Mother's Day Blues

Woke up this morning
blues all round my face
woke up this morning
blues all round my face

I got a belly full of heartache
and I'm about to lose the human race

My boy child is seven now
ain't that a fuzzy peach
boy child is seven now
ain't that a fuzzy peach

He's reading comic books and gives me dirty looks
sometimes he's out of reach

But all is not lost on me no not all is despair
All is not lost on me, no
not all is despair

I've got my mother's love to keep me warm
and remind me that I'm rare

Two Day Headache & Life's Small Victories

Blech.

I've had this headache for over 48 hours now, and it kind of keeps moving in and out of nausea/headache/jawache/eyeache/blurry vision/etc. In many ways a classic migraine. I ate some wheaty foods the other night and I do believe that is what triggered this. Ick.

Anyhoo! Random notes...

My beautiful boy has experienced major success on neighborhood swim team! Yay!

I have a water phobia -- possibly because I nearly drowned as a toddler? -- and I have always dreamed of the day when Bodhi could swim well. So I've had him in lessons for as long as I can remember now. I loved being on swim team when I was a kid, and on the team in high school. I've talked it up a bit and he seemed especially interested in the idea of getting a trophy, so it wasn't a huge surprise when he asked me if he could be on the team this summer. Soooo....

He's been doing it! And we've been going to meets every Saturday, which has been great and weird. The social aspect of doing anything in the community cannot be underestimated, my friends. For I sit and watch and (hover, okay, I hover) help the kids at practice every day. And I'm the only parent to do so. But then my kid is the youngest on the team. And he's got the sensory issue thing. He is by far the most exuberant kid on the team, if splashing and yelling and laughing is any indicator. I just think it's weird that the other parents are so tentative with me. Not hostile, but when I see them they are just strange to talk to. I'm way more into shit than most people, I know that, I am a NERD, but come on. I guess I'm this grey haired, overly protective, silly person they can't categorize. Or something. So yeah, you might say the other parents are not exactly friendly. Okay then. And the coach is...well, he's new. And he clearly hasn't had much experience managing kids, especially younger ones. They all run roughshod over the poor guy. And he hasn't quite gotten the "coach" part of the job down. He's a little timid and doesn't even really speak loud enough to be heard over splashing.

I don't mean to sound critical here. I've been puzzling over this stuff for weeks. It's been one of those situations where I feel like I'm taking crazy pills for sure.

We've been to three swim meets and each time there is at least one other team where everyone has on matching suits and caps and is painted up with the colors of their team, and they have a couple of coaches running around working with the kids...and the parents are into it, and they're all cheering each other on...you know, it's like a Real Team.

Cut to: our team. Coach scurrying around with a clip board, us not even knowing who else on our team is here to swim, the weird sort of unfriendly parents not saying much to us or inviting us to sit with them...I know, I know. I have to reach out to people too. I'm not shy. And my feelings get hurt easily. It's a terrible combination. But I find it just...bizarre. So yah, no team spirit or cohesion. And it makes me feel bad for the kids, who aren't getting the awesome experience of cheering for each other, or being cheered on, and working hard and sometimes winning something.

But this swim team thing...it's been my therapy all month while my therapist vacations in Vermont. I've had to do some major childhood healing stuff. And in the midst of it, two of my worst nightmares came true: one of the kids told me Bodhi was a "weirdo." And another of the kids kicked him in the stomach because Bodhi was annoying him and wouldn't stop splashing him. It has been a BONANZA of testing out my core beliefs and my parenting skills. My nightmare is that if I sent B to a larger school with fewer teachers and more unsupervised kids, he'd get called names and kicked in the gut or worse. So I guess it's good that it happened in the microcosm of swim team, and we survived it.

With the kid who told me my son was a weirdo, I said "I LOVE WEIRDOS," which she found befuddling. Then I told her "weirdos are  the coolest people" when she said "You love weirdos? You're supposed to like cool-os."  Nope, little sister, nope.

So good, maybe as she grows she'll recall that someone out there loves weirdos so when she gets called that she'll feel slightly less affronted, perhaps? It was hard not to hold that against her from then on, but I know what it's like to be struggling through all that social construction.

And then the kid who kicked B in the stomach...well. When I gently confronted him about it, he admitted he did it because he was mad. Then I said, "Okay, but you do know that it's not okay to hit other people just because we're mad at them, right?" And he said he knew it. I also said "You guys can still be friends, and you can get mad at each other, but nobody hits or kicks each other, right?" And I commended him for admitting that he kicked B out of anger. Because honestly, I was impressed that he owned it. And told him mom what happened too.

