's a fierce friend who knows the pain of loss and loneliness. He's a voice for those who cannot speak, an ear for those who think no one is listening, and a hand to extend to those who think they walk alone. He has scars...beautiful reminders of where he came from and the struggles he endured. He's not perfect...and that's ok. None of us are. He is David's husband, Jacob's father, Shamus and Archer's pet-parent, and Cheryl and Steve's son. He's a maid, a chef, an educator, a writer, a seamstress, a gardener, and a magical half-dragon genius. I am an individual. I am a human being. But...
I am NOT a monster. And neither are you.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
3 Questions You Shouldn't Ask Your ADHDer
Any parent will tell you that when you ask a child a question, you'd better be prepared for the answer, because there is no telling what they'll say. Typically speaking, if you ask a generic question, you'll get a normal answer though...at least where neurotypical children are concerned. With special needs children, even the most mundane questions can have complicated answers. There are some questions that are guaranteed to trigger such responses, and I thought I'd offer a brief...warning.
1. Where would you like to eat?
Now, if you're a parent, you've been out with your children and realized that they are probably hungry. Deciding to offer them a treat of eating out, you ask, "Where would you like to eat?" If you have neurotypical children, you'll get anything from McDonald's to Starbucks depending on their age. If your child has ADHD, you'd better be prepare yourself. You might get something normal, or you might get "on the moon." Yes, I said, "ON THE MOON!" It answers the question, even if you don't have a clue how it would be possible. This might prompt you to ask more questions. Do yourself a favor and just....don't. Once they've given their wild answer, you have a choice: either reconstruct the question with a caveat that will inevitably prompt more questions from them OR figure out how the hell you're going to have lunch on the moon. I made this mistake once...and we had lunch on the moon. We created a "lunar landing" area as part of our homeschool science class and had a nice lunch of cheese sandwiches, apple slices, and pizza pies. (I let the kids pick the menu. Can you figure out why they chose those foods? Leave your answers in the comments section below.)
If you'd like to avoid having lunch on the moon and other similar circumstances, its best to ask questions like these with constraints. In stead of leaving them wide open, say "Would you like to eat at McDonald's or Burger King?" You could ask, "What's your favorite thing to eat?" and then you select a restaurant that serves their favorite food. Occasionally though, I'd recommend letting one of those open-enders fly and running with it. It could lead to some hilarious and fantastic memories that you and your little ones will cherish for years to come.
2. Have you finished....?
It doesn't matter how you complete that sentence. If you are asking someone with ADHD if they have finished something, you already know the answer. It's no. Even though you are secretly hoping the answer is yes, you are only asking because you know they haven't. You're using the question as a prompt to keep them on track. Unfortunately, you're also making yourself insane. Repeating the same pattern over and over again, expecting a different result each time, is the definition of insanity. Instead of asking a question, just check. You can say, "Hey, bring me your homework so I can check it." or "I'm going to go check your room to see if its clean." The idea that you are about to find they haven't completed the task yet can be quite motivational. In most cases, they'll return to the task with a renewed vigor. It also helps to set small, definable goals when assigning tasks to children with ADHD. Instead of "Clean your room" it would be more prudent to say "Please pick up all the clothes and put them in the hamper. I'll be in in a few minutes to see what else needs to be done." A small more defined task with a reasonable time limit can be helpful in keeping your ADHDer on task. You can assign a new task once the previous task is completed to satisfaction.
3. Why did you...?
This is a lesson you'll learn very quickly. That question is BAD BAD BAD. You don't have enough time or brain cells to endure this level of wacky. I'm not trying to suggest that people with ADHD are insane or incapable of rational thought, but they are impulsive. Their minds tend to leap frog through topics. You ask why and by the time they've mentally processed the answer, they've forgotten the question. You might think that's a stretch, but I've seen it happen. If you need an explanation from your ADHDer, do yourself a favor and guide the conversation. Don't just ask why. "Did you get distracted while you were doing your homework?" No. "Did you lose your pencil?" No. "Did you forget your book?" No. "Were you watching TV instead of working?" No. "Then you should have it done. Let me see it." I'm still working on it. "Has something prevented you from completing your homework or are you having trouble with the assignment?" No, I'm just having trouble focusing. BAM! By asking targeted questions and guiding the conversation toward an actually answer, you've avoided a 30 minute explanation about the math teacher's dress, Sally Jane's new pet iguana, and the dog running in circles chasing invisible squirrels. The reality is: He's having difficulty focusing. Recognize that the answer to "Why did you...?" always comes back to focus. Everything else is just filler. It saves time and sanity just to accept it. You're job is not to navigate the rocky waters of explanation, but rather to supply the focus. You can't do anything about his racing mind, but you can minimize the stimuli affecting the race. A clean workspace, some music he can relate to, and a reduction in foot traffic can be just as beneficial as all the 504 Plans and IEPs and medicines in the world.
