Books

It's why I'm late, instead of yesterday, writing today. Moving. Whoever said 'you can never have too many books' never had to move them all themselves. No way was I going to go out again or turn on the computer just for this, and that's saying a lot.

I'm sure there are exceptions, those who would do it multiple times, even. Though I might not be out of line in saying having fulfilled one fantasy of having a wall of books has been a bit encumbering. I've gone through the transition of giving away, acquiring, and losing, with, like a cockatiel who has eggs stolen or broken, makes more to compensate the loss so that the same amount is maintained. Not that I've ever counted them all mind you: just so they take up all of the spaces on the bookshelves.

Back to the encumbering. I was an athlete; would like to be one again. Thought I was unbreakable physically during younger days and pounded my body to its limits even through my child's early years. Diagnosis 2011: 'routine' pre-op chest x-ray. Scoliosis. Now this is something that's usually found in childhood; I didn't have it before, though I had 'always' been 'pre-disposed'. Diagnosis 2014: "extreme spinal deformity" (and three inches shorter; my son got taller than me earlier). Great. Not to say I wasn't feeling it; it was more than just aging. It was a combined toll of things that should never co-occur to any human at the same time.

Now life is a 'before' of what it will be like after 'treatment'. I could be the bionic woman, or not. We'll see. I researched not too many doctors for the first time I ever went under a knife; I was terrified, but it had to be done. I was having trouble sleeping and couldn't wear regular shoes; it was bad. Finally one said casually he could do it, and he did, well. Grateful forever for that, almost like having a new life, being able to wear sandals again, and walk further, until now, which makes the first trepidation look like a picnic.

Anyway, I think I'm (essentially) done with books. Have some great ones. The collection will go through a few minuses and pluses as is life, and I hope someone else will be doing most of the schlepping next time, and not because I can't. Because I don't want to.

Bonding

Separation, that shouldn't be.  He calls, and the conversations are longer.  We don't see each other.  He looks different in a way I won't see until a time yet to be known.  He may notice I've aged, when that happens.

He called last to tell me I'd be proud of him.  He's into something similar that we've done together in the past, and taken initiative on his own behalf.  I couldn't be prouder, or any less concerned than usual.Quest

It's supposedly not biblical to fear or worry; it shows a lack of faith.  Next to impossible for a mother when scenarios are described where safety is at risk, regardless of whether he's 'having fun', or otherwise.  Knowing what could have gone wrong that didn't, again, is no comfort, only something to be grateful that didn't happen.  The prayers of gratitude are daily.

He likes hearing my voice, for a change, hasn't been frustrated, at least not as we speak, lately.  Something has changed, for the better.  Maybe prayers are being answered.

He could drive to see me or his grandparents now, though he won't, from years of imprinting that will take years more to transform, once he sees the world for what it is, from his own objective perspective, once out in the world long enough: not something I would dare tamper with, and it would be ineffective or not productive if attempted.  It would neither be fair, nor strengthen the bond.

It's nice to feel respected for a change, however fleeting.  He's forgotten how slow I move so that when we walk together it's hard for him to slow down enough, and walking behind is disheartening.  I don't like to ask to walk beside him instead of following, when as fast as I can isn't fast enough.  My mind moves much faster, and can exhaust my body thinking involuntarily of all that I don't know.

I only know what he tells me, and when something comes out it inevitably causes wonder about all of the other times similar things are bound to have happened I didn't know about.  Questioning beyond casual conversation would harm the bond, so I don't. 

Just grateful for each day he's safe, with his confidence as high as possible, one day at a time.  Grateful for the bond, and the years it took to build that can't be taken away.

"Blog Day"

The last day of the month, except when I'm completely overwhelmed and forget what day it is, even if I've thought of it earlier in the day. Not even a blip on the radar from disclosing a 'family secret' from anyone who is even remotely connected, not that I expected any necessarily. If anything, I expected someone to be angry. No one in particular, really. It shows just how much people actually link to what's provided in an email signature, or where it might be otherwise located.

It had to come out: the only time I can ever remember while still very young being 'happy' upon finding out that someone had died. He was loved by his mother, the author of a hand written family saga with a much better memory for names and people than I have right now. He was also a child predator, of family members. Nothing all that new given the statistics; it just so happens it was in our family, too. The fact is this came out after the victim(s) were far into adulthood; old enough to be a grandparent themselves. The truth is it came out when it was happening, and nothing was done, nothing I was made aware of.

Maybe there was a threat by a father who was more abusive in a different way; maybe he was never asked to come around again to do 'handyman work' around our house. One thing is for sure, if Grandpa had been told, his nephew (I didn't know he was a blood relation at the time), our family handyman may have mysteriously disappeared, off the planet.

Grandpa was a strong positive patriarch, 'man of the church', and former police officer, with lots of guns, as all the male relatives had in those parts, in those days. Grandpa had no 'record', of course, though had he found out his granddaughter had been affected multiple times by this person, 'heaven only knows' what the consequences may have been. Maybe that was what the adults involved were afraid of in not letting it get very far, at all.

