You Say Liebster, I Say Lobster

While I was down and excessively out with some vindictive ex-boyfriend-like stomach bug that refused to leave without a restraining order and a trip to the ER, something awesome happened.  No, not snow.  Oh how I wish it were snow.  We are in the land of the snowflake-less.  Although Louisiana is quite chilly here (in the 30s this morning), we don't get our hopes up that we will spend any time making snow forts and/or have ice ball wars.  We also left all of our cold weather things in boxes up in the attic.  I refuse to go up and rummage through by myself.  Attics freak me out.  There could be cohabitants up there I don't want to know about.  Mice, lizards, squatters.  I see the light on up there sometimes and just leave it on.  Even squatters should be able to see their way to the (our - eek!) bathroom at night.   

What happened to me while I was in the throes of tea brewing and broth sipping is an award!  Not just me but lots of us bloggers won an award...it's called The Liebster!  Which is only one vowel away from another really cool thing I imagine happens in Maine involving toasted rolls and too much mayo.  Mmmm, I bet Maine has snow.  

SO The Liebster is an award given to you to by your fellow blogging soul mates because they like you.  And because they want to recognize their fellow writers for posting anything at all between hurling and helping with homework.  Bloggers are compassionate lovies that way. 

I am honored.  Mostly because my blog friend Andrea, a gifted writer at About 100%, gave it to me.  This woman has me giggling in one post about Labor Day and aching in my heart about her grandfather in another.  I actually went to text her about something funny the other day because I get confused and think we are friends in real life.  Maybe one day we will be but then I'd have to let her know I sound like a thirteen year old over the phone.  It's true.  In person I never get carded.  Over the phone everyone asks to speak to my mom.  I hope she won't break up with me over that.  I still love her and her half thumb.  Go click on her site, she'll explain.

 

 

The Liebster requires me to list some things, answer some things, and ask some things.  Then, I will pay it forward to my own favorites. 

Let us begin the madness: 

11 Facts About Me

1.) I don't use hair conditioner anymore.  This might not be a big deal for normal people but it is HUGE for me.  I've used conditioner for 35 years and have been on a quest (a QUEST people) for healthy hair for most of those 35.  Finally I find Lousiana's answer to Jose Eber and he tells me I need to stop using conditioner, by God I stop using hair conditioner.  So now I use this leave-in detangling mousse product made of milk called "Milkshake" which smells like McDonald's vanilla single scoop and I'm pretty sure that's what gave me ecoli for the last 2.5 weeks.  I'm a slow learner. 

2.) I love dogs more than people.  I can empathize with animals more than I can empathize with people.  I am probably a descendent of stringy-haired Airedales and beat canine blood through quasi-human veins.  I am totally fine with all of this although it probably won't get me into heaven.  I'm sad about that but can't immediately vibe with love for fellow humans the way I can with fellow dogs.  They're just easier to be around.  Overall pure hearted.  Amazing snuggle bunnies.  Nobody talks much.  Forever warm.  Everyone of them likes to play.  (Andrea, keep reading, don't give up me just yet.)

3.) Every day I wake up and am shocked not to be 18 anymore.  For some reason I always think I'm 18 when I wake up.  Imagine my surprise when my children come running in with their complicated breakfast requests and am forced to heave my very much not 18 year old bodice out of bed for other people.  Shocking, every time.

4.) I can never see how I truly feel about something until I'm alone.  A friend I run into at the carpool line asks, "Hey, grab a coffee?" and I just don't know while she's standing there.  I have to make up a reason to go back to my car, sit there a minute, and find out if I really DO want to have coffee or if I'm just afraid to say no.  Chances are, I want to have coffee. 

5.) I volunteer a few hours a week at a local dog adoption center and have not taken one dog home with me yet.  Maybe e-coli hitched a ride on my jeans but I'm kind of still going with milk mousse.  So. Dumb.

