Spicy

“Auntie, your legs are spicy.”  What?!?!  My beloved boyo hadn’t licked my legs, so he couldn’t be talking about flavor.  They hadn’t been shaved in a while, but the hair was a consistent color.  My legs are fish belly white, so it wasn’t a color thing.  “What honeyboy?”  He pats my legs, rubbing the hair against the grain. “Your legs are spicy,” He laughs, gives me a kiss, and runs off to play in the dirt with the worms.  His mother giggles, a lovely, bubbly sound.  “That’s what he says when I haven’t shaved.  He means spiky.  He loves to ‘pet my legs’ when they are spicy.”

And just like that, I am part of his world.  All it took was what, in the grown up world, is a faux pax.  I hadn’t shaved because I showered when the baby was napping,between baking and prepping food for dinner.  I had other things to do that were more important.  As we were riding over to the kiddos’ home, I was complaining and embarrassed about my unshaved legs.  The princess never noticed.  Mom didn’t notice.  When youngest boyo was playing lift me on my legs, I held my breath.  But nothing.

It wasn’t until we had all gone outside and were picking zucchinis that the eldest boyo petted my legs.  He smiled and proudly helped carry the squashes to the blanket the others were on.  I sighed, another hurdle navigated.  He said nothing until we had finished the harvest and were all sitting together.  Then he petted my legs again and said, “Auntie, your legs are spicy.”  My heart sank to my toes and I thought I might die of embarrassment.  Then the explanation.

I wonder how I might use this life lesson, because it was profound.  If I had shaved, Boyo and I would not have had that connection.  I would not be spicy like his Mom.  So maybe it is sometimes the little things really don’t matter if they are not integral to the main plan.  Maybe it is to let a child pet your legs come what may.  Maybe it is shaving isn’t worth it.  Is there a lesson?  I choose to believe so.

Here's Your Sign

I want to be a good person.  I want to be kind, gentle, and caring.  But evidentially, God wanted something different for me.  He blessed me with the gift of sarcasm, as well as a huge dose of appreciation of the asinine.  I don’t have patience for adults.  Children, absolutely.  When you reach majority, you better engage your brain.

Bill Engvall has a comedy routine called Here’s Your Sign, in which stupid people are given signs to identify themselves to the rest of the world.  People who come up to you, as you try to balance armloads of store bags with merchandise, and say, “Been shopping?”  I enjoy his humor.  My newest “here’s your sign” show is this “team” of Bigfoot hunters, searching from their vehicles pelting through the woods.  “Do you think they are afraid of the cars?”  People are idiots.  Not because they believe in Bigfoot.  Because they are hunting for a reclusive, shy, wild creature FROM A CAR.  Bigfoot could happen.  Finding it at night from a noisy, brightly lit vehicle, not so much. 

Ah, the base asininity (yes it is a word) of the human condition.  But who has a greater reach on the asinine scale-those pretending to hunt for Bigfoot, or those of us watching it?  I hate it when logic bites me in the tuckus.

kids' parties

I went to a three year old's birthday party today.  We over did it on our gift. We always do.  We also brought packages for his brother and sister to open-with Mom and Dad’s foreknowledge.  We knew what he wanted for his birthday, and did our level best to obtain it.  We went realizing we were there at the parents’ request, not at our own ultimate decision.

Upon greeting the birthday boy, we noticed that Mommy was still holding little sister.  I, of course, seized the opportunity to hold her a bit, Nana-free.   I should probably explain something here, about the “Nanas” the kids have.  Different older women the family knows have “adopted” each kiddo-so they get all of these Nana and Poppies in their lives.  Pretty good deal for the kiddos, not so bad until Nanas think they know better than Mommy and Daddy.  The Nana for the baby doesn’t like her “Aunties” very well, so we do not get much time holding her if Nana is around.  So you can see why I was ecstatic.  Anyway, happy baby goes to Auntie for some overdue loving.