All the child knew at the time was that no one did anything, even when they told. And it wasn't the first time something had happened. There were others, like the next door neighbors before we had moved. No memory if anyone was told until again in adulthood, which was met with anger for causing stress. What about the child? What about feeling at the time that no one would listen or do anything anyway.

Grandpa only had a second grade education, forced to go work in the coal mines at age ten for literally pennies. He was wise and smart, and fortunate to be a hard worker not bound by educational requirements in being able to earn a living and provide for his family, unlike today. I wish he had known enough to go to the police himself after he had retired when I was being bullied in school to recover something precious that we knew who took it. The emotional impact was the same. Don't bother telling or 'pushing it', 'you're not worth it', no one will care enough to make it right: that's how it felt. It's what I won't forget, and how I can remember and feel or understand a child's emotions.

Family Secrets Saga, 'Concluded'

"...when I first started to school it was two large rooms. then they built another room upstairs. it was where the High School is now. my first Teacher was Miss Sadie Kincaid, a fine teacher and then Miss Ella Bailey. then her brother Henry Baily. Mr. Groves and our Teachers would have Prayer and singing be-fore we went in-to our classes those were good old days. I always hated to miss a day. but I dont I ever did get to go to school a whole week at a time with out missing a day or two. as I was the oldest I always had to stay at home on wash day after I got large enough to help her wash. of course that was on the washboard method all day some job. I sure praise the man that invented washing machines. and how. I never went only through the fifth grade. in those days they didn't compell you to send your children to school so I am glad I got to learn what I did as I said after we moved from Sugar creek. to Packs Branch where we lived in that air conditioned house. I went the last three months at Packs Branch School. and did I enjoy going. My Teacher was Miss Martha Susan Windgrove. and I loved her very much. those were good old days. and some of my old School Mates are still around there was Jack Rhodes, Mark Rhodes Emma Cusick, Clara Pack. but Some have passed on. lots of pleasant memories. In those days we had to walk to School. we had some very deep snows to go through but we didn't mind it abit it was fun. we never had cars to go evry where in then like we do now. I remember the first drive I ever took with my boy friend Dock. he went to the Livery Stable here in town and hired a horse and buggy to take me in so we went driving over to Oak Hill to have dinner with his sister Pasa Tucker. I sure got a kick out of that. over dirt roads and bumpy. we had no hard roads much then. well things have sure changed since this episode.

Well I must say a few words about my Uncl John;s family he and his wife Aunt Leleia were both fine people. us cousins would love to visit with one another. there was Glennie, Cara, Myrtle, Dola - Oakie, Garnet, Elmer, Georgia, Jessie then there was Uncle Charles and Aunt Anna Sinks family. we all enjoyed be-ing to-geather abd we did have some good times to-geather. There was 12 children in this family. George [dead] Clyde [dead], May, Maggie Sadie Goldie Earl Sammie, Ambrose [dead], Gertrude [dead] Edith Glayds. at the time we all grew up togeather they lived at McDonald. May and Gladys still live here in Mt. Hope now they moved from McDonald. into a home of their own and have lived here ever since Earl and Sam live on Maple Fork they both have nice homes over there- well any way some live one place some another. it is strange but true. Oh wll we are all going down the other side of the mountain."

Well, that concludes thirty nine pages of Grandpa's sister's family account of life in their time where I grew up. We are all grateful to her for her permanent contribution to our family history...

Sandy Town Hall Meeting/family secrets

The impact of the Superstorm will be felt in this community for years to come. There are businesses that still have not reopened; people that have not returned to their homes. Many wish to be bought out, never to return to their former areas where destruction and death occurred. Some have nothing left and still nowhere to go; some are living in cars, guarding over their properties yet to have electricity, heat, or water restored.

This was confirmed at a town hall meeting last night at the high school nearest to one of the most devastated areas. In the beginning, it was standing room only, with most public officials on the stage. The president came the week before Thanksgiving, a holiday I took the time to research that had its own aftermath I'm almost ashamed I didn't know earlier. Some of the people in the town hall meeting had spoken to the president, some were in photos posted on Facebook. Nothing was happening for most in a timely manner. The Red Cross going around in neighborhoods ringing a bell for hot meals or distributing blankets was no longer enough. The food and clothing had either run out, had become limited, or moved to other locations most didn't want to go to.

As the town hall progressed the crowd thinned as hours passed; some went into the high school cafeteria where agency representatives continued to provide updated information or additional resources. Most who had left the auditorium had finished what they either had to say or heard enough, most leaving without the answers they sought, still discouraged and frustrated. There had been tear-filled voices in the microphones, and anger. There were notes taken, with no timelines guaranteed, or practical acceptable solutions for those with serious concerns, many of which were being heard for the first time. I took photos to remember, including the media cameras and their reporters, none of which I saw later on the 11 o'clock news, simply because I didn't watch.