1. Where would you like to eat?
Now, if you're a parent, you've been out with your children and realized that they are probably hungry. Deciding to offer them a treat of eating out, you ask, "Where would you like to eat?" If you have neurotypical children, you'll get anything from McDonald's to Starbucks depending on their age. If your child has ADHD, you'd better be prepare yourself. You might get something normal, or you might get "on the moon." Yes, I said, "ON THE MOON!" It answers the question, even if you don't have a clue how it would be possible. This might prompt you to ask more questions. Do yourself a favor and just....don't. Once they've given their wild answer, you have a choice: either reconstruct the question with a caveat that will inevitably prompt more questions from them OR figure out how the hell you're going to have lunch on the moon. I made this mistake once...and we had lunch on the moon. We created a "lunar landing" area as part of our homeschool science class and had a nice lunch of cheese sandwiches, apple slices, and pizza pies. (I let the kids pick the menu. Can you figure out why they chose those foods? Leave your answers in the comments section below.)
If you'd like to avoid having lunch on the moon and other similar circumstances, its best to ask questions like these with constraints. In stead of leaving them wide open, say "Would you like to eat at McDonald's or Burger King?" You could ask, "What's your favorite thing to eat?" and then you select a restaurant that serves their favorite food. Occasionally though, I'd recommend letting one of those open-enders fly and running with it. It could lead to some hilarious and fantastic memories that you and your little ones will cherish for years to come.
2. Have you finished....?
It doesn't matter how you complete that sentence. If you are asking someone with ADHD if they have finished something, you already know the answer. It's no. Even though you are secretly hoping the answer is yes, you are only asking because you know they haven't. You're using the question as a prompt to keep them on track. Unfortunately, you're also making yourself insane. Repeating the same pattern over and over again, expecting a different result each time, is the definition of insanity. Instead of asking a question, just check. You can say, "Hey, bring me your homework so I can check it." or "I'm going to go check your room to see if its clean." The idea that you are about to find they haven't completed the task yet can be quite motivational. In most cases, they'll return to the task with a renewed vigor. It also helps to set small, definable goals when assigning tasks to children with ADHD. Instead of "Clean your room" it would be more prudent to say "Please pick up all the clothes and put them in the hamper. I'll be in in a few minutes to see what else needs to be done." A small more defined task with a reasonable time limit can be helpful in keeping your ADHDer on task. You can assign a new task once the previous task is completed to satisfaction.
3. Why did you...?
This is a lesson you'll learn very quickly. That question is BAD BAD BAD. You don't have enough time or brain cells to endure this level of wacky. I'm not trying to suggest that people with ADHD are insane or incapable of rational thought, but they are impulsive. Their minds tend to leap frog through topics. You ask why and by the time they've mentally processed the answer, they've forgotten the question. You might think that's a stretch, but I've seen it happen. If you need an explanation from your ADHDer, do yourself a favor and guide the conversation. Don't just ask why. "Did you get distracted while you were doing your homework?" No. "Did you lose your pencil?" No. "Did you forget your book?" No. "Were you watching TV instead of working?" No. "Then you should have it done. Let me see it." I'm still working on it. "Has something prevented you from completing your homework or are you having trouble with the assignment?" No, I'm just having trouble focusing. BAM! By asking targeted questions and guiding the conversation toward an actually answer, you've avoided a 30 minute explanation about the math teacher's dress, Sally Jane's new pet iguana, and the dog running in circles chasing invisible squirrels. The reality is: He's having difficulty focusing. Recognize that the answer to "Why did you...?" always comes back to focus. Everything else is just filler. It saves time and sanity just to accept it. You're job is not to navigate the rocky waters of explanation, but rather to supply the focus. You can't do anything about his racing mind, but you can minimize the stimuli affecting the race. A clean workspace, some music he can relate to, and a reduction in foot traffic can be just as beneficial as all the 504 Plans and IEPs and medicines in the world.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Adventures in Babysitting
I know I said I wouldn't be writing a blog every day, but for now, I'm in the mood. I've been thinking quite a bit about my childhood lately, for reasons I'll keep to myself for now. It's been a considerable trip down memory lane. As I look back, I find that I struggle for "happier" memories. The sour far too often outweighs the sweet. I don't think its because I'm a negative person. I think its just human nature to linger on the "not-so-good" things. They tend to stick with us more. I'd like to tell you that I'm turning over a new leaf and focusing on only positive things, but that's not true. I've tried it. It doesn't work. Stepford-Jase is creepy. What I will try to do is share an equal amount of the good, the bad, and the ugly. A nice balance tends to make for better storytelling anyway. Here's one of those that contains a bit of all 3...
I had the good fortune of having a "stay at home" mom for my early childhood years. (And before someone gets the idea that I have something against working moms, please let me assure you that I do not.) We weren't rich...hell, we weren't even middle class. We had to gather eggs and milk the cow every day just to eat breakfast. In the winter, meals were often left overs that had accumulated over the previous year, frozen in baggies and old buckets. In the morning, mother would throw some homemade canned tomato juice in a cast iron pot, dump in an ice block of frozen whatever-was-in-it, and set it on the old wood stove. When it boiled, it was done. Sometimes it took all day. I was a poor farm kid from the sticks. Cereal was a luxury. I spent May to September 90% barefoot and shirtless, because we couldn't afford new shoes and clothes. They had to last. Truth be told, we didn't always get "new" anything. A good bit of the time, we got hand-me-downs from cousins and neighbors. It was a circumstance of country life...but I digress. My dad made 3.15 an hour in those days, and the farm didn't bring in a great deal of money. Mother decided she would start babysitting to bring in some extra cash. To show you how much of a difference there is between then and now...she got 20.00 a week to take on 2 other kids 8 to 10 hours a day. Can you imagine?