6.) The longer my marriage goes on, the more I feel like it's a "We vs.Them" happening here.  We being me and my husband.  Them being the children folk.  This is new for me.  I once was a big loner in our marriage.  It was years before people even knew I wasn't an only parent.  It was all, "When I put them to bed at night.  When I take them out to breakfast."  Now, it's both of us - I bring him into the equation out loud.  Probably just nature's way of making sure I don't disintegrate into crazy dog lady as the kids move on without me.  

7.)  I held my grandma's hand as she passed away.  And sang to her.  I couldn't leave her.  My step-dad was with us.  He couldn't leave me.

8.) I don't have one best friend.  They're all so uniquely precious to me, I can't pick only one.  I also don't keep very many close friends.  Small talk makes me nauseous. 

9.) I find it difficult trusting people who keep themselves busy every single second.  What are they running from?  What happens when they stay still?  Is it that awful to be you?

10.) I never wanted to be a mom.  One time in 10th grade History, a clairvoyant friend went around telling everyone her prediction of what the rest of us would be when they grew up.  My friend Karen, she said would be a lawyer.  (She is.)  My friend Doug would be a mechanic.  (He is.)  My friend Matt would work with kids.  (He's a teacher now.)  She kept skipping over me and finally, sensing my worry, she looked right in my eyes and says, "I'm so sorry, Erin.  I can only envision you as a mom."  I was crushed.  Look at me now.  Wonder where this girl is these days.  And if she's using her powers for good.

11.)  I once dated my college professor.  After graduation.  It was a fairy tale romance until I realized we were 30 years apart and lookit there, I wanted kids!

Ok, now for Andrea's questions.  She asks some toughies (and perhaps even one I needed to Google the meaning of, oy vei.)

1.) What embarrasses you?  

Singing in front of people.  Which was a problem when I tried to do that for a living for a while.

2.) How much do you swear around your kids, if you have kids?  If you don't have kids, how much do you swear in general?  

 Let's just have Abby's often and regular use of swearing speak to this question.  Things got really bad when Andy was deployed.  I was four word slinging with the best of 'em.  When Andy returned and I found Abby in his football hold at REI, I knew I let things go too far.  She had cursed him out asking for her "effing mommy."  Or the time Grayson told Pop to watch out for "those damnbees" on our deck.  I am really trying hard to clean up my act in general.  If I slip up, Abby tells me it hurts God's feelings to talk like that and I shrink down to the shrew size that I am to ask forgiveness.  It's effing hard.

3.) Do you speak a foreign language?  Why or why not?

Je parles Francais.  Un peu.  Mais...not really at all anymore even though I was almost fluent in college after six ans.  J'oublie tout le Francais parce que Je ne practice pas!

4.) If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would it be?  It's okay if you say "right where I am now."  I won't judge you for being boring.

If I could live anywhere else in the world it would be somewhere mountainous.  Maybe Switzerland.  Maybe the Rockies.  Maybe Nepal.  Mountains thrill me and let me know there was so much going on before we humans arrived and will always be happening long after I am lilies on a gravestone.  With mountains you get gorgeous wildflowers and crazy unpredictable weather.  I love the excitement that comes from that environment and the feeling that you're on holiday because exciting things abound.

5.) Outside of your family and yourself, what is your biggest love?

Dogs.  Sorry, Andrea, I just really love them critters.  If not dogs then my biggest love is artistry whether that means writing, woodworking, painting, listening to music, making music, watching dancing (I do no dance well anymore myself), or hanging out on a rickity wooden pier during sunset, J'adore L'Art!

6.) What is one thing you are terrible at?

Only one?  Ok.  I am terrible at cooking.  I don't enjoy food related things.  Growing up, food was always just that happened while we did other things.   We ate a bowl of Cheerios while playing a board game.  We grabbed apples and peanut butter before a hike.  It was never the focal point of anything.  Other than Thanksgiving.  And that's my favorite holiday, weird.  Well, regardless, I am terrible at cooking and putting together meals that entice my family to enjoy them.  I make healthy things, just not very delicious things.

7.) Your dream job.