The reality was on the ground, in this community, and others hit as hard. Recovery will take years. They say another storm of this magnitude in the near future is unlikely; it's no consolation to those whose feelings range from uncomfortable to a despair that their homes no longer exist or if rebuilt will be subject to the same destruction the next hurricane season; there's no guarantee it won't be next year, in the next decade, or the next century. There is no protection from the ocean; there will be more storms. No one wishes to be in the path of any at any time, never knowing when the next 'big one' will hit.

I was given a list of real estate options to explore in the event I chose to move out of a flood zone in one of the less affected areas, where many street lights remained out and generator lights still shined their ghostly brightness to the hum of their motors, a sound now associated with trauma and uncertainty, not for the first time.

I had planned to continue the family story written by my grandfather's sister who passed away before I knew of her, which will continue. It contains within it the seeds of deeply buried family secrets I didn't realize until reading it as it unfolds in tolerable installments here. She never knew how her son really lived later in life. I'm sure she was an okay woman, whose child was exposed to and committed an unthinkable act. She likely died before it happened; I'm not sure. I only realized until reading her story why some things did or didn't happen during my childhood, when I expected more, when I expected to be protected and believed. Had the truth been known or dealt with, the consequences could have been more devastating than a hurricane, though not as much as a child's trust betrayed or dismissed.

Howloween Sandy

We interrupt our regularly scheduled family history installment for a breaking story on Hurricane Sandy. I’m in a high school gym, that I’ve only been to previously for work. Now I’m on a cot. I’m told our apartment is dry, though it’s inaccessible until the lake that was the street returns to an inroad instead of a river. Everyone on the other side is stranded, unless they have an emergency, where police and the fire department have been getting some across in boats. I went back twice, with the only result being my taking five people, two dogs and one rabbit, who had spent the night in a dark, cold, wet terror to the evacuation center I’d come from and friends’ houses.

Some lost everything. There are no stores or outlets to travel out from the other side. Those who remain are on higher ground that we hope have stocked up for the duration. They have electricity, with most of their cars and homes intact. Some were not so lucky; some were rescued from roofs or upper floors in wet clothes. They were where the streets were lower. Was on the phone with my child who had called for an update at the same time I had walked a couple of blocks later in the day to see if either the water had gone down or if I could get across. The answer was priority boat assisted evacuation only.

It was understandable. If I were to be taken across, this wasn’t a 24/7 water taxi service. Work was to be attended the next day. I would have likely ended up stranded come the next morning, unable to leave, our car that survived the storm as I’d heeded the evacuation warning parked on the side of civilization. Close, yet not an option to swim to if the water had not gone down much or the emergency crews were not available.

Scores of years since the last flood of this magnitude, in this part of the country, maybe even a century. The trauma hasn’t hit me yet, though we were among the lucky. For what it kicks up regarding past experiences brings everything back. Including the residual trauma. Had we been able to leave, closer to family when the time was appropriate, we would not be here at all. The hurricane didn’t go there.

With one exception, another single mom with a daughter my child's age who happens to be an accountant, I didn't know the names of any of them. When the dogs' names were spoken, being at each other in a small car, the names left my memory as soon as they were uttered. We were and are all still recovering from a temporary displacement with deep emotional reverberations. I empathized with the thirst of days without food or water, still not knowing for certain what I would be going back to myself.

Everything that day was on a moment to moment basis, and is somewhat the same today, Halloween: another anniversary when my first and only child's conception was announced six weeks into the first trimester. Every day was almost dreamily surreal then: the shock of carrying a child after I'd given up it was even possible. Now that child is reportedly carrying a pillowcase to collect candy he'll likely give away or will not be consumed; it's all just too much, as are the secrets for now, though the desire to participate overshadows any trepidation.

The mall is filled with costumed children that are hard to look at for the memories that are stirred: the innocent face looking up in anticipation for the plastic pumpkin to be filled, store to store in the old neighborhood, brimming over before the children's parade began. The candy that would never be finished, again, in a way just as well, though the feelings that have accompanied since have been so unnecessary.

The lightness of childhood became heavier, a grain of sand at a time, until they became virtual sandbags to a young psyche. Life is now emptying the sandbox, a scoop at a time (sometimes a pinch, sometimes a teaspoon), so that not fully grown toes can dig themselves in, and remember all the happy thoughts, without guilt that was never theirs from when it began, imposed and accepted, as children do.

Here's to no longer longingly gazing at an animal wished to be their own, for it will be, and the sandbox, and the complimenting Howloween costume, the pair will be the toast of their own parade, with more smiles returning. Sandy the hurricane is just a bump in the road by comparison. The storm in this life so far is the interim between one anniversary and the one that makes up for all of the others, during a childhood.