The first couple of children she kept were the children of family friends. Their dad drove the local milk truck and their mom was a secretary for a small business. They were nice people. Trey and Ashley became like family for my sister, Tiffany, and I. We were all separated by 1 year...meaning I was 6, Trey was 5, Tiff was 3, and Ashley was 2. Ash was potty training and still in diapers. She was...portly? She always reminded me of the Gerber baby but with more chubby. Trey was so thin, you couldn't have hit him with a handful of corn. I assumed he was thin because Ash was eating his share as well. Tiff and Ash spent most of their time playing dolls and annoying Trey and I. For some reason they couldn't understand why it was inappropriate for girls to enter our Fort, which was basically 2 hay bales, a dirt mound, and a bed sheet I pilfered from the clothesline. They could usually be deterred from bothering us with the waterhose, though in most cases that resulted in the wooden spoon making an appearance. We had 1 television..cabinet style. There were 2 dials on it and rabbit ears for the first 6 years of my life. Didn't matter though...there were only 3 channels anyway. If you were lucky, and the birds stayed away, and the weather was good...you might get 2 of the 3 to come in plainly. The other was a lost cause unless you held your mouth just right.
One evening, after Trey and Ash had gone home, my dad came in and began discussing this "new" technology with my mother. I was intrigued. A device that would allow us to watch movies sounded AMAZING! I listened for a long time, and I remember thinking how awesome it would be to have something like that. The downside was that it was going to cost my dad two weeks pay to get one. That wasn't something we could afford. I was disappointed. A few weeks went by and I had all but forgotten about the new movie thing. Pretending was better anyway, and we had started getting a new channel (a 4th one!!)...KBSI 23, a FOX station. That meant more cartoon choices, when we were allowed to watch that is (which wasn't a great deal. 30 minutes a day, and Saturday mornings.) Life was good.
Right at the end of summer, a few weeks before it was time to pick corn, my paternal grandmother, Mamaw, called to tell my dad that she had found a VCR machine for sale in the newspaper. (That's right bitches, we had a phone. It was an avocado green rotary phone, but we had one.) Mother had saved a good bit of her sitting money, and she and Dad decided to move into the "modern" era. The VCR was listed in the items for a yard sale in an area of my hometown called "Pleasant Valley." Pleasant Valley was a subdivision built to provide housing options for the workers of the Goodyear factory that had opened in town...the largest in the U.S. You had to be pretty well off to afford a house in that subdivision. It was home to doctors, lawyers,...well, everyone except poor farm kids. It was actually kind of exciting to think we were going to go there and buy something. (Sadly, once I got to know some of those families later in life, I realized what an idiot I was. Most of them were assholes.) Since my dad had to work, it mean that Mother was going to have to go...with all 4 kids! Knowing how difficult it would be for Mother to handle that, Dad took it upon himself to invite Mamaw. Now, there's some history there. Mother and Mamaw got along about like two Tomcats in a burlap sack (and I'll save that for another time.)
The next day. Mother, Mamaw, and we 4 kids, piled into our Mercury station wagon and headed to town. It was about a 15 minute trip, which was about the width of our county. We pulled into the driveway of the yard sale, and Mother said to Mamaw, "Keep an eye on them. I'm going to be just a minute." Mother got out and hell broke loose. Mamaw's idea of "keeping an eye on us" was browsing the yard sale. She left 4 young children in the car....windows down mind you. In those days, in our small town, you could do that without much risk of criminal activity. The real risk was leaving 4 children to their devices. You should also keep in mind that I have Asperger's syndrome and death anxiety, which were both undiagnosed at the time. Trey, we later found out, had severe ADHD. This is a volatile combination in and of itself. Throw in 2 siblings we couldn't stand and 33 seconds of boredom, and it was a mess. We decided to play "campout." If you don't know anything about Mercury station wagons, here's a brief description. Bench seats in the front, bench seats in the middle, and collapsible "kiddy" seats in the cargo hold. I sat in the front with adults, because I was oldest. The others were in the center. The kiddy seats were folded down to allow full use of the cargo area. Trey climbed over the seat to join me in the front. We moved the bench seat all the way back and used windbreakers to build a tent. We then decided we needed a fire. Gathering brush from the floorboard and using Mamaw's cigarette lighter, we built a small fire in the ashtray...which quickly filled the car with smoke, even with the windows down. This was enough to get Mamaw's attention. She put out the fire, and subsequently prevented my mother from starting one on her head.
