‘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.

" Interest "

My feet are on the ground. I've begun to watch as time permits episodes from a half century before when I wasn't even born yet the amazing talent of someone I've respected and admired from 'far away' for most of this lifetime.

The opportunity has existed many times; simply never thought of it until the writing became 'official', which is selected very strategically in terms of audiences and exposure in paving the way for multiple venues and greater exposure at a managed, momentum building pace. There's a method to the madness.

I thought we had so little in common before, apart from thinking the same things are funny. One of us was born with an irreplaceable talent to actually show the world what funny really is and somehow took the opportunity and initiative to exploit that talent at a very early age. He has helped so many with so much, if only to make more smiles happen; hundreds of thousands. It's an enviable legacy, from a living legend.

The other of us simply became aware of the former in elementary school, or after, to be accurate. Rolling in the floor laughing in front of the television as if there was nothing to worry about, forgetting whatever there might be to run from or be afraid of. I was transported to a world of other possibilities that had not been known before. No one else has ever had the same effect before or since.

It was all but completely unconscious. A seed was planted, and the memories carried me through difficulties, from simply watching television during more innocent times when the media was not so proliferated with things that today are more that keep people away from participating in life than showing them there's another kind of world out there where things can be discovered and lots of clean fun can be had. We were shown what fun could be by a master, born with a special gift, who could share so much of their talent and energy in the right place at the right time. Was the talent and timing luck, or destiny?

Showing the world many unique and irreplaceable gifts came with a price. I'm not sure at this moment if it has been worth that price, as a personal opinion from the source, not that I would agree or disagree. He has been given many more years than his contemporaries, for which I am extremely grateful, as are countless others.

What disappoints today is that not enough who are alive now appreciate the sacrifices of those who have given of themselves so much with more talent in their eyelashes than most who attempt the craft in the years that have passed since, and actually gotten publicity or made a decent living in comedy or entertainment who pale in comparison to the depth and breadth of those who carved the paths they take for granted, with far fewer gifts. Even more amazing is that some have become well known themselves by exploiting or packaging what the media currently sells at the expense of innocence, pure clean fun, or life affirming, respectable abilities.

What ever happened to exemplary? Where have all the role models gone? Even if the talent can't be matched, who inspires us to find and use what we were born with that can't be replaced? Where has that integral value gone, or why is it so suppressed in what generations since have been saturated with? Deconstructing this has become personal; my legacy will be taking it back to the future, or I'll die in the doing of it, content that the purpose was discovered from the inspiration of those like a master who had it and took it to the limit.

I'm usually not blunt, and negative only when absolutely necessary; the truth has to come out sooner or later. Sometimes the truth can be funny. It is when done well. And so few really can. There are never enough of those with that kind of talent. To expose the truth in a way we can handle it, while making us laugh at the same time or close enough to matter.

I have talent, though not that kind. I can expose the truth, though not make you laugh at the same time. Once in awhile I'll hit it. It's usually unplanned and spontaneous. In the right place at the right time, though no one could have known ahead of time.

There's still no comparison to my original inspiration, on many levels. It's everything to do with where I am now, and where he is too. Earlier I wouldn't have known what to say, or ask, other than the stuff he's already heard so many times from others. Why didn't I think to ask before? Timing. Also a secret of great comedy.

Is there such a thing as losing time? Often. When is it meant to be? I'll be pondering that question for some time to come. I see so much suffering from so many innocents; it's become part of what I do. A big part. It's been part of who he is since before I was born. Only when I realized this is a common purpose from different perspectives did the light bulb go on, as if it weren's happening for awhile already.

He had the spark that lit the fire, back when I was only a little pilot light. I didn't even know it at the time; he may have even kept me alive. I promised my grandfather's spirit I would carry on his legacy. Especially because he wouldn't have expected it. For this same reason, and in the same spirit, the candle will be brighter to have been lit from an original. Lights will be brighter because they were combined.

At this moment, it's nice just to know it's possible, and that's there's an interest in doing just that. It isn't happening until it's happening. I remain grateful, and look forward to being close to another great light, toward the inspiration of generations that follow us.

