Archive for June, 2010

(Until I Act Like Total Idiot In Her Comment Section, Quite By Mistake)

I’ve known Heather Ivester from mom2momconnection for ages. In an online friends way. For YEARS we’ve known each other and been blog buddies. Every bit of my writer envy was focused in her direction when one day she mailed me her book, complete with super professional looking marketing materials. (I was at the time unpublished and undiscovered and positively pining.)

Heather has known me long enough to know I’m normally quite the idiot and yet….  she is SUCH a gifted soul that she put together an interview with me that makes me sound… a whole lot better  than I actually am in every possible way.  Go check out her talent. It’s amazing. I gave her a photo of my hairless cat in a purple pashmina, another grainy iphone photo of flowers, and mentioned boobs and she still took all of that and made it sound pretty good. Talented lady!

I was deep into my own thoughts today when I smacked my left eye socket on a can of SpaghettiOs. The can was minding its own business, sitting on a pantry shelf. I was picking up little pieces of trash thad hadn’t made it into the trash can when my face assaulted Chef Boyardee himself. He won. I conceded defeat by sitting on the pantry floor, holding my eye, and laughing even though ohmygosh it hurt.

At the time of impact, I was (oh the irony bothers me a lot here) distracted by thoughts of victim vs. target.   As I have been a lot lately.

This could have been loads more profound – or that’s what I’m telling myself –  but that red and white can totally interrupted my thought process and it hasn’t exactly gotten back on track.

So we’ve had issues with our oldest kid, and I won’t get into it all. Her recent visit has me re-thinking all of this. I’m was sorting it all out anyway, and then I got an email from one of you. Someone in victim mode, looking for a way out of that mentality. It took me right back to four years ago, and I hurt just to read her words. Too familiar.

Once, years ago, I was very much BOTH a target and a victim. It was a hellacious way of life. There was not a lot of sleep, peace, or sanity to be found. My thinking (and the rest of my life) was quite messed up. Since then, we’ve had four years of trying to heal as a family. And if I’d seen then what today would look like..?  I never would have believed it possible. Not that it’s perfect. At all. But life is good. And everyone is physically safe, and we sleep, and there’s peace and if someone gets hurt it’s because that’s just part of life. Not because someone was targeted. It’s because someone tripped, or fell off the slide, or slammed her eyeball into an unsuspecting can of icky circular pasta. We get hurt because we are clumsy here, and I tend to lead the pack in that area.

Since that dark time four years ago, I’ve shaken off the ‘victim’ part. It wasn’t easy, but totally worth it. I went from thinking that it was hopeless and I was trapped in this sleep-deprived, insane scenario to “FINE. BRING IT.”

Important note: Victims never say, “FINE. BRING IT.”

Targets might say it, though.

But … have you noticed? You don’t get to choose if you’re a target.

Meaning, if you’re someone’s target and he/she is pretty bent on your destruction in some way – it’s not in your power to change that.  You could talk, pray, move, and do a million other things and if that person still decides you are the target?

You just are.

And that sucks. But you don’t have a choice, and you may as well work to transform yourself into a “hard to defeat target.”    Whatever that looks like, keeping your specific would-be attacker in mind.

A hard to defeat target is much more difficult to attack in the first place, than a sleep deprived, anxious and fearful target with a bad case of victim mentality.

Victim mentality: “I’m physically smaller. I don’t stand a chance.”

Hard to Defeat Target Mentality: “I will mentally and physically get into fighting shape and be stronger, faster, and learn how to punch and kick. I will GET tough, starting right now.”

Victim Mentality:  “If I’m asleep and there’s a weapon. I don’t stand a chance.”

Hard to Defeat Target Mentality: “I think I know someone who can train me to dis-arm any attacker with any weapon. I can do this.”

Victim Mentality: “It will always be like this.”

Hard to Defeat Target Mentality: “I refuse to let it be like this. I’m changing everything in MY power immediately.”

Other changes from Victim Mentality to Hard to Defeat Target Mentality could be:

a firearms class (no hate mail, I do not want to hear it.)

better security system

more prayer

a loud dog

the acquiring of ANY skill/tool/ability/attitude/habit  that will help you live in greater peace

Imagine you’re face to face with your would-be attacker and you say to him/her, “I’m ready. BRING IT ON.” What do you need to change in your life before that moment?

Whatever the answer to that question is, it’s worth whatever sweat, money, effort, or sacrifice it will require.

That switch – from victim to anything-but-victim – is daily. I still mess it up. My most recent mistake could have been disastrous, and it almost was. I took the goodwill and forgiveness thing too far — all the way to, “here’s my physically vulnerable side, even though you’re WAY mad at me right now but I’ll assume you’re all better and won’t take advantage  of that….”