This next part will need a bit more explanation. You see, Dad believes that if you get off the interstate, you have to live there. So, he doesn't stop on long car rides unless he needs gas or has to pee. That doesn't work well with a 6 and 3 year old. As a result of his insanity, Mother put a potty chair in the cargo area so we could use it without having to pull over. Now, all of us knew it was there. Tiffany decided that she needed to pee. She climbed over the eats, into the cargo area, and proceeded to do her business. Once finished, she stood up and attempted to pull up her panties. Unfortunately, they had gotten hung on the kiddy seat latch. She kept bending over and jerking them, but it wasn't happening. This also caused her to moon and flash everyone at the yard sale, which was half of Pleasant Valley. A crowd of people, including other children, gathered outside of the window. Tiff began crying and screaming, because she's a drama queen. My brain started to melt and I dove under the dashboard. Luckily, my grandmother had the good sense to help her before it got worse. Meanwhile, Trey had engaged in a spitting contest with another boy from the crowd. (Oddly enough, we later, as teenagers, became best friends...with benefits!) The volley of saliva carried on for a while. Tiffany decided that she too would join in. With both Trey and Tiff spitting, things were getting gross fast. Mamaw apparently thought to look in our general direction and yelled for them to stop. The boy turned to walk away. Tiff thrust her head through the window to get in one final spit as Trey cranked it shut, trapping her sideways head between the window glass and the door frame. Of course, the drama queen began to wail.
Mamaw wasn't able to stop the cries from activating Mother's seek and destroy protocol, as she began shoving her way past the shoppers. When she arrived at the car, she jerked the door open, not realizing Tiff's head was solidly trapped...and there she dangled by her neck. Trey smacked the window roller (as they were hand cranked not electric), releasing her face, and causing her to drop to the ground with a resounding thud. It sounded something like a brick smashing through a pumpkin. Mother grabbed her up off the ground, comforted her, and checked for injuries. Seeing there were none, she then inspected the car, that was devoid of adult supervision. Seeing the burnt grass in the ashtray and the piss-filled potty in the cargo area caused her to lose her mind. That was the first time I ever heard my mother say, "Fuck." Now, this entire time, Ashley had been sitting in her carseat...quietly...shitting. Not just a normal amount, but like enough for 6 kids. I distinctly remember Mother picking her up and watching the poop spill out of the carseat. It was disgusting.
4 hours, 4 spankings, 2 adults fighting, a moon-fest, a spitting contest, a campfire gone wrong, and a shit-filled carseat later...we had a used VCR. It cost mother a month's worth of babysitting and all that drama, but we had one. When dad arrived home that night, he saw the VCR and said, "See. You said it was going to be too hard with the kids. I told you Momma would help." Mother, smiling politely, said..."Your mother is as useless as tits on a boar. Never again..." And she made good on her word. That was the last time Mother and Mamaw were ever in the same car. She quit sitting. A month later I started to school and Mother went to work...at a Video Rental place, no less.
Oh...and this hat is very similar to the one June Thompson wore when I was a child. She owned the VCR that we bought. Two years later, Mother went to work for her husband as a collections agent.
I had the good fortune of having a "stay at home" mom for my early childhood years. (And before someone gets the idea that I have something against working moms, please let me assure you that I do not.) We weren't rich...hell, we weren't even middle class. We had to gather eggs and milk the cow every day just to eat breakfast. In the winter, meals were often left overs that had accumulated over the previous year, frozen in baggies and old buckets. In the morning, mother would throw some homemade canned tomato juice in a cast iron pot, dump in an ice block of frozen whatever-was-in-it, and set it on the old wood stove. When it boiled, it was done. Sometimes it took all day. I was a poor farm kid from the sticks. Cereal was a luxury. I spent May to September 90% barefoot and shirtless, because we couldn't afford new shoes and clothes. They had to last. Truth be told, we didn't always get "new" anything. A good bit of the time, we got hand-me-downs from cousins and neighbors. It was a circumstance of country life...but I digress. My dad made 3.15 an hour in those days, and the farm didn't bring in a great deal of money. Mother decided she would start babysitting to bring in some extra cash. To show you how much of a difference there is between then and now...she got 20.00 a week to take on 2 other kids 8 to 10 hours a day. Can you imagine?
The first couple of children she kept were the children of family friends. Their dad drove the local milk truck and their mom was a secretary for a small business. They were nice people. Trey and Ashley became like family for my sister, Tiffany, and I. We were all separated by 1 year...meaning I was 6, Trey was 5, Tiff was 3, and Ashley was 2. Ash was potty training and still in diapers. She was...portly? She always reminded me of the Gerber baby but with more chubby. Trey was so thin, you couldn't have hit him with a handful of corn. I assumed he was thin because Ash was eating his share as well. Tiff and Ash spent most of their time playing dolls and annoying Trey and I. For some reason they couldn't understand why it was inappropriate for girls to enter our Fort, which was basically 2 hay bales, a dirt mound, and a bed sheet I pilfered from the clothesline. They could usually be deterred from bothering us with the waterhose, though in most cases that resulted in the wooden spoon making an appearance. We had 1 television..cabinet style. There were 2 dials on it and rabbit ears for the first 6 years of my life. Didn't matter though...there were only 3 channels anyway. If you were lucky, and the birds stayed away, and the weather was good...you might get 2 of the 3 to come in plainly. The other was a lost cause unless you held your mouth just right.