"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...

Letter to Sun

Hello, oh producer of all things light and wonderful in our world; I send you greetings, love, hugs, and kisses in whatever order you prefer today, or tomorrow, or yesterday;

You’re a light, wherever you go; rooms change when you enter them, most always for the better. You know your power more often than not. I hope you’re able to laugh as quickly as much as possible, and provide warmth of spirit for others. You’re always a gift; your existence was decided long before I knew you.

I hope this is harder for me than it is for you; there’s never been so much time before now that we haven’t seen each other. It feels very strange, and sometimes sad. If you feel I’m there whenever you need me, there could be some comfort in that, if it were entirely true. It may be enough at times, though not others

Someday there will be more to understand; someday it will be easier. Now just feels like the caretaker of your domain is doing their job, amongst all the talismans of where you came from. I’m the curator of your treasures, some material, some irreplaceable.

I’ve also not written you a letter like this before now. It probably won’t be the last, though the style will vary according to what’s going on. I hope sometimes what I send you causes you to smile or laugh; I do miss that laugh. Like you, it’s the best.

This isn’t typical necessarily of the way I write; just wanted you to know how close you’re felt at heart. You are at my heart always, part of all thought and conversation in one form or another. This the closest I can be for the moment to shouting from the rooftops how special you are. If I really did that, you’d likely pretend you didn’t know me, maybe.

Right now, just a hug might be good enough. I hope you can let me know if your’re hurt or scared in some way, for any reason. I promise to answer, or call you back as soon as I come out of the subway; please keep in mind that if you have to try to reach me in some way from a number I don’t know, it will likely go to message, so please leave one or don’t hang up.

Of course, wishing a hug isn’t good enough most of the time. When we’re apart for now, I hope you can feel a little better knowing you are the sun, and all that is light and exceptional that same way in our world.

Yesterday, today and forever,

Your Planet,

inhabited by flowers (especially daffodils: Grandpa's favorite), bunnies with floppy ears, faeries with sparkly smooth wings that glisten from your warm touch, and your favorite treats on lots of blooming trees and plants, including hugs and kisses from your mom.

P.S. When hugs and kisses can be picked from a tree or out of the ground whenever you want, what do they look like?


Written to a child far away who has related their environment is ‘unresponsive’ compared to the home where they grew up.

Manicure

He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.

He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.

He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.

He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.

I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.

It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.

I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.

Violated, again

TSA NY: 2 Hands Up Crotch; threatened after 1st one, then again. 'Comply, or U'll B detained'. 5 legal ID's weren't OK: Laguardia.

It's also called re-victimization. Real victims are dead, or are they? Survivors are self-identified. I fall into the latter category, until it happens again.

Anyone who hasn't had anything worse or comparably 'bad' happen to them tend to call others 'self-identified victims', which can be true, up to a point. When violations over the course of time mount upon one another (no pun intended), month after month, year after year, the impact is irreversible, and seeps into the psyche, transforming one's identity, and perspective on the world. Reality is relative; every 'world view is different' there is sometimes no right or wrong; often there is.

What happened at the airport is inexcusable, the 'supervisor' had a sadomasochistic attitude, got off on 'power and control', insensitive to who she was groping or that exploiting her 'position' would set into motion further trauma from violations that began in childhood and continue to this day. It only comes back and becomes crippling when someone who uses the excuse of 'doing their job' imposes on the rights of others at will or on a perverted, sadistic whim, at the expense of a mother on her way to visit a child who has been through similar trauma, having disclosed what has happened in her absence.

What goes around comes around? Let's hope so, on both counts, and to all the others who project their 'needs', 'justified' in the false context of 'responsibility', onto those who cannot defend themselves.

Oh Crap

Thought of getting here three days ago, still much too late to make the usual time: a sign that a state of complete overwhelm has been in process.

There's a double meaning in the title. My son looks at me as if I'm cursing when I slip once in a blue moon using only the above. Makes sense, as in schools any semblance to unacceptable language is treated as if the most severe is uttered as well. He rarely hears me using 'inappropriate language' according to school standards, which is even a tame remote substitute to a real 'bad word'.