Family History, continued

"in the 1902 strike we were living at what they called Sugar Creek. it is now Stadium Terrace now. but when we lived there it was just an old mining camp. Well when the men came out on strike. the company gave us a house notice to vacate at once which we did. my dad rented a three room house over on packs branch. you could throw a cat through the cracks. we all almost froze that winter. and while we were there my Dad had a little extra trouble. he drank at that time so he took his shot gun and started hunting. but in the mean time he went over to the saloon in Mt. Hope. and got drunk of course he still had that old shot gun. so the company had up no Trespassing notices. so my Dad walked in to the Boiler Room there at Sugar Creek. and pointed his gun at one of them mens feet and told him to dance. so about that time one of the guards blowed the whistle and they picked him up and sent him to Huntington Jail for Trespassing on their property so he had to reside in jail over two weeks then the union men got him out. so he was home again. Then he went down on Cabin Creek. to Red Warriors. and got a job in the mines there. he worked a long time there. but something happened at the mines there all the mines came out on strike so. we were notified to vacate our house when one day 27 armed guards with thier Winchesters rifels came in and set evry thing we had out in the road. and it happened it started raining that day and all night. so all of our household goods took all that rain. My Dad went to Dry Branch and rented a place to store our things. un-til he could find another job and another house for us to live in. so the family all scattered out some to one place and and some to another un-til Dad got another place to live. he got a job at McDonald and we moved there. and the family all got back to-gether again. we lived there awhile then. they wanted him to come to Turkey Knob . and be Stable Boss. there at that time they used lots of mine mules so we lived there for a good while then my mother took a notion she wanted to move to the country. so my Dad rented a log house high up on the mountain above Price Hill. and we lived there for about two years. Dad worked in the Price Hill Mines. so Mother took a notion to move down off the mountain. so Dad rented a house at Sherwood WVa so we moved there. my Dad worked in the Sherwood Shaft Mines. which has long been abandoned. we lived in that house for a while. and Mother decided she would like to move up on top of the hill so Dad rented a nice five roomed house on top of the hill. we moved up there. but she decided she wanted a house on the other end of the other row of houses. so it was move again. and it was the last house we had moved into. was where I was married 1908. My sister Minnie also. so we had our own houses then. but don't think for one moment that Mother stopped moving she moved many more times after this. I still hate to think of all them old dirty houses I have had to scrub and clean. back in those days we just had bare floors to scrub with a brush or broom. we never had it quiet as easy as we have it now. Wash on the washboard all day. then iron with irons you heat on the stove. use oil lamps. this was my job to clean those lamp chimneys and fill the lamps up with oil so we would have a good light for night time. real sharp. Oh well as I said we were all very happy together. Cook up a big black pot of beans and a pan of corn bread or biscuits. fry up a big skillit of beef steak. and make some of that good old mommy made gravy. some country butter and milk it was real good to set your feet under the table. Well so much for that."

Anniversary

Looked in other posts for this same month for the life of this blog; it has to have been mentioned before, though not necessarily.

On this day twelve years ago someone else was told besides my mother a child was on the way. A blessing, a gift, an intervention.

That child is out for the holiday tonight, dressed as Homer Simpson. The temperature is only slightly cooler than the night was when the announcement of his upcoming birth was made. It seems like a long time ago, though some feelings are like yesterday.

He is the inspiration for everything now, having given life a new purpose just by existing. His personality and natural gifts are still developing, yet already he's exceptional, and not just because of who he became the child of.

It was in another post my inability to speak when he made one of the most profound statements I've ever heard to the effect that no matter who or when he was born to, he would have been the child I had, regardless of when, how, or with whom.

He probably doesn't remember saying that now, though I will remind him. I'm not sure he realized what he was saying then, or where it was coming from. He's too far away now, geographically that is. It can't last long. It has tested our bond, yet more of concern are the realities of the way things have been that do not recognize why there has been so much that's presently not only unnatural. It's a test of strength and nature, imposed by flawed humans blind to all but potential profit.

Children are not commodities, yet they're traded every day with no regard to what may be imposed or await; how it affects the child and family irreversibly under even bearable circumstances, as if there was such a thing when profit trumps human life. It happens in this country in less obvious ways than the media allows common households to see.

So every year when this day rolls around is bittersweet. What happened within the week after the announcement, and in the years that followed have taken more than one life in a completely different direction. The child has not been the centerpoint, or there would be more health, peace, and sense of family, for everyone involved.

Entitlement and conditioning blinds some that others exist that their decisions and arrogance affect, which cannot last. Elitism that what one must have or control above all else and at the expense of others also goes against nature and must diminish and bring to the forefront those they have sought to diminish, in the short term, only for nature to eventually bring the lesson around at some point. A childhood cannot be lost from the simple will and domino effect of poor intentions and incentives.

This would not be wished on an enemy. Part of the purpose is to bring it to light, so that other lives will not be bartered, sold, or diminished.