One evening, after Trey and Ash had gone home, my dad came in and began discussing this "new" technology with my mother. I was intrigued. A device that would allow us to watch movies sounded AMAZING! I listened for a long time, and I remember thinking how awesome it would be to have something like that. The downside was that it was going to cost my dad two weeks pay to get one. That wasn't something we could afford. I was disappointed. A few weeks went by and I had all but forgotten about the new movie thing. Pretending was better anyway, and we had started getting a new channel (a 4th one!!)...KBSI 23, a FOX station. That meant more cartoon choices, when we were allowed to watch that is (which wasn't a great deal. 30 minutes a day, and Saturday mornings.) Life was good.
Right at the end of summer, a few weeks before it was time to pick corn, my paternal grandmother, Mamaw, called to tell my dad that she had found a VCR machine for sale in the newspaper. (That's right bitches, we had a phone. It was an avocado green rotary phone, but we had one.) Mother had saved a good bit of her sitting money, and she and Dad decided to move into the "modern" era. The VCR was listed in the items for a yard sale in an area of my hometown called "Pleasant Valley." Pleasant Valley was a subdivision built to provide housing options for the workers of the Goodyear factory that had opened in town...the largest in the U.S. You had to be pretty well off to afford a house in that subdivision. It was home to doctors, lawyers,...well, everyone except poor farm kids. It was actually kind of exciting to think we were going to go there and buy something. (Sadly, once I got to know some of those families later in life, I realized what an idiot I was. Most of them were assholes.) Since my dad had to work, it mean that Mother was going to have to go...with all 4 kids! Knowing how difficult it would be for Mother to handle that, Dad took it upon himself to invite Mamaw. Now, there's some history there. Mother and Mamaw got along about like two Tomcats in a burlap sack (and I'll save that for another time.)
The next day. Mother, Mamaw, and we 4 kids, piled into our Mercury station wagon and headed to town. It was about a 15 minute trip, which was about the width of our county. We pulled into the driveway of the yard sale, and Mother said to Mamaw, "Keep an eye on them. I'm going to be just a minute." Mother got out and hell broke loose. Mamaw's idea of "keeping an eye on us" was browsing the yard sale. She left 4 young children in the car....windows down mind you. In those days, in our small town, you could do that without much risk of criminal activity. The real risk was leaving 4 children to their devices. You should also keep in mind that I have Asperger's syndrome and death anxiety, which were both undiagnosed at the time. Trey, we later found out, had severe ADHD. This is a volatile combination in and of itself. Throw in 2 siblings we couldn't stand and 33 seconds of boredom, and it was a mess. We decided to play "campout." If you don't know anything about Mercury station wagons, here's a brief description. Bench seats in the front, bench seats in the middle, and collapsible "kiddy" seats in the cargo hold. I sat in the front with adults, because I was oldest. The others were in the center. The kiddy seats were folded down to allow full use of the cargo area. Trey climbed over the seat to join me in the front. We moved the bench seat all the way back and used windbreakers to build a tent. We then decided we needed a fire. Gathering brush from the floorboard and using Mamaw's cigarette lighter, we built a small fire in the ashtray...which quickly filled the car with smoke, even with the windows down. This was enough to get Mamaw's attention. She put out the fire, and subsequently prevented my mother from starting one on her head.
This next part will need a bit more explanation. You see, Dad believes that if you get off the interstate, you have to live there. So, he doesn't stop on long car rides unless he needs gas or has to pee. That doesn't work well with a 6 and 3 year old. As a result of his insanity, Mother put a potty chair in the cargo area so we could use it without having to pull over. Now, all of us knew it was there. Tiffany decided that she needed to pee. She climbed over the eats, into the cargo area, and proceeded to do her business. Once finished, she stood up and attempted to pull up her panties. Unfortunately, they had gotten hung on the kiddy seat latch. She kept bending over and jerking them, but it wasn't happening. This also caused her to moon and flash everyone at the yard sale, which was half of Pleasant Valley. A crowd of people, including other children, gathered outside of the window. Tiff began crying and screaming, because she's a drama queen. My brain started to melt and I dove under the dashboard. Luckily, my grandmother had the good sense to help her before it got worse. Meanwhile, Trey had engaged in a spitting contest with another boy from the crowd. (Oddly enough, we later, as teenagers, became best friends...with benefits!) The volley of saliva carried on for a while. Tiffany decided that she too would join in. With both Trey and Tiff spitting, things were getting gross fast. Mamaw apparently thought to look in our general direction and yelled for them to stop. The boy turned to walk away. Tiff thrust her head through the window to get in one final spit as Trey cranked it shut, trapping her sideways head between the window glass and the door frame. Of course, the drama queen began to wail.
Mamaw wasn't able to stop the cries from activating Mother's seek and destroy protocol, as she began shoving her way past the shoppers. When she arrived at the car, she jerked the door open, not realizing Tiff's head was solidly trapped...and there she dangled by her neck. Trey smacked the window roller (as they were hand cranked not electric), releasing her face, and causing her to drop to the ground with a resounding thud. It sounded something like a brick smashing through a pumpkin. Mother grabbed her up off the ground, comforted her, and checked for injuries. Seeing there were none, she then inspected the car, that was devoid of adult supervision. Seeing the burnt grass in the ashtray and the piss-filled potty in the cargo area caused her to lose her mind. That was the first time I ever heard my mother say, "Fuck." Now, this entire time, Ashley had been sitting in her carseat...quietly...shitting. Not just a normal amount, but like enough for 6 kids. I distinctly remember Mother picking her up and watching the poop spill out of the carseat. It was disgusting.