Being overheard with similar 'substitutes' when I was growing up was cause for nearly the most extreme reprimands and consequences, and corporal punishment was also not prohibited back then, either.

Now, from where he's been, he's developed his own 'vocabulary' that gets 'slipped' on me considerably more often than any he may overhear from me, fully aware that it doesn't fly in school either, yet he can't help himself. The exposure has taken over.

It's a direct response to the times, though moreso where he's been that I haven't, and have no wish or desire to ever go, behind closed doors.

It's not discouraged, and he has no shield of any kind. I can see the pain in his face when it happens with others when we're together, yet he still tries to stop me from any expression of rightful dissatisfaction if a public tirade from an extremely unenlightened member of the 'public' becomes disrespectful of both themselves and every one else around them by spewing obscenities unceasingly, oblivious to all children, women, and elders around them.

When PG movies came out, the same was the marker; now it takes much more, and current ratings of the former are full of what was intolerable or not rated as such only a decade ago.

Memory

This exchange with my son has stuck since before the last entry, when he wanted me to share his paper airplane skills. Prior to that weekend, we were in our home; he was going through a 'jewelry box', and the subject of old boyfriends came up when I told him what might have been in the box that wasn't anymore.

He asked why I didn't stay with someone who I thought I would be with 'forever', before I'd met his father. I said 'If I'd stayed with that person, I'd not have had you.', partially in an effort to avoid telling any more. What he said next left me silent, as I looked at him just as he was looking back at me. 'You might have had me anyway.' had just come out with little or no hesitation.

It's the deepest thing I recall his ever having said, and there have been plenty. It was if he was coming from another consciousness, direct and certain. Had it been someone else, he was saying perhaps that the gift that he is and always has been would have come into existence no matter what. The same spirit. The same soul. The same incredibly special boy would have come into being as who he is, my son, only a different way.

'You know,' I muttered to him when I could speak again. 'you just might be right about that.' He looked back at me in the same way as the moment before: something that reflected or I had noticed maybe for the first time, something deep within that was separate from just a little boy in a human experience talking to his mom. We were almost completely across the room from each other, though his eyes were both penetrating and infinitely wise, for lack of a better description, as if we were face to face, suspended in time. I hesitate to say or describe where his words came from, only that in a way I knew he was right. It was a transforming moment that was unforgettable, and if it were possible to have regrets on what we were discussing, they may have crept in then and there. It was in part an awakening, and it was shared, over as quickly as it began, yet unchangeable.

Paper Airplane Maestro

Who knew (though why not), the skill of paper airplane craft would be a welcome challenge to my child. A lesson was learned after a lifetime of being aware of only the most traditional models, that there were a significant number of possible variations that could as easily become airborne, if not moreso that those with pointed ends.

As usual, he requested I watch the entire process as he demonstrated his favorites, one or two of which he had memorized and was quite proud of. I was impressed very much in addition as I witnessed the options of several forms he had adeptly created from the examples in a book he had gotten as a gift become aloft.

He later dictated his homework and as I assisted as his typist he created a miniature fleet from paper he found in the room as gifts for me. One that he had improvised as yet another original variation of his own he asked if I minded he keep, asking if I was disappointed that the more special one was not added to what he had assembled as my exclusive collection. I said I didn't mind; all that mattered is that he was satisfied and happy with the manifestations of one of his many talents, this one being the newest.

It's Halloween; he'll be a character of his own creation with lots of fake blood and 'scar tissue'. When he was a pirate I did his makeup. The black nail polish he originally requested was too much for him once he saw it applied to one fingernail; what was left along the perimeter of two nails looked appropriate from the costume I was informed would be put together later. This year for once, I wasn't requesting a photo, which in the past was not offered or delivered anyway. I might have discouraged it altogether if we had been together for the rest of the evening, though a boy this age has to do the undead zombie at least once, I suppose.

He always comes through in the overall; what is dominant cannot be done away with completely, so long as he stays true to himself and who he is: a gift, in a constant process of self-discovery, not afraid to show how he feels, whenever he can.