Of course I had to explain to B what his otherwise-friendly person had said, and that it was never okay for another kid to kick or hit him or call him a name. I've had to intervene on this front several times this year. My belief is that the kid who loses their shit and hits or calls someone a name needs to back up, own their feelings, and learn that they can't just strike out like that. Also, B has to learn to take in "Stop that!" when he is doing something that annoys another person. To that end, I have created a point system. We have a chart, and every time he stops himself when someone says "Stop!" (including me and dad) he gets a point, which starts adding up to a Lego reward. This system appears to be working.

We've been reading a great book called "Transforming the Difficult Child," aka "The Nurtured Heart Approach" and are implementing some of the tools it suggests, like focusing on the behavior we DO want rather than on what we don't want. So for example, giving B points and lots of attention when he DOES stop is making a big difference. It's rewarding instead of punishing. I mean, we haven't perfected the system by any means, but it has been a great tool so far.

OKAY. SO BACK TO SWIM TEAM.

He's won a third, second, and first place ribbon in freestyle. I was so proud of him last weekend when he took first place in his heat against three other little guys, two of whom had beaten him the week before. And to see his pride in himself for winning...oh my God. Nothing like that in all the world! It makes my heart burst with joy just to think of it. After how hard he has worked...

I know what some of you might be thinking: "Jesus, Lady. It's just a little neighborhood pool swim team. Can't a kid just be a kid and relax and have fun?"

Well, yes. But some kids need structure and hard work  to keep them focused so they feel safe to express themselves. They need to know the rules before they can play the game. They need to have the structure and form in place before they can blow it apart or create new form. That is my experience, and my belief.

Also, I am very competitive. Highly so. I'm not totally proud of this, but it has served me more than hurt me. And I don't think it's a bad quality, as long as you don't set out to hurt another person. Or compete to win at all costs. That is not a victory to celebrate, I know.

We are planning to go to the city swim meet this weekend and swim against all the other neighborhood teams. I hope he wins a ribbon, but even if he doesn't, he knows what it feels like to come in first.

Delicious and hard-won.

When Did I Stop Writing?

Whew, all.

My last post was written at the end of last summer, just as things were starting to get interesting around here.

1) The rollercoaster of emotion and turmoil that resulted in me and my brother having to file for permanent guardianship of our sister. The state facility where she lives may be on the chopping block by the state, but not this year, it looks like. We met with the team hired to transition state living center residents out into "the community," which led to visiting numerous group homes and adult dayhab facilities...a rather unpleasant and discouraging series of events. I had to fight it out with the team members to keep them from placing my sister in an unacceptable home, and ended up having to contact the center's ombudsman and sic my own attorney on them to make it stop. Meanwhile. I befriended the local journalist who covers this issue, and many folks high and higher up in various state government positions. I even contacted, and got action and sympathy from, my local representative's office.

This all went on from August last year to April of this year. And we haven't had the guardianship hearing yet. Next month. One day before the annual staff review to determine placement of my sister. We want her to stay where she is, where she has lived for these past 40 years, at least for now. Until I can find a better situation for her in my town.

2) Some of the fallout from this thing with my sister was that I learned my mother is in terrible shape. She moved out of her own mother's house and back into her house, where we grew up, in Houston. Trying to orchestrate appointments with specialists from a distance, while starting my child in a new school and also having to research and visit homes for my sister - proved challenging.

Mom simply cannot take care of herself, something she has never been great at, even with whole body and mind. Every patient should have a state-issued doula, in my opinion. Older folks especially. In Texas we have such limited services that to be an older, mentally ill, and/or disabled person means you are seriously fucked. Our politicos believe that only the rich deserve to be cared for, that the poor or less fortunate have brought it on themselves and deserve to die.

Maybe that's putting it a little harshly, but when push comes to shove...that is what it's like.  At least with the state there is some sort of mechanism in place for monitoring abuse, despite the lower-than-shit wages they pay to care for our most vulnerable citizens. With private homes, it's much harder to stay on top of the living conditions of the residents. One of the private group homes I visited had a fantastic cosmetic appearance, but the woman running the company that owned the home left me (and my brother) with a really bad feeling, like she was in the business to make money...rather than truly provide a loving, safe place for her residents. And the day hab she took us to visit was HORRIFIC. It was overcrowded, run down, and I was struck at least twice by one of the residents ("consumers" she calls them, they all call them, in an effort to make it sound more like we have a choice) who needed to be restrained by one of the VERY few staff members.