Oh, this is one I think about all the time.  I think my dream job would be writing from home while welding jewelry or other art out of copper and other metals while also making my own frames for my own pictures to be sold on my own blog.  You know, nothing narcissistically grandiose or anything.

8.) What is your biggest sociopolitical concern?

I'm really quite underwhelming in this department.  As a military wife, I should have so many sociopolitical concerns that keep me up at night.  Truth is, I am mostly concerned our children and our children's children won't know how to feed themselves non toxic food or won't know how to keep themselves competitive with a capitalistic market that is always so near collapse in America.  I do worry about disease and war and GMO famine but an issue that is near to my heart these days is the holocaust quietly sweeping the nation. 

The euthanization of our homeless pets who have been dumped at "Animal Care & Control Centers."  Over 30,000 healthy adoptable pets are put to sleep (which is the nicest misnomer as many places still use the grotesquely painful and inhumane heartstick or gas chamber method to killing animals - I've seen the videos and pictures and THOSE keep me up at night.  If you haven't looked, don't.  It is by far THE most disturbing image to witness.  It gives you dark sick feeling in your gut that people like you and me do this EVERY day and think it's ok.)  The state keeps quiet about how many die daily (most have numbers well over 44 animals PTS per day) along with the fact that untrained "Technicians" choose which ones and how they die.  That's right, we should all be horrified to learn some dude off the streets selects a few dogs or cats based on either their mood or the pet's (often criminally embellished) assessment/rating. 

These babies don't stand a chance once crossing into the concentration camps that call themselves shelters.  Your every day passerby has NO idea such heinous crimes take place, much less that they take place EVERY day because nobody is firing them.  It's a hard job to fill.  It's an even harder job to get fired from once you're on payroll.  I agonize over all the dogs and cats (rabbits, guinea pigs, etc.) that find themselves "saved" by Animal Control just to be housed in crowded, smelly, jail cells to be marched to their death less than a week later.  These places don't network or hold adoption events.  Some don't have the means to.  Some honestly do not have the room because people illegally breed their pets in their backyard or refuse to spend money on spaying/neutering.  These people don't pay, the animals do.  With their lives.  These domestic animals rely on humans for care.  When they are abandoned, they are stripped of the right to live a cared for life.

So there are volunteers that create websites like Urgent Part 2 - Urgent Death Row Dogs to get the word out about these adoptable souls in hopes to save their lives.  Many of these scared to death pets are saved at the 11th hour but due to red tape or just time, so many are needlessly and recklessly killed.  To think, after all this, some people still shop or pay breeders for their pets.  Please direct those family members and friends to their local kill shelter first.  They will find the greatest love of their life starting back at them from behind bars.  Rescue dogs never forget who saved them from hell.  And they rescue you right back. 

Whew, that was a long one.  Thanks for letting me rant.  I obviously feel strongly about this one.  Please spread the word to anyone you suspect might not understand.  Shelter animals are in imminent danger of losing their lives daily.  To make room for the next onslaught of animals dumped because people think they don't have a choice.  There are choices.  A silent hidden holocaust shouldn't be one of them.

9.) Where and when would you go if you could travel through time?

Easy.  I'd go back to the early 1900s when my grandfather and grandmother were babies.  Clip clopping of horse drawn buggies, long skirted women, and men with pipes dangling from their mouths.  Love to be a fly on the wall during those years.  I'd sit back and watch my grandparents grow up, move away, and fall in love.  It will be the party of a century.


10.) Are you adventuresome?

Yes.  I'm adventuresome but cautious if there's such a combination.  I love impromptu hikes but wouldn't bungee jump.  Take me on a plane to South Africa but stop off at the clinic to get our vaccines first.  Grab a bottle of water and drive somewhere we've never been for the day?  YES!  But pack some granola bars for low blood-sugar, please.  Let's go.  What are we waiting for?


11.) Creatively, what are you best at?  What are you worst at?