In swept crabby Nana, “Oh she’s hungry, I need to feed her.  She needs a bottle or some Cheerios,” and tried to take her from me.  Instead, I passed the now weepy infant back to Mom, who is after all, the primary caregiver.  Nana literally ripped her away from Mom.  Mom indicated,"She may need to nurse."  Nana replied,"She’ll be fine with formula."  Whew.  We moved on to the other 2 kiddos, who no longer have that kind of Nana drama.  We started playing and opening presents.  Our presents were well received and the rest of the mess was driven away.

Then came cake time.  Baby is still eating baby food, no dairy.  Nana pretended to hand me the baby.  She pinched her arm as she passed her to me (yes she did!).  So I handed her right back.   Then came the cake and ice-cream.  Mom said to baby, “None for you yet,” in front of all 3 Nanas.  Mom was then occupied with the birthday boy.  Soon, baby was eating ice-cream!  Are you kidding me?  All well and good for Nana-the-ice-cream-feeder now, until baby, WHO DOES NOT EAT DAIRY, gets a sore, screamy tummy at 2 am.  I was dumbfounded at this woman.  A pushy, inappropriate, aggressive person who wouldn’t even follow Mom’s directions.  We left at that point.  Enough already.

Parents have the say so in the raising of their children.  No matter how well meaning, unless you have been invited, your input is inappropriate at best.  Sometimes we forget that others are allowed to raise their kids in ways other than what we might choose.  It comes down to politely remembering we are in their lives by invitation only.  Sometimes they are not our choices to make.

Penguins

Today I met the three little penguins from Mary Poppins-they came to fix my cable.  Remember those cute little fellows?  Tripping over each other in their haste to serve, they were too cute.  The cable guys were just like that; non- threatening, positive, enthusiastic, and knowledgeable.    Good thing too, because the thought of people in my house freaks me out.  They were just goofy enough to be safe.

What a statement on today’s society that having repairmen in the home is fear provoking.  (Course, it is also a commentary on my anxiety and “stranger danger” reflex.)  In times past, a plumber came to the house, fixed the sink, had an offered cookie, chatted a minute, then went to his next call. No wondering on his part if there was something in the cookies, no fear on your part that he might rob you blind, or worse.  What happened?  When did we become a society of isolated islands instead of an inter-reliant community trusting and helping each other? 

That’s why the penguins made me smile.  One was in training, one the lead, and the other was, near as I could tell, along for the ride offering some support.  It was fun to watch-one would start something, the next would pick it up so the other could go on, then the third finished up the task.  Their light hearted banter back and forth was calming.  They were able to get their jobs done well and efficiently.  My house is still standing; all my things are just fine.

I learned today that just because a repair person needs to be in your home, it doesn’t mean that you will be horribly harmed.  I enjoyed the penguins-thanks Charter.

Messages to myself

Your head does funny things to you when you have too much time to think.  Since separation from my employer, my thinker has been on overdrive.  It doesn’t help to know that these circumstances were beyond my control.  I have a tendency to punish myself repeatedly for the lack of perfection.  I grew up as a first born.  My life is supposed to be perfection personified.

It isn’t.  I have a mental health disability-panic attack with agoraphobia, anxiety attacks, Mood disorder, and PTSD.  I don’t talk to trees or telephone poles (unless they talk first-ha-ha).  I have nothing contagious.  I live in reality, the same as you.  I just get over hyped about things and can’t seem to calm back down.  This makes it very difficult to be in public, as crowds increase the issues.  I get hyper focused on things, like needing a feeding chair for the baby we occasionally watch.  It’s kind of ironic, as this is what I did for my job, helping people learn to live and adapt for MH D/O (mental health disorders).

So dealing with the public and not being able to deal with the public don’t go together as far as employment goes.  CF&CS were very kind and did what they could.  You could not do my job from home, even if counseling was taken out of the picture.  My disability, despite my education, has rendered it impossible for me to work outside my home.  Yet SSI/DA has denied my claim-"you can work."  So I have the doctor saying it is a debilitating disability, my former employer saying they cannot modify any further to meet my disability needs, my checkbook saying, “Dude, you is broke,” and my perfectionism saying, “Get a job already!”