The nicest, cleanest, most calm and inspiring day hab facility we visited told us - at the end of our visit - that they did not have space for wheelchair consumers there, since they could not afford to do the build it would require to provide safe exits. Another bummer.

So I am hoping that by this time next year we have figured something out for her. I really want her to be close to us, in her own place, with the full time care she requires. I miss her and long for her to be part of our family again.

3) Oh right, I derailed from the topic of my mother onto the topic of my sister. Well, they are intermingled. And both situations at the moment are on hold.

4) I had to ask my brother to move out of our house. He is now back with our mom.

5) School was not perfect, but part of growing up has been realizing that NO school is perfect! And well, for us, this place is as good as it gets. In the end, we have decided to stay there. The community is pretty wonderful. And so are the teachers. I strongly believe, at least at this stage of B's life, that having amazing teachers who care deeply for him and for our family is the  Most Important Thing.  It took me awhile to reach out and let people know that certain social things were not happening for us, and that has since shifted.

6) Oh, right after school started, I got hired (with a writing partner) to rewrite a screenplay for local producers! I made a nice chunk of money, and it was a thrilling (and hard as hell) experience. I forgot what it was like to deal with high strung movie types, and it was pretty unpleasant. The creative side of it was a blast - really hard work that is totally absorbing - but trying to negotiate money terms...way more strained and difficult than it should have been. I ended up writing for an entire day for free, something I will not do again. I can't say that I made good connections with the project, because ultimately they were not happy with the work we did, but I was damn proud of my work anyway. I think it took it out of me, because I have not really spent a solid chunk of time screenwriting since then. EXCEPT...

7) My writing mentor advised me to take the rest of my winter and spring to rewrite my two solid scripts, and submit them to a couple of major competitions. So I did. It was hell to do, since I am chomping at the bit to finish writing my punk rock moms story, but  meanwhile I have continued my screenwriting meetup, submitted my scripts, did Ladies Rock Camp (and played guitar in my band at Beerland!) and have bonded with a director friend who wants to work with me.  My dream for myself this year is to be a part of the Austin filmmaking community as a screenwriter and more. I am just now starting to stir and move toward that.

8) Yoga. Well. I'm so ambivalent about it, beyond how I utilize it in my daily life, that I can't even get up the energy to lead another workshop. Not right now.

9) God. Well, I kind of stopped believing in God. I never get that blissed-out feeling I used to have when I was in the yoga cult, that sensation of my own specialness and mystical connection to the divine. I believe now that it's something I manufactured to help me deal with the unbearable heaviness of being. I'm open to believe again, I just can't do it right now. I do have experiences that show me how the Universe does for me what I cannot do for myself, and I do get most of my relief and satisfaction from the moments where I feel like I've surrendered trying to control everything. But is that God? Maybe.

What do you think?

It's summer, and the only structure to our days at the moment is swim team practice from 10-11 every morning. We did not go to our first meet yesterday, since we were overbooked with several activities, two of which fell through. So next weekend! B wants a ribbon! And I want him to get one. He is enjoying the practice, except for the small faction of mean kids. And they're probably just being kids, unsupervised, but they told me he was "weird," they purposely excluded him from their games, and they yell "stop!" at him so vociferously and loudly when he splashes them that it hurts. We had a breakthrough with it the other day. One of the kids yelled "stop!" and he actually DID. He looked right at me, and stopped himself. It was a joyful moment. A much bigger moment than would have been obvious to anyone else at the pool. He hasn't been able to repeat it since then, but at least now we know it is in him.

There is a camp coming up for gifted kids that I wanted him to do, but it is SO expensive. We are going to really struggle to make it. And then there is a monster movie making camp at the end of summer that I KNOW he is going to love.

And then I am hoping to have a weekend cabin retreat near a swimming hole with some of my cousins, a dream I have had for a long time, and a much -needed family road trip.

I am having major wanderlust. I want to go visit my friends in Sedona and Prescott, and my family in Washington state and in the northeast. And Belize....

oh my.

What about you?

Quickie

Friday night in the coffee shop = bliss.

I have to finish the outline for my new script by Tuesday, a comedy about punk rocker chicks with children.

Q: When's the last time you saw *that* in a movie?

A: Never!

Nothing goes better with a double nonfat latte than a Topo Chico. And a bellyful of vegetarian (not vegan) nachos.

School starts the day after Labor Day.

Last week I wasn't ready. This week? Closer to ready.

Am I regretting my decision to keep the boy-child out of public school for now, to send him to a half homeschool half community school instead?

Not yet.