Ooh, hard one.  Best at.  Best at picking my way through writing.  Best at having a title before writing the book. Best at considering all sides to an argument but still having the fight.  Best at envisioning how the song could sound better before it's even finished.  Best at the making better part.  Worst at the making to the finish part.  Not the best follow-through-er.  When there's a project and I have time to devote myself to the task, it's on.  When I'm my own boss and there are zero repercussions to not finishing the project?  Maybe it'll be done by Christmas.  But probably not because there are far too many cups of tea to be had.

Ok, I'm exhausted and most likely all alone by now since you all clicked out after my tirade about homeless dogs.  I don't even know what my deal is.  We'll move on.

Thank you for reading.  I need to come up with my own questions for my own Liebster people but I'm spent.  Let's reconvene in the morning.  When the kids are at school and I'm skipping the gym for the fifth week in a row, shall we?

I've missed you so.

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Before we move to Louisiana, my friend (who lived in LA for years when she was younger), squeezes my shoulder, lets me cry on hers, then snaps me out of it. "You're going to -bleeping- love it there.  You know that, right?"

She is right. I -bleeping- love it here.

Just yesterday the kids and I drive off to visit a funky little nearby town to see some folk art. Folk art, in my opinion, is an understatement.  This museum is a collection of brilliant minds and darkest hours smashed together with patience, nostalgia, and loads of patina.  It takes my kids and I a solid hour to get through the gift shop alone, things are that mesmerizing. Not everyday do you find bacon lip balm, hand-painted wooden spinning tops, and customized black and white prints for sale inside the same four walls. 

The man behind the register welcomes our tribe, then ducks his head low to continue typing on his keyboard. 

He must be a writer.

When I check in with him to see if we should be moving along, only the very tops of his salt and pepper curls are visible.  Those friendly tufts let us know we can putter around as long as we like.  They have all day just like us.

A few more minutes of lingering, then we decide to pay admission and graduate toward the museum.

What we see is unconventional, bizarre and delicious.  Broken plate pieces beautifully alternate with old house keys to line a monster truck tire.  The tire holds in a snapping turtle who pierces the surface of her algae water long enough to let us know she is there.  "Look Mom, it's a snapper, isn't it?!  Isn't it a snapper, Mom!?"  Abby and Grayson climb the wooden fence to prop their bodies high.  Our turtle friend pushes her clawed feet out of the water to make it worth their climb.

When we can tear ourselves from finding her eyes (they are unexpectedly quite close to her nose), we walk through the next archway.  Each building has single rows of colorful tribal spots, polka-dotting their way up the trim of the doorway and back down in lieu of a welcome mat. 

Doors seem redundant here.

The next building we enter pays homage to the great soul artists and jazz musicians of New Orleans.  Rusty saxophones, a lone accordion on its side, and glassed-in miniature exhibits of the city's night life give Abby the heeby-jeebies; a black magic feel.  She wants "up" as she trembles and asks to see more. 

Grayson is touching everything in sight.  There are push buttons, on the outside of each exhibit, that make one thing come to life in every tiny world.  Sometimes a spot-light for a jazz singer, sometimes a little boy jumping on the bed in a swanky hotel.  One button Grayson pushes starts an empty swing to sway back and forth and for a few seconds, we all hold our breath. 

The next room has old pinball machines, video games, and other games of yore the kids cluck around with for less time than I thought they would.  Before long, I find them both staring silently at yet another alligator gar skeleton.

"Is it real, Mommy?"

"I'm not sure if any of this is real, Grayson," I admit.  It seems to all of us, more like a dream.  A cool-funky-retro-world kind of dream.

The end of our tour is my favorite.  My black magic.  The man behind the register allows us into another building lined with the inside lids of paint cans;  frozen in time with their bleached out drips of salmon, orchid, and celery green.  Right away I can see it's his studio.  He explains this is where he writes music, records musicians, and works at building his museum exhibits with wire and small working puppets someone donates from a defunct playhouse.

The three of us step in to a familiar sight:  rugs stretching across uneven floors, lamps leaning against each other, and an old battered up piano standing its ground right there in the middle.  Somewhere must be an old Billie Holiday mic stand.  I can't see it but I know it's there.