The guilt comes from that perfectionism.  I could not/cannot control the panic/anxiety, even with meds.  The perfectionism says that I am a “loser” for not being able to pull it together and hold on to the job I had for 10 years.  Now I cannot find that resume/letters of recommendation.  Another notch down. So I need to find a way to restate the messages to myself, or I will go nowhere fast.

Perfectionism sucks.  Be kind with the messages we give to ourselves.  We matter-how we feel about ourselves matters.

Naptime

My dog snores.  All 12 furry pounds of her Lhasa Apso self.  She falls asleep and it begins almost immediately.  It is gentle, cute at first.  But it builds.  I just had to literally turn up the T.V. because was so loud.  Most of the times it makes me giggle.  There are also times it just annoys me.

I think I might be a bit jealous.  Can you remember when you last so totally trusted your environment that you relaxed in the middle of the day, put your head down, and fell deeply asleep, snoring at the top of your lungs without worrying about what someone else thought?  I can’t. 

We used to.  As small children, we would fight our afternoon naps.  But once down-we really gave it our all.  So once upon a time, we knew how to rest our weary bodies and minds.  No meds needed.  Then we added school, and the freedom to nap when we needed began to fade away.  Then the stress of homework.  Then we added activities.  Don’t forget social events.  By the time we hit high school, there was enough stress to wipe out naps altogether.  Too bad, because High School really made us need them.  The older we got, the more was put on our plate.  Our napability correspondingly decreased.

 It is too bad really.  The world would be a nicer place if the cranky adults all had naptime.  No decisions made in the middle of sheer exhaustion.  I know I would be a nicer person.  Maybe if we all had naps, violence from misunderstandings might drop.  Before big negations, Heads of State would have to snooze.  I would be able to kick back and snooze just as carefree as my dog.

Nap for world peace.  Think about it.

Packing

“Cleaning out the space should be therapeutic.”  I HATE cleaning out a room.  When it is an office you have had for 10 years, it becomes next to impossible.  The only thing worse is later, when you have to go through the boxes and decide what to do with the contents.  I don’t do well with giving away my stuff.  With this recent separation from employer, I have been faced with both dilemmas; cleanout/pack up and redistribution of wealth. 

The packing made me tearful.  All of the memories those items evoked-the laugh of a child, the tears of a parent, real expression of feelings, and families reunited.  The toys still held echoes of the children who used them.  I remember the Dad perched on the floor playing with his son and the dollhouse.  I also remember the stuffed toy sailing across the room, propelled by anger, the markers scribbling in frustration, and the game being flipped over.  All of these are precious memories for me.  How do you pack these up?  What do you wrap them with so they don’t shatter in transport?  Gently, carefully, well cushioned, and tucked right in to the box seems to be the right answer.    Thankfully, with the lid on, the hard part was over.

Or not.  My spouse’s work has a yard sale tomorrow and it seems that some of the things would bring top dollar.  HOLY CRAP.  I just ripped out my heart packing these treasures up, now you want me to rip out my heart so you can sell it at a yard sale?!?!  It is part of the disorder that has led me to this place; parting with concrete, tangible memory-provoking items is too overwhelming.  I go into immediate survival mode; distract, distract, redirect, redirect.  But alas, I am forced to face reality: some of this stuff has got to go today.  I can freak out or I can select items that have the least significance.  Wow, that was the way to go, as I could see the things as items instead of memories.  So I didn’t touch the toys or games.  I shifted an entire carload to the yard sale.  Without tears.  I tried to overdo it though, with the gathering of craft items for a local Girl Scout troop led by a friend.  Ah, well, live and learn.

I think I learned that the memories are not in the items themselves.  However, you cannot change your personality in one sitting.  I like my stuff.  I need my stuff.  Yard sales suck.  Tomorrow we will try again.