The child remains the light, with a soul that's true, a representation for what comes next: their legacy. In the tradition and by the example of those he is familiar with yet hasn't met, his life will continue the legacy of those who existed so that his life would be richer and that he remains strong.

Another day in another year, each irreplaceable, each significant, each a holiday, as is every day he laughs, smiles, and understands his own definition of love as it evolves with time, experience, and exposure to everything his life will touch.

‘Older’

“Life begins at 40.” Not anymore. According to recent media proliferation, “50 is the new 30”. A life began at 40, for the first time: a child. No previous pregnancies (that I’m aware of); had ‘given up’ on the prospect of becoming a mother and was beginning to look into ‘alternative parenting options’.

Then it happened, or something started that would forever change identity and perspective. In many ways profound and significant, in others, disillusioning regarding relationships and the scope of ‘human nature’.

Purpose took shape, in a way that will define the other perhaps half century to follow. The legacy at work is merely a continuation of the examples of role models that inspired and created the most positive experiences that existed in childhood.

It remains difficult to grasp, now that taking care of one’s health has moved to the forefront after not shadowing the threshold of a doctor’s domain for nearly ten years. Most of the people administering medical maintenance are younger, doctors included. Some look older; others are obviously not. This is where not feeling my age begins to all but scream.

I feel just over 30; my body speaks otherwise. I’ve the energy to keep up with my child when fully ambulatory. By the same token the energy also comes from a young life that looks to me for inspiration, validation, and explanations of things he can’t understand. Most of the time, the answers are to his satisfaction. Most of the time, our relationship is deepened on what matters most.

The most frustrating part about personal ‘health care’ is the time consumption. In offices where you don’t want to be takes up days of valuable time that would otherwise be spent on further advancing one’s life, and the lives of all others affected, especially my child, for whom the quest was entirely created.

Those in ‘retirement’ don’t have this concern. I’m close to the age where going to a doctor has become part of a monthly routine for some, as if it were some lifestyle activity. I look forward so much to when it tapers down to what might be ‘normal’ for who I consider myself to be at this point in life: very active and someone who doesn’t look or feel their age.

When I was as vibrant as a few of the women I’ve observed sticking needles in, taking them out, or some other related function, it wasn’t on my radar that those I serviced would one day be someone like me: someone who was once like them at an earlier point in life. We don’t typically think that way. What we become when we’re ‘older’ is a transformation that is either an extension of an earlier life, someone completely unrecognizable from their ‘youth’, or something in between.

The unsettling thing is how quickly it happens. I can remember when my child was an infant as if it were yesterday. The joy was so overwhelming, and so fleeting, as what would not be wished on even an ‘enemy’ began to transpire, and it was all I could do in simply remaining active in protecting the precious and special life that had been brought into the world for a reason.

It became the protection of a life and a purpose: his. It is ongoing. He is not the same child before the negative forces of human nature ‘out there’ left an indelible mark. To dwell on it would be too devastating. Moving on daily is all that can be done, until the lights are brighter and the road ahead is clearer.

It’s easier to accept that those administering my ‘health care’ or ‘maintenance’ are years my junior than my child losing sight of his purpose from influences that have their own interests as ‘priorities’. He has responsibility imposed upon him that is not his, thus taking responsibility for things that are not about him, affecting his emotions, actions, and choices. It has become ingrained to the point of being reflexive: everything I took action to prevent what he could be exposed to, a broken system only exposed him more. He has become a commodity, an acquisition, a showpiece, motivated by pleasing those he must to survive on many levels when away from what was created during his earlier years.

He has not lost sight of that, though the longer or more he is elsewhere, the impressions fade. Who he is fades under the glare of ‘surviving’ at an age when he is most vulnerable. He is alone with unanswered questions and thoughts no one can explain to his satisfaction, so he doesn’t bother asking most of the time. His responses are signature, though no one sees or listens when it’s actually happening.

Exceptional children are reinforced consistently of both their abilities, what they can do in the world and when. In the absence of the former, confusion and internal conflicts arise; long term implications are not realized. All kinds of signature symptoms appear, that seem to be only obvious to competent professionals: those obscured from true protection of those they’re trained to represent.

The spinning is all for profit and status, and a young innocent life is the means. He’s not the only one. He didn’t come into the world for this. What’s done cannot be undone, though there is still hope. “What goes around comes around” has meaning for a reason. It can’t go on forever.

Those my age are established, having created empires that will long support their heirs. Most had lots of help in some form or another. Being everything to one person is not profitable unless a team is also in place. An example of healthy relationships exists, though they’re so rare. A glimpse and reference point is to remain constant, or another life could be sacrificed from others’ needs, that either come with a price, or can be bought.

The cause of true aging? Negativity is one, which isn’t me. Wasted time is another, also not me. Stereotyping on a systemic level doesn’t help. Apathy clouded by profit incentives doesn’t either. Being too affected by others contributes (not me again).