4 hours, 4 spankings, 2 adults fighting, a moon-fest, a spitting contest, a campfire gone wrong, and a shit-filled carseat later...we had a used VCR. It cost mother a month's worth of babysitting and all that drama, but we had one. When dad arrived home that night, he saw the VCR and said, "See. You said it was going to be too hard with the kids. I told you Momma would help." Mother, smiling politely, said..."Your mother is as useless as tits on a boar. Never again..." And she made good on her word. That was the last time Mother and Mamaw were ever in the same car. She quit sitting. A month later I started to school and Mother went to work...at a Video Rental place, no less.
Oh...and this hat is very similar to the one June Thompson wore when I was a child. She owned the VCR that we bought. Two years later, Mother went to work for her husband as a collections agent.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Wouldn't it be cool if...
Author's Note: This is a bit of recycling on my part. I wrote this a few years ago, but never really published it. It still holds true today, so I thought I'd share it. I should also add that committing to blogging regularly is not something that I can do. I will try to blog occasionally, but you might end up with 4 in a week and not see another one for 3 months. Why? Well, after reading this first post, you'll understand...Happy Parenting!
"Hey dad! Wouldn't it be cool if..." You can fill in the blank with whatever you like, but in this house those words usually come right before bizarre conversations and insane ideas. They sometimes trend toward something getting blown up or taken apart, up to and including the possibility, if not inevitability, of the loss of life or limb. Most of the time, they just torment my brain, resulting in eye rolls, migraines, and sometimes mini-strokes. This day was no exception...
After an evening with my husband David's parents, we stopped on the way home to buy groceries. A trip to buy groceries with Jacob, our son, is always a treat, but when David is also with us, it's extra special. I'm a shopper. I compare prices, and unless I'm in a hurry, I take my time. I keep a mental grocery list unless I have some off the wall item to buy. I buy what I have room for and try to get the best deal. David is not a shopper. He's a buyer. He enters the store with purpose, gets exactly what he wants, buys the biggest he can find, and the first thing he sees that meets his need. Jacob likes to do things fast, funny, and frivolous and is unimpressed with my shopping habits, but completely supportive of David's "get-er-done" attitude...all with a built in motor.
Jacob, of course, enters through exit door, because...why not? Two seconds in and I hear: "Igottapee. *rrrrrr* *squeal*" as Jacob's built in motor peels out for the toilet. David follows with, "I need mouthwash," and is gone before I can give him instructions on what to buy and what I have coupons for. By the time I've made it past the bargain bins, both have returned. Jacob informs me that the bathroom had water on the floor, sharing this tidbit: "Wouldn't it be cool if someone ran in there and slipped and slid into the wall and fell in the toilet and got covered in poop, but like their head got busted open. It would be hilarious!" Shaking my head, I say, "No son...that would not be cool. It would be a lot of things, but cool isn't one of them." David puts a bottle of super-strength, extra-minty Colgate mouthwash in the buggy. It's practically glowing blue. I ask about the price, and he says, "I dunno. It got it because it was blue and shaped like a mana potion." That's how we buy things in our home folks - Is it blue and does it resemble fantasy items? Yes? Buy it.
We managed to make it to the deli before David decided that I was taking too long. He heads off to buy what he thinks I want to speed things along. Jacob follows him with motor roaring. I grab a total of 2 items and round the corner to look at fish and poultry. As I look up from the "BOGO" on ground turkey, David appears at the cart with Pop-tarts, two 5 lb bags of cereal, and the biggest bag tortillas he could find on the shelf. Jacob's eyes are almost glowing when he says, "Isn't it awesome. It was the biggest bag of cereal we could find." (I'm amending my previous purchasing credentials to include: Is it huge, or does it come in multiples of 5?) I'm staring with disdain at both of them. The Pop-tarts, which can at a stretch be healthy if you buy the right ones, were Oreo cookie Pop-tarts. Both cereal bags have taken up half the shopping cart. Each is made from pure processed sugar and chocolate, and of course, no one knows how much they cost. Jacob hands me a box of plain, off brand bran flakes, and says, "We got this for you." David says, "Is it the kind you like?" My eyes are rolling back into my head at this point, and the migraine is sitting on go.
They grab 2 packs of soy chorizo and the biggest bag of cheese in the dairy, informing me they done with shopping and are ready to leave. I've not managed to get even half my list yet. The rest of the trip is spent with me shopping and them being bored, which contained several random dance moves, strange noises, and David insisting that I'm doing it wrong because I only "bought 1," it wasn't "the biggest one," or I should have bought the blue one. After about 20 minutes, they are completely done with me and go to electronics to look for video games. The gods have granted me a reprieve. In 30 minutes or so, we meet back up front. There are 800 people checking out and 4 registers open because...Wal-Mart. Standing in the line, I here Jacob say, "Wouldn't it be cool if suddenly the eggs just like hatched with exploding chickens." Admittedly, the idea of being able to incubate exploding chickens is intriguing, but preferably NOT in line. The cashier felt it necessary to share with me a look that suggested she thought Jacob ate rat poison as a child. She must have noticed the ever-enlarging veins in my temples, as she casually placed a single pack of migraine medicine on the conveyor, ever so casually glancing at me to make sure I approved. I'm fairly certain my neck forced my head to nod faster than I could consider it.