Not that I was actually thinking that. The problem was I let my guard down and I wasn’t thinking, “okay, I’m feeling loads of goodwill and forgiveness, but I’m also going to be smart enough to not physically be in this position in the first place.”   That would have been better.

My Hard to Defeat Target shortcomings are  not the ones I originally feared: That I’m small. Or that I wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon. Those don’t faze me at all anymore. It’s a bigger issue that I’m too willing to let my guard down.  Or I’m clumsy.  Or I get distracted and laugh about, well, anything, and that has my guard down again. It’s an ongoing thing – re-evaluating what needs to be improved and strategizing around weakness.

In general, despite today’s pantry incident, I can say I’m definitely in the “FINE. BRING IT,” place with this individual. In fact, I have said that. Without fear. With big eyes and conviction, and a sincere desire for her to be fully aware of the extreme difference between who I am now and who I was back then. I don’t want her to mess with me, partly for my sake — but mainly for hers. What a huge difference.

It’s a continuous process to take back your life. It can be done. It should be done. Your life was God-designed and is absolutely precious. Fight for it if you need to. It’s yours and it’s worth it.

You are worth it.

If this doesn’t make any sense, I’m kinda glad. Unfortunately,  it does to the one mom in particular I’ve been talking with.

It turns out there were THREE awful rat/mouse things in the garage that day. Fortunately I was super cautious and avoided the garage for many hours and parked on the street and used the front door. I told myself that was silly. And total overrreaction, me-style. But it wasn’t. It was just TOTAL GENIUS since it spared me the trauma of more throat-killing screaming. My dad arrived and took care of all three dead rodents, including the one who had the NERVE to die right in the garage-to-laundry-rm-doorway.  I coulda stepped on it, had I not been avoiding that doorway and garage entirely. I could scream just thinking about it.*

Anyway. We’ve kept the kids out very late,  swimming, the last two nights and they have all the pep of three wet bathmats now. I think I could get used to this. I mean, sure, I miss their normal energetic selves, but you know the problem with their usual energetic selves? They get hurt. A LOT. They have so much energy that they hurl themselves right through Life in such a way that causes a load of injuries.

And Wet Bathmat Children do not. They flop around and get horizontal on couches and carpet a lot and do not require constant first aid and bandaids. They let me hug and kiss them a lot more than usual because they just don’t move. And there’s something worth appreciating in that.

Also, the Wet Bathmat Children take super long naps.  I really love my three little bathmats.

Last night, while swimming and exhausting the children completely, I got to play ‘Catcher.’  I stood in the pool and repeatedly caught a SO CUTE little boy who will always be a baby to me, even though he’s really a toddler already. He belongs to my friend. He’s utterly fearless, and didn’t mind at all if I wasn’t ready when he jumped in from the side of the pool and he went under a little, or if he totally overshot the takeoff and went flying over me like a baby blond superman and I had to scramble to keep up with him.  Maybe I’m not really good at this game – he’d played the same thing with his dad who is MUCH better at it, but he didn’t seem to mind me. Then occasionally he’d say, “I need breakfast!” It was so much cuter than I can possibly describe. Mmm. Babies. Toddlers Who Will Always Be Babies To Me. Whatever. DARLING.

He hugged me once and kissed me twice, and so I gave him his first s’more.

Sigh.

Have just realized that the three sleeping bathmats need to wake up and get ready for baseball soon. I’m thinking bathmat status is not conducive to running, fielding, batting, and catching so I really hope this three hour nap snaps them back into their usual energetic selves who fearlessly hurl themselves through Life and risk injury.

I know it’s hard to keep up with my rapidly changing mind, but I do not want to go watch bathmats play baseball.  Sounds rather dull.

*Yeah, I’m SURE you needed that update and it was so important and I’ll just start in on it like you totally, totally care.

I can handle certain distasteful scenarios. Those with blood. Those with physical threats/aggression. Traffic never bothers me.  Other people’s badly behaving children in public. Or my own. I’m good with all of that.

But if I walk into the garage and see a mouse, dead, with all its feet up in the air…? THAT, I am NOT. GOOD. WITH.

Then I YELL and jump into the backseat with the children and pull my feet up so my knees are next to my ears and KEEP. YELLING. until I scare and confuse and deafen all the children.

Ethan-10yr waited for me to stop, and then said, “Mom? His feet are UP IN THE AIR. Did you think he was alive…?”

I suppose he was trying to make sense of me.

“UH NO. IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER, ‘KAY? IT’S A MOUSE.”