Which leaves what? The ‘forties’ in some ways were an oblivious blur, mixed with joy and unmatched anguish, all because of a child coming into the world, defining a purpose of his own and shaping yet another: keeping the former, among other things inextricably connected.

I’m not envious of those who had the kind of support where they could move ahead much earlier, like those who now stick needles and other things into me on occasion. I embraced the term ‘late bloomer’ long ago, yet didn’t imagine that it could only be beginning now. I’m now and forever a mom first, and all that follows is merely an extension of that identity, for a reason.

You may be reading this at an age a couple of decades prior to midlife. Know this: it will be here sooner than you expected. Procrastination is a luxury no one can afford because time is the ultimate commodity. A child to a certain kind of parent puts into razor focus the value of time. To others, it creates resentment imposed upon children for which they can neither escape nor take away the permanent effects. No ‘damages’ can compensate for what has been taken away, if or when identified.

Single or without children doesn’t mean actions do not affect. Everyone you come into contact with is either a parent or someone whose life influences the next generation, thus your legacy as well. That ‘wings of a butterfly’ ripple effect concept? Believe it. And that’s just on a ‘regular’ day, as if there really was such a thing.

Uncertainty...

... is a reality, daily. We only really only have one day at a time, and making the most of every day is a duty for some, and unrealized by others. It can become taxing, however, when knowing this becomes the routine, and packing in as much as possible so as not to procrastinate and get as much done as possible takes its own toll.

I don't know when it happened, but it did; there are hundreds of times that triggers were set off, when having too much adrenalin in the system at an elevated level for too long had its effect. Statistics already in one way, there is no intention to become one in yet another way.

So the willingness to really live continues, and has taken on yet another meaning. It's all for my child and the next generation. I do deserve to live, and to have a good life as well, to be able to enjoy my child while they still wish for my presence, and perhaps enjoy grandchildren, too. If not my own, then others'.

I can take this, it's almost easy compared to the slings and arrows of years and months past. I don't understand those who thrive on news of others' misfortunes; there's enough to go around for everyone, and everyone can do something that others cannot. The world is still in a very primitive mode, where it could otherwise prosper in many ways.

The only dream now is real quality time with my child and family, as much as possible for as long as possible. For that to happen, things must change.

There's no reason not to think this won't happen; it's just taken so long, and so much. Mistakes have been made that have harmed others sometimes with no knowledge on the part of who was responsible for the domino effect. Others knew exactly what they were doing and didn't care. What goes around comes around? I'm not sure it's true or if it happens in time. The casualties cannot be brought back to life; the time cannot be replaced.

If it's all happening for a reason, I hope to find out before long. My child's laugh and smile are renewing, and make work so much easier and rewarding. Focus and concentration are of so much better quality when it's certain he's safe, whenever those moments happen. Those in between can seem like an eternity. He was put here for a reason, as was I, there is still much we have to do, together.

"Change"

There's no such thing as 'overwhelm'; "If you want to get something done, ask a busy person."

Was just online for hours doing research after an intense meeting that involved conversation about misdiagnosed kids and broken systems. Having a plan is one sure cure for 'ADD' or ADHD on the part of both kids, and parents.

I find myself saying constantly to the kids I work with that if I'd had someone to tell me now was the time to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life when I was their age, things would be different now.

Parents don't want to be parents, and the ones that do get very little real support when it matters or the quality of what is available is all about resources and access to them. That was at the heart of the conversation. It's not so much about wealth or the perception of it as it is about genuine caring. Numbers in the form of people with a common voice can sometimes do much more than financial incentives that corrupt people, organizations, and systems.

There are tradeoffs. Access to information and preparation is everything, including implementation and timing. We can't control the weather any more than we can control others' moods, though how we respond to each respectively is everything.

There are things that happen that we're not responsible for; we are responsible for our reactions to them. Ignorance can precipitate 'bad choices'. Emotion or fear can cloud all best possible judgments, as can bias or apathy.

Timing is everything, most of the time. And children's lives tick away by the minute that demands huge responsibility on the part of everyone who touches every moment of their young lives. Labeling is no help if you don't understand root causes. Training with huge gaps in other disciplines and misinterpretations of symptoms of both children and cultures affect lifetimes. We are responsible for who we choose to be in contact with, and the quality of communication determines the quality of outcomes. It can take another person's life in one direction or another, for better, or for worse.

Think twice before you speak, and if you don't know, a delayed answer is better than a wrong one. If more were held accountable for the effects of what they say to or around others, things would be different. Some laws are worth no more than the paper they're written on: a result of a different or uninformed agenda. Laws are passed and ignored every day. Documentation to justify a bad decision: there are as many of those as there are appropriate justifications. It just has to do with where you're standing or observing from.

A child or person who cannot handle change is sometimes right, and sometimes wrong; what's the big picture? Where are they coming from, and what's going on in their world, really?