I love this room.  This room still hums warm with creativity, ideas and hopes colliding, hard work - the sweaty kind where you lose track of time and drink Sprites to keep your eyes from closing before the light must come back in through the door you wish was not there. 

As the kind register man sits with black-rimmed glasses half-buried under his thick friendly locks, my jaw moves but the words don't come out.  So much living yet to do. 

The kids stay near the door, spinning their free wooden tops where the light comes in.  They don't mind the door. 

We chat a bit more about musicians, pop shields, artists, parenting and I know it's time to go.  

Even though from here?  I'm nowhere near ready to leave.

God Wears Glasses?

The kids and I chattered about nothing as we drove home from the pool today.

 

It was pretty benign stuff like why Grayson likes Daddy's scrambled eggs more than mine (his are cheesier) and how to chew with a loose tooth (let me pull the darn thing out already).

Then, the conversation drifted to something heavier.  Or lighter.  Depends on how you look at it.

Grayson said Sparrow reminds him of Tillie because she steals his toys without destroying them.  She kind of mouths them for a while and drops them wherever and whenever she decides her mouth is tired. 

I will find a lone and soaking wet Pokemon figurine in the middle of my bed with the tell tale signs that  Sparrow has been there (A crescent moon of licked bedspread. Super gross but of course I find it adorable).

Then he got quiet.

This means he is thinking.  He gets quiet a lot because he thinks a lot and typically keeps it to himself these days.   He will end up talking if you give him room to put his thoughts out there.  But you have to be patient.

That in mind, I distracted myself with sipping my drink, giving him space.

"I knew Tillie was going to die."

Yep, here ii comes.

"You mean after she got sick?" I ask misinterpreting his meaning like mothers do who underestimate their children.

More quiet.  This time I could tell he was sizing me up, seeing if I could handle what he was about to lay on me.

Back to my straw.....slurp....slurp.

"No, I mean I knew she was going to die when she wasn't sick.  When you, me, Abby, Daddy, Sadie, and Tillie were at the end of the driveway one day.  I knew it then."

Holy Sh*t.  

"Did you...hear something?  See something?  How did it just come to you?"

More quiet.  With only intrusive ice left, I tossed aside my straw and began to sip like mad at my nonexistent drink.

"I saw God.  His hair was tall like grass but long grass.  He was wearing jeans and glasses.  He was there.  At the end of our driveway, next to Tillie.  And then I knew Tillie was going to die.  He put that in my mind."

Holy Effing Mother of Sh*t.

"Bud.  Why didn't you tell me?  Did you think I was gonna be all, OMG, you saw GOD?  OMG, Tillie's gonna DIE, AHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?" (We know where Abby gets it.)

"Mommy, I didn't tell you because..........Because I knew if you knew so early you would cry and be sad."

"Oh Honey, that is so sweet."

"And when you cry, it sounds like Abby's.  It's ANNOYing."

"Well, it started out sweet, anyway......Honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me if God stops in again and maybe...brings up my name?"

"Mommy, you will TOTALLY freak out!"

"Yes, yes I will but I'd love a head's up."

Elvis

Ok.  I am sitting here seething because the pictures did not come out.  The pictures of the amazement, that is.  There are plenty of Sadie, cars passing by and other crap I took pictures of to waste the rest of the film but the magical thing is just that, magically gone.  Should come as no surprise because 1.) disposable camera at dusk = SOL.  2.) it wasn't supposed to be documented 3.) I was a dreamer to think it would work out.

So with an extremely disappointed heart, I will tell the story anyway and hope it comes out through words instead of the pictures I prayed you would see.  Especially a special you out there who would really appreciate it a lot.

Yesterday morning started with Andy and Grayson driving two hours somewhere in the middle of nowhere to go hiking.  In case you're new here, I married Grizzly Adams' younger and way hotter third cousin.  He has been chomping at the bit to get Grayson hiking in the woods since the boy could wear shoes other than Robeze.