By the time we get back to that car, Jacob's motor has kicked into full gear. He is now making sounds similar to a NASCAR racecar on the verge of crashing. I desperately try to load the groceries as fast as possible and get home before I rip out his carburetor. We manage the drive home with minimal backseat noises, put groceries away, and decide to have a little family time. We chose to play "Runewars". It's a fantasy board game with battles and magic and whatnot. The object of the game is, normally, to defeat all the other armies and collect 6 dragon runes. It has been altered in our house. You now win as long as I don't. It doesn't matter how many people are playing. As long as I lose, everyone else is a winner. That's OK with me, at least I inspire competition. Admittedly it does get a bit annoying, but I should be thankful that my family considers me the pinnacle of gaming excellence. Halfway through the game, Jacob says, "Wouldn't it be cool if this game were real and I was like the undead and I just went around eating everyone and Jase's elves were all like 'Woah' and I just killed them all and then I turned Jase into a zombie and he was all powerful and stuff." *boggle* David follows with, "I don't want Jase to be a zombie. He's already too powerful as it is, I don't want him having undead qualities too." Jacob says, "But it would be so awesome. He'd be like *bam* *smack* *squeal squeal* AHHHHHHHH. And everyone would be dead." David follows, "And that's exactly why I don't won't him to be a zombie."
Now, you'd assume this was a silly conversation, light-hearted and completely fantasy....if you lived in a normal house. Not in my house...this is a real concern for both husband and son. David is dead serious that he doesn't want me becoming a zombie, and Jacob is almost giddy with the idea of me being some sort of fall-out boy super mutant. I managed to quell the conversation by pointing out that I don't want to be a zombie. I'd rather be a vampire. Jacob is now 300% invested in my becoming an actual vampire with David shouting objections all over the place. I get up and go to the bathroom. When I come back to the game, I realize that it has been my turn for 10 minutes. They've moved on to some other conversation and are irritated that I haven't taken my turn yet. We finish up the game. I won with extreme prejudice. Elves decimated the battle field! David says, "See. This is why we always gang up on you."
We round out the evening and head to bed. As I'm laying down, and David is turning off lights, I hear this..."Hey David, wouldn't it be cool if like we all go to bed and like someone tries to break in and Jase just gets up and wipes everyone out." David shouts with potent seriousness, "NOOOOOOOOO! We're part of everyone! We only want him to kill the bad guys." Jacob responds, "Yeah, but it would AWESOME!." I yell, "Go to bed Jacob! David, don't forget the lights downstairs." There's a momentary hush, then I hear this silly giggle from David, "Yeah, it would be awesome. Hehehehehehehe."
For those of you with no children, you may one day find yourself in a position to defend why it would not be cool if you suddenly turned into a zombie or your groceries began exploding for no reason. Prepare yourself! For those of you with children, you may want to share with everyone else the reasons you've already given! :) Happy Parenting! OH!!...Here's today's big floppy hat.
"Hey dad! Wouldn't it be cool if..." You can fill in the blank with whatever you like, but in this house those words usually come right before bizarre conversations and insane ideas. They sometimes trend toward something getting blown up or taken apart, up to and including the possibility, if not inevitability, of the loss of life or limb. Most of the time, they just torment my brain, resulting in eye rolls, migraines, and sometimes mini-strokes. This day was no exception...
After an evening with my husband David's parents, we stopped on the way home to buy groceries. A trip to buy groceries with Jacob, our son, is always a treat, but when David is also with us, it's extra special. I'm a shopper. I compare prices, and unless I'm in a hurry, I take my time. I keep a mental grocery list unless I have some off the wall item to buy. I buy what I have room for and try to get the best deal. David is not a shopper. He's a buyer. He enters the store with purpose, gets exactly what he wants, buys the biggest he can find, and the first thing he sees that meets his need. Jacob likes to do things fast, funny, and frivolous and is unimpressed with my shopping habits, but completely supportive of David's "get-er-done" attitude...all with a built in motor.
Jacob, of course, enters through exit door, because...why not? Two seconds in and I hear: "Igottapee. *rrrrrr* *squeal*" as Jacob's built in motor peels out for the toilet. David follows with, "I need mouthwash," and is gone before I can give him instructions on what to buy and what I have coupons for. By the time I've made it past the bargain bins, both have returned. Jacob informs me that the bathroom had water on the floor, sharing this tidbit: "Wouldn't it be cool if someone ran in there and slipped and slid into the wall and fell in the toilet and got covered in poop, but like their head got busted open. It would be hilarious!" Shaking my head, I say, "No son...that would not be cool. It would be a lot of things, but cool isn't one of them." David puts a bottle of super-strength, extra-minty Colgate mouthwash in the buggy. It's practically glowing blue. I ask about the price, and he says, "I dunno. It got it because it was blue and shaped like a mana potion." That's how we buy things in our home folks - Is it blue and does it resemble fantasy items? Yes? Buy it.