If you're not qualified to answer, don't, for the benefit of those both directly and degrees of separation away. There's always another way to see things, always another side undiscovered. Out of sight and out of mind is only a perception issue. When you are not seeing the results of your past and present interactions, they're still happening, and it's a reflection of what you've said or done, of what you knew, or didn't know...

So close; so far away

Was in front of the screen to write on the usual day, and priorities that could not wait came before time ran out; the same for the next day. It's the first time every effort was made to be in the right place was made when just being there wasn't enough. One person having to do what no one else can do; things having to be done before anything else. Overwhelming. It may be the last time such constraints exist; I certainly hope so.

The last illness took a tremendous toll: unprepared, frustrated, not comprehending why so much time passed with little or no improvement. No chance for proper rest, no back-up. No nurse. No family nearby. Fortunately I'm ill so infrequently. Dragged myself here another day as another day still was not an option.

A bike tour detoured all traffic; the last two years and this one the route went right past our front door, where my son 'refreshed' everyone with his rotary-powered Superman watergun as they rode by. He's not here this weekend. He's far away, to a place I would not have taken him. He'll be back. He would be happy the race didn't have railings this year so that he could get closer to his targets with the water gun.

One year he had enough water guns for all of the children two doors down, so the bikers encountered a wet ambush. Only one other year was it cool enough for the water to be unwelcome. Today it was missed and would have been met with open arms off the handle bars. Saw a bike with three seats and helmet covers that looked like jesters and fish; lots of bright colors. I could only see them go by from the window, staying horizontal as long as possible until coming out for what cannot wait.

Every day it's something that can't be put off another day; feeling better would make a big difference. Where's my sense of humor? Congested in my chest, the kind that hasn't gone away for too many days now. Got material, and no energy to even sit up at home to get it all down. Where's the limo when you need it most? Where's the personal assistant? Where's the support? The results of years of effort? Any day now. Any day.

"The Life of Harry Houdini"

"On or around 1883 a boy named Ehrich Weiss and his brother, Theo, started a little circus.

Ehrich called himself The Prince of Air. He did the trapeze. All the kids in the neighborhood went to see it.

The trapeze was made of broomsticks and rope. Ehrich’s mom made him a trapeze outfit. One of his tricks was picking up nails with his eyelids from the trapeze.

The brothers quit grade school, but kept their show going. Ehrich had always been into magic.

He and his brother had a magic show at the same time Ehrich was working in a locksmith shop.

He could pick any lock in the shop.

Ehrich’s favorite magician was Jean Enguene Robert Houdin. So Ehrich thought he could get his stage name from Houdin. He would add an ‘I’ to ‘Houdin’ to be ‘Houdini’ and change his nickname, ‘Ehrie’ to ‘Harry’, and ‘Harry Houdini’ was ‘born’.

Harry and his brother called themselves ‘The Brothers Houdini’. When they were performing in Coney Island, Harry saw a woman who was also performing, named Bess. Harry met Bess.

They fell in love and got married. He started performing with Bess instead of his brother, who kept performing, but never grew as famous as his brother.

Harry and Bess moved to England and Harry got work as a magician and escape artist, for a week. Harry’s employer said there were too many escape artists, but if he could break out of Scotland Yard, he could have six months of work. Harry never let a challenge go by.

Harry knew that most of London’s handcuffs could be opened with only two types of keys, and he owned both of them. At Scotland Yard, he was put in a cell naked with cuffs chaining him to

a stone pillar. The guards checked anywhere that he could be hiding extra keys, but Harry was hiding them where nobody thought to look. He was holding them in his throat.

Superintendent Melville assured Harry that he wouldn’t be getting out any time soon. But Melville was amazed, as seconds later, he heard chains and handcuffs clatter to the floor. Then Harry’s employer gave him six months of work.

When the six months were up, Harry and Bess moved to New York. They had two kids and Harry became very famous. They bought a huge house with a library with over four thousand books on magic.

Harry learned how to escape out of a straightjacket, but later on performed it with an added twist.

He would perform it hanging from a five story building. One time he performed, there were strong winds and he got pushed into the building and badly bruised.

In 1926, Harry was performing in Montreal, Canada, when two schoolboys confronted him backstage. Both of them had heard that he could take any punch. Before Harry had time to clench his muscles, one of them hit him hard several times in the stomach. Harry had a strong pain in this stomach that night. He went to the doctor and the doctor said his appendix had burst and needed to be removed, but Harry chose not to do it right away.

Harry should have cancelled his next show, because he was sick and injured, but he still performed the next day. He went onstage with a temperature of a hundred and four degrees, but during the intermission he collapsed backstage. He was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. He was dying.

Harry died the next morning on October, 31st- Halloween. Harry was buried in the coffin he planned to use for his “Buried Alive” escape. He had fought death many times and he was used to winning, but this time he would lose.

I chose Harry Houdini for my book report because I’m into magic and Houdini is my favorite magician. He set an example for all magicians that followed him."