So they got up at 5am, left the house by 6am and I paced my behind off with Abby in tow until 10am.  At which time I texted love notes like, "WHERE ARE YOU?!" and "IS IT RAINING THERE?!?" every thirty minutes or so.  My husband is a very lucky man.

Finally, around 11:00 Grayson calls and tells me all about the "graceful" drops of water he saw on leaves and how Daddy lifted a tree from the road where they took a short cut.

"Drops of water?  Falling trees?  Are you in the car, Honey?"

Okay, whatever, they were an hour away.  I could breathe again.

But only for a minute because my mom and I were attending a reading in a theater with doors that would shut and make us feel like gerbils in a tin cup.

Neither of us do theaters of any type:  movie, plays, dance recitals, piano lessons, you name it we avoid it.  We're both a little bit funny that way.  Something about quiet rooms and lots of people make us both itchy and short of breath.  I almost didn't graduate college because of it.  Mom almost didn't get past the parking garage because of it.  There was absolutely zero chance either of us would make it all the way through a crowded room filled with long gaps of silence and our own hearts beating louder than your average bass drum.

But we did it.

Once the first reader took the stage we were hooked; we were stayers.  Stories were read by real women about real children who were so much like our own.  Smart, funny, eloquent women read a snippet of their lives in less than four minutes while painting a picture in our minds for a lifetime.  As a member of the audience, we swooned over toddlers "hoovering" tablecloths at dinnertime.  We giggled over "daily negotiations with the terrorists" that are our children.  And finally we sobbed for a mom who spoke of living a life she doesn't recognize or want without her precious 12 year old son.  She stood in front of us like a tiny dancer saying words that echoed in all of our ears for the rest of the readings.  I'm quite sure the entire room was holding their breath to the point of feeling dizzy.  Or maybe that was just me.

Mom and I had a time, we did.  We made it all the way through the entire show and even found our car on G2 afterward.  There was some doubt considering I almost parked us on a loading dock the first time around.

So after the show, I met G-pa T at our halfway point to return Mom.  Not before my dear mother just about stomped a hole in the passenger floor with her imaginary brake pedal.  No matter how slow we drive I think moms in general have a hard time relaxing when their offspring is behind the wheel.  I think they see a five year old in a bucket seat.  In the same breath as the compliment of my navigating skills she meeps out, "Oh Dear, I have to ask you.  Could you please slow down?"

"Yes, Mom.  I can slow down but that lane is called the shoulder."

Thankfully, our halfway point happens to be the only place in the world I consider my true home. It was my (late) grandparents' house.  My house that I grew up in for most of my life:  where I had sleepovers, sneak-outs, prom dates, college heartbreaks, post graduate sleeping marathons.  This place is my heaven on earth, a beautifully mature neighborhood that hasn't been touched at all by time or economic demise.  The neighborhood has only improved over time;  trees reaching across each other like old friends rubbing elbows, hilly roads that beckon you to roll down the windows and breathe in the damp earth beneath it.  It is my mecca.

This neighborhood drips with wildflowers, green and waving landscapes, and houses nestled so comfortably in their sweet spots you can almost hear the grass purring.

It is heaven on earth to me.

So much so I was thinking about heaven and Anna and Jack and my grandparents and that smell of juicy trees saying, "This place is magical.  Simply magical."

Seconds later, do you know what almost ran right the hell under the front right wheel of my tire?

A peacock.

A peacock!!!  In a residential neighborhood.  With not a soul around.  Abby was even asleep in the back seat.  No joggers, no mailman, absolutely not one other person around to assure me I wasn't freaking crazy.

A gorgeous blue sparkly peacock wobbled itself right in front of my van, fanned its back feathers out for me to see and I did the only thing I could think to do.  I parked and got out to talk to it.

There I was, two hours after an extremely emotional ordeal in a theater I was supposed to run away from, in the only place on earth I consider heaven, alone in the face of a miracle that was this brilliant wild luminescent blue and gold bird, the rarest bird of all:  a peacock.

And now you know why I am heartsick that the pics did not come out.  I drove as fast as I could to the nearest drug store, bought the only disposable camera they had, and broke sound barriers to get back to where the peacock had been.