We managed to make it to the deli before David decided that I was taking too long. He heads off to buy what he thinks I want to speed things along. Jacob follows him with motor roaring. I grab a total of 2 items and round the corner to look at fish and poultry. As I look up from the "BOGO" on ground turkey, David appears at the cart with Pop-tarts, two 5 lb bags of cereal, and the biggest bag tortillas he could find on the shelf. Jacob's eyes are almost glowing when he says, "Isn't it awesome. It was the biggest bag of cereal we could find." (I'm amending my previous purchasing credentials to include: Is it huge, or does it come in multiples of 5?) I'm staring with disdain at both of them. The Pop-tarts, which can at a stretch be healthy if you buy the right ones, were Oreo cookie Pop-tarts. Both cereal bags have taken up half the shopping cart. Each is made from pure processed sugar and chocolate, and of course, no one knows how much they cost. Jacob hands me a box of plain, off brand bran flakes, and says, "We got this for you." David says, "Is it the kind you like?" My eyes are rolling back into my head at this point, and the migraine is sitting on go.
They grab 2 packs of soy chorizo and the biggest bag of cheese in the dairy, informing me they done with shopping and are ready to leave. I've not managed to get even half my list yet. The rest of the trip is spent with me shopping and them being bored, which contained several random dance moves, strange noises, and David insisting that I'm doing it wrong because I only "bought 1," it wasn't "the biggest one," or I should have bought the blue one. After about 20 minutes, they are completely done with me and go to electronics to look for video games. The gods have granted me a reprieve. In 30 minutes or so, we meet back up front. There are 800 people checking out and 4 registers open because...Wal-Mart. Standing in the line, I here Jacob say, "Wouldn't it be cool if suddenly the eggs just like hatched with exploding chickens." Admittedly, the idea of being able to incubate exploding chickens is intriguing, but preferably NOT in line. The cashier felt it necessary to share with me a look that suggested she thought Jacob ate rat poison as a child. She must have noticed the ever-enlarging veins in my temples, as she casually placed a single pack of migraine medicine on the conveyor, ever so casually glancing at me to make sure I approved. I'm fairly certain my neck forced my head to nod faster than I could consider it.
By the time we get back to that car, Jacob's motor has kicked into full gear. He is now making sounds similar to a NASCAR racecar on the verge of crashing. I desperately try to load the groceries as fast as possible and get home before I rip out his carburetor. We manage the drive home with minimal backseat noises, put groceries away, and decide to have a little family time. We chose to play "Runewars". It's a fantasy board game with battles and magic and whatnot. The object of the game is, normally, to defeat all the other armies and collect 6 dragon runes. It has been altered in our house. You now win as long as I don't. It doesn't matter how many people are playing. As long as I lose, everyone else is a winner. That's OK with me, at least I inspire competition. Admittedly it does get a bit annoying, but I should be thankful that my family considers me the pinnacle of gaming excellence. Halfway through the game, Jacob says, "Wouldn't it be cool if this game were real and I was like the undead and I just went around eating everyone and Jase's elves were all like 'Woah' and I just killed them all and then I turned Jase into a zombie and he was all powerful and stuff." *boggle* David follows with, "I don't want Jase to be a zombie. He's already too powerful as it is, I don't want him having undead qualities too." Jacob says, "But it would be so awesome. He'd be like *bam* *smack* *squeal squeal* AHHHHHHHH. And everyone would be dead." David follows, "And that's exactly why I don't won't him to be a zombie."
Now, you'd assume this was a silly conversation, light-hearted and completely fantasy....if you lived in a normal house. Not in my house...this is a real concern for both husband and son. David is dead serious that he doesn't want me becoming a zombie, and Jacob is almost giddy with the idea of me being some sort of fall-out boy super mutant. I managed to quell the conversation by pointing out that I don't want to be a zombie. I'd rather be a vampire. Jacob is now 300% invested in my becoming an actual vampire with David shouting objections all over the place. I get up and go to the bathroom. When I come back to the game, I realize that it has been my turn for 10 minutes. They've moved on to some other conversation and are irritated that I haven't taken my turn yet. We finish up the game. I won with extreme prejudice. Elves decimated the battle field! David says, "See. This is why we always gang up on you."
We round out the evening and head to bed. As I'm laying down, and David is turning off lights, I hear this..."Hey David, wouldn't it be cool if like we all go to bed and like someone tries to break in and Jase just gets up and wipes everyone out." David shouts with potent seriousness, "NOOOOOOOOO! We're part of everyone! We only want him to kill the bad guys." Jacob responds, "Yeah, but it would AWESOME!." I yell, "Go to bed Jacob! David, don't forget the lights downstairs." There's a momentary hush, then I hear this silly giggle from David, "Yeah, it would be awesome. Hehehehehehehe."
For those of you with no children, you may one day find yourself in a position to defend why it would not be cool if you suddenly turned into a zombie or your groceries began exploding for no reason. Prepare yourself! For those of you with children, you may want to share with everyone else the reasons you've already given! :) Happy Parenting! OH!!...Here's today's big floppy hat.
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