Turning the corner

This time tomorrow, it will be another decade, another birthday, another turning point. This year is no exception in that having a birthday at a time when others are celebrating makes for leaving out the details of one's personal reality, for better or otherwise. It's not about age, as this has been happening since adolescence or as long as can be remembered. It's just too much at once: a birthday and major holiday at the same time, not unique to anyone who is familiar with the same.

So the celebration is deliberately a quiet one, known only by those close. Forgotten almost as soon as it's mentioned to anyone who might overhear, unless one is a celebrity. Still no regrets there. There might have been another child, though not the same one, who has been a gift and a miracle. As fragile as ever, who brought on the reckoning of another childhood lost, though not so much as others. Knowing the latter neither compensates for or lessens the impact when it's your only family, one's only child, grandchild, nephew, cousin, with their own precious life that passes in minutes, hours, days, and weeks that will not be replaced.

To some, we are not unique, depersonalized and labelled from the moment help and protection is sought. Categorized, stigmatized, triaged, stereotyped, profiled: our social conditioning, the biases of our respective environments, or simply social pressure, sometimes called 'politics', for lack of a better term. No wonder so many times 'no good deed goes unpunished'. In a different environment it's nearly impossible to imagine what happens to others, much less the long-term impact, especially early in life. For those who survive the connections and progression becomes very clear over time, yet those considered elders without awareness or knowledge continue to repeat history.

There is always something to be grateful for, yet for those whose loved ones are unaccounted for or whose whereabouts or state of health is unknown there is no peace. Not everyone loves children, not even their own; for those who do life is never the same once the completely unexpected changes everything forever in the blink of an eye, the stroke of a pen, an uninformed statement, all at once. Over time, there are many tears unknown or ignored, the source unrecognized. There are premature deaths, literal and of the spirit; personalities become completely different from abrupt changes in environment and exposure. And we wonder what is wrong with the current generation or the one before, as if it had nothing to do with the decisions of those who never touched them 'in any direct way'.

Perception is not what we see, any more than what we're told. The evolution of a spirit is only as good as its environment and support system in many regards, though not all. No child deserves to have their childhood taken. Looking at others through different eyes and listening to the words of souls without knowing where they came from one cannot distinguish between who is actually the child, as the most wisdom often comes from who is thought to be the latter.

So as the fireworks go off and confetti descends, the choice is to remain silent, for now.

"My Mom"

He wouldn't let me go, on a day when I had a meeting to get to and he was being picked up from school by someone else. I stayed as long as I could; it had been so long since I'd helped him with his homework on a day like this. We sat in the corner together between the classrooms where his schoolmates were being tended to by the after-school staff; the other children were having to do their homework on their own or with just one person in the room. When homework was finished, each child went from one room to the other across the hall. We were in the middle.

It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.

He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.

Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."

"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.

"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.

I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.

A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.

Lovefest

Priceless and precious: lingering after waking, knowing a pint-sized person will soon awake as well and prefer to nestle toes and all under ever-warmer covers quick as a flash. Little nose in the space of your neck; little arm over you: irreplaceable.

Saying 'I love you' out of nowhere, during the day and across the room after being tucked in for the night. Sharing dreams, good and bad, hearing laughter and whimpers at different times once slumber has taken over, staying awake purposely though not consciously just to be together longer.

Finding little treats collected over time: little moments strung together more precious than a beaded necklace, more fragile: passing memories as soon as they happen.

Always singing, always smiling, always sharing funny stories and new jokes: the gift of a happy child. Though always is not really 'always'; a child like this will seek every possible time to renew their own hope and yours. Always trying to capture a smile or a laugh, not forgetting what fear feels like, and not looking for it.

They are here to remind us of 'now', of all there is that matters. Tomorrow is another day; today is what we have. Yesterday is over, always, to a child.

The blanket was sewn again, as many times before, held together by threads on top of each other. It feels soft and solid once more though no less fragile: full of priceless irreplaceable memories, from when its entire size fit completely over a little person that now still holds it fast during the night close to his face. He's now shy to have his forehead kissed with others around though the blanket is always accounted for and never far away: the first to wipe sudden tears and keep close.

The shape of the face is the same, as is the softness of his hair and skin, as when he was so small, still in a stroller, falling asleep, 'checking out' from the noise when it became too much. Peace was looking at his face and touching his hair and skin; comfort was doing the same when bad dreams had him calling out to make sure I was there. I answered by the touch that was unmistakeable, stroking his face and pulling the covers over his shoulders until the whimpering stopped and the pained expression returned to one of rest again; sometimes it seemed like every night, though it wasn't. I never tired of comforting him; my rest was and is his.

He tells me what I cannot help and cannot change, as if he knows; sometimes he's right. I tell him what is not his to worry about, what isn't about him, what cannot hurt him. The last time I said I thought he was 'the greatest' he said 'Think?'. "I know you're the greatest", I said, corrected. Something must be working. He will have what I didn't have; he will know who he is and claim him, because someone was there to tell him he could.