It was gone.

Was it a dream?  Did it happen?  Had I fallen asleep at the wheel and crossed over to the other side with a peacock?

Finally I see a man playing with his kids.  "Excuse me, Sir?  Did you see that...peacock?"  knowing full well I sounded like a crack smoker in a minivan.

"Oh, him?  Yes, he's around here all the time.  He was someone's pet and they've been trying to catch him for a year now.  They set traps, had Animal Control out here, nobody can catch him.  We call him Elvis.  Hang out a bit, he'll be back."

Dear God in heaven above.  His name is Elvis?

Of course it is.

So I hung out, drove by a few more houses calling for a bird named Elvis until the man I originally spoke with shouted out to me.  "He's here, ma'am!  He's in their backyard."

And darnit if I didn't trespass all over a stranger's yard to get pictures of Elvis the wild peacock living in my old neighborhood.  Because that made perfect sense at the time.

I had to document this miracle to tell you, show my kids, take to the shrink I'm going to need to process all of this.  But the pictures did not come out at all.  There are four sheets of empty frames with only an outline of a tree.  I almost cried right there in the lobby of the photo store.  "No peacock?" I ask the little Asian man waiting on me. 

"No car?"  he asks worried about the unstable mom standing before him.

"No peacock in the pictures?" I try again with tears streaming. 

"Pictures too dark.  Only few came out.  Only few.  You need better camera for peacock."  

Yes, yes, I know.  I need a much better camera for peacock.  Have mercy.

I don't know about you, but I need to process the fact that Elvis not only lives but he is bebopping around in my old stomping ground where, evidently, miracles still abound.

 *Just for the record, here are the pics that made it.

Hi Sadie.  You're so cute but you are not a peacock.

Hi there license plate with an eagle on it.  You are a bird but you are not a peacock.

Hey there bumper sticker that says, "LivingComfort.com" on it.  You. Are. Not. A. Peacock.

Hello worthless empty frames.  You are a peacock.

Stand Down

The parenting curveball comes out of the blue.

Just when things are running smoothly, the curveball gets thrown and you are searching your character and taking polls across a panel of family and good friends for the best ways to proceed.

I think we got our curveball.

Recently in a social setting I've seen Grayson struggle with sticking up for himself.  He sends a message ("Stop it, I don't like that."), the message is received, and the non-desirable behavior continues instead of desists.

Right.  That's life, irritating things are going to happen.  People won't always listen to you.  Frustrations will occur in friendships.  His life right now is interacting with four to five year olds working through their own developmental stage, odds are things like this are going to happen a lot.  For all I know there is a mom out there blogging about how my son irritates the ever loving stuffing out of her boy.  It's all a matter of perspective.  On an intellectual scale, I appreciate this.  As a personal aside, I can also appreciate how his actions may even be inviting such behavior.  Adults don't always read social cues well or treat each other with the utmost respect so why should I expect children to have that capacity?

Also, I completely understand intervening every time he needs me to make it stop is not ultimately helping him.

Yet his pleas to help him are hard to ignore.

I want to coach him through this the right way.  As parents, we become fortune tellers who can't help but constantly zoom ahead and picture our children with their scruffy bedheads navigating themselves through a summer camp away from home, a board meeting in Colorado, a marriage in their future.  It will eventually be up to them to sort through the minutiae and figure out the best way to proceed. 

But the mommy in me is having a hard time standing down when I see it happen in his current social circles.  It's so difficult to not come to his rescue after several of his own attempts have gone ignored by a friend.  Sometimes I just do.  Sometimes I swoop in and save.  Shame on the mommy.

We've had the talks about tone of voice, choice of words, walking away.  He is getting stronger than he once was in that department.  Maybe this won't be an issue next week much less by kindergarten but I worry.  (And maybe most likely this is a much bigger deal to me than it is to him.) 

As his mommy I wear a cape and will save him every time but as his fortune teller I must resist the urge to do exactly that.

Standing down has never been so hard.