Caden-6yr decided it was a great time to argue why it was a rat. (Because that’s helpful.) He thought the tail had rat-like characteristics. We had plenty of time to peer at the dead rat/mouse thing because we were all stuck in the backseat of the car together and I had to calm down and persuade myself it was safe to get out and get into the FRONT seat of the car so we could leave.  I thought about crawling through from the backseat to the front, rather than stepping foot on the same shared ground as the dead rat/mouse.  But I didn’t.

When we came back, we parked on the street and avoided the garage entirely. I called my dad, who, with his wife,  is on his way here from across this large state. I was still a bit flippy and asked if he’d come take care of it as soon as he got here, pleeeeease, Daddy…?

Except it was some guy who has my dad’s OLD CELL NUMBER, and he didn’t seem to be amused by the crazy lady calling him ‘daddy’ and asking him to clean up the dead mouse in her garage.

I apologized profusely.

Then I went through the same conversation with my real dad. And he didn’t mind that I was expecting him to drive all the way across the state to see me and then take care of my dead, species-undetermined rodent issue as soon as he got here. He even offered to perform a brief, meaningful  ’service’  if it would make me feel better.

I politely declined. I just want it in the dumpster in the alley, pronto.

He suggested I delete that other guy’s cell number.

And so I did.

My throat hurts. From the out of control crazy, throat-scraping style yelling I did. I am not usually a yeller. This is one SERIOUS exception.

We are finally coming out of the Bizarre Symptom Fog that has enveloped our house for the last two weeks or so. I haven’t mentioned it. This is intentional.

I’m a firm believer in just not saying a lot of things you do not want to give the value of words. They can be good things or sad things or illnesses – but if you put them into words it somehow makes them more real and empowers/defines/enlarges those things or feelings or incidences or whatever - with more presence in the world. Just for putting them into words. And so, on many subjects,  I often do not.  There are just some things, I will never, ever choose to speak. And some that I will, but not at the time. It’s not exactly denial. It’s more a respect for the creative power of words.   (There’s some serious theological reasoning behind this, but I’ll spare you.)

But now! We’re coming out of it. And I am so glad. Because I am not good with keeping up with all of it. We have had 2-3 boys with pink eye, plus adults all on preventative or needed eyedropping schedules of up to SIX times a day, plus animal health issues. (pink eye? don’t go to the dr and get the Rx stuff. Health food stores sell sovereign silver, mix it with contact saline to take out the burn and you’re good to go. works better. cheaper. whatever.)

Fun with Pink Eye:

The boys got tired of all the eye drops and spiced it up by all laying on the floor in various flat sculptures. “Let’s be a 3 Boy snowflake!” And they’d get their eyedrops in snowflake formation.  Etc. Or “Let’s get all our right eyes done, and then our left eyes!” And on. And on.

The dog:

Gah. The dog always gets the strangest symptoms, many of which have been documented here. Only our dog would get whooping cough. And crazy unexplained, endless tail pain. And I think he’s a total hypochondriac and making it all up just because. A few weeks ago he started shaking his head. All night. At one point Mike sat up in bed and was about to make Duke go out to the living room or something and I woke up enough to say, “Compassion.” And then instantly fall back to sleep. Which is sort of awesome, but it’s not fair to think I’m somehow more compassionate that Mike is. (Soooo not) It’s just that I have worked hard at developing the ability to block out noises and keep sleeping if I want to. When Mike’s alarm goes off and he’s already gone… I can successfully wake up, not turn it off,  then sleep through the blaring, and then be all smug about this particular odd accomplishment later.   Anyway. The dog has an ear infection and gets drops in his left ear. Twice a day. For a MONTH.

The cat:

The cat has an ulcer. This may or may not be related to when I brought in his kitty baby and made him think long and hard about paternity issues he wasn’t emotionally ready to deal with. The ulcer and its symptoms mighta started RIGHT THEN.  Not that I’m claiming responsibility. This is a possible side effect of Charlo not dealing with his OWN issues in a healthy manner.  And because of that, he needs to take a Pepcid (10mg) twice a day FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. Which we shove down his throat and chase with a squirt of water to make him swallow.  And the vet said he needed his teeth cleaned and might as well shave him bald from all that LONG GLORIOUS fur, too. So now the poor baby is a tiny, ugly hairless rodent-y thing with an ulcer. It’s hard to make that particular cat look ugly. But we did. And I’m sure that didn’t help the ulcer or his self esteem.

I’ll post pictures of him soon. Because I’m so compassionate. And when I say ‘ugly’ I mean in the cutest way EVER. It looks like he has an awful toupee with the way the longhair fur  on his head lays awkwardly over the totally shaved, almost pink neck…? Oh my gosh it’s adorable.