But I have been a bad and lazy parent this Summer. Instead of playing in our sprinkler or going to the pool, when it's 100+ degrees outside, we stay in and watch "Garfield." "The Wildkratts." And now, those little ponies and unicorns.

He told me that he learns about wildlife from "Wildkratts." Thus I need to let him watch.

That is true, wise child. That is true.

We haven't been to the Nature Center all Summer, either.

I'm going to let myself off the hook for this one, though, y'all. Since I spent a significant chunk of my Summer vacation at the state capitol building.  And since B took swim class every week, and martial arts, and did a week of theatre camp that he loved.

I did get a rather nasty shock about two weeks ago, when I found out that the state facility where my mentally disabled sister has lived for 40 years is moving her to a group home. WHAT?! As I sat in on a barely-intelligible conference call (patched in by the social worker as a desperate last minute effort to have a family member present and accounted for at the meeting that would determine my sister's fate) with my heart racing and my palms sweating I had little impact on the proceedings. Plus they only called me because they were looking for my mother, who was supposed to be there.

Fast forward to the phone calls I made after the meeting ended, only to find out that my mother is in dire straits as well.

I so don't love being a grown up sometimes.

I guess this is part of that whole, "you're almost fifty and you have a five year old" thing. End of Life Issues as well as Beginning of Life Issues.

I wonder if anyone else out there has dealt with moving a disabled family member into a community setting, or a disabled parent...all while raising their little one(s)?

See you at the Oscars...or at least Sundance.

Ketchup, for the Good Times

Actually, it's a quick CATCH UP.

Hyuck, hyuck!

So the "Everyday Yoga" retreat was a smashing success. Our moment of truth came when one student said she realized that she hadn't been practicing because she'd been waiting for the perfect moment, which of course with two small children never EVER, ever  comes.  And that for her, practice was merely a way to stay connected to herself because, as she put it, "I don't have the luxury of working on toning my butt."

EXACTLY.  And sometimes you don't have the luxury of perfecting a pose by practicing it over and over. Unless that pose is downward facing dog or uttanasana...

When did yoga become gym class?

I ask this as the person who takes almost all of her yoga classes at the gym. And loves it, but that is mostly because 1) they have child care 2) each class is a sweatfest 3) each class is an hour 4) nobody is checking the labels on my clothes.  Thanks for that new phenomenon in my precious spiritual discipline and community, overpriced yoga store whose name shall not be mentioned. The other day in gym yoga I was surrounded by chubby, grey-haired, inflexible sweaty yogis.  Perfection. Tattoos that were older than even mine. But everyone leaves with a smile. Anyway, I was a little gymgoer as a tween, and a swimmer as a teen, so I love the locker room and the sweat and the clang of the equipment.

So I rewrote two scripts to submit to competitions. And I did enter one of my scripts into the Austin Film Festival competition, with plans to submit it to several others. I am having a lawyer look at my other script to make sure I'm not asking for trouble, it being "based on a true story" and all.

The story of my Dad's life. Fucking fascinating, and important.

In Child News: the boy finished preschool!! Talk about bittersweet. And we finally decided on where to send him for kindergarten and beyond, a small community school that meets part time and offers curriculum for home schooling. I am so excited about it! With his sensory issues, and his AMAZING imagination and wild creativity, I have been loath to send him to a large public school. Honestly, the curriculum is not the issue, the student:teacher ratio is IT.  When I saw one teacher working with 22 students in a small, enclosed room, I knew my little mischief maker would never make it. And the hours seem inhuman to me. Our community school is an experiment, but I think he will thrive in small, multi-age, kid-led and project based learning groups. Plus I just got newes that one of his teachers will be...well, an incredible badass lady.

He's got two loose teeth!

He just moved up to the next level in his martial arts class! And we did the first class today...he loved it. Super challenging, and he stayed focused. And today, later, as we were chatting on our way to get something to eat,. he said (apropos of something I've forgotten) "Never give up." WHAT! Wow. That is his sensei's mantra for him, he says it to Bodhi every single class: "Don't give up, Bodhi!" It is beautiful.

I Have To Admit It's Getting Better

Very inspired and feeling loved. By none other than my OWN fuckin' self. Huh!

Getting ready to head out to meet up with my creative muse and dear friend, T. Lorae.

It's been a wild couple of weeks.

The screenplay competition deadlines are coming, May 1st being the first big one. June 1st being the next big one.  I'm 2/3 of the way through my third script, but I don't love it. At this point I'm just hanging in there to finish it. I write a scene or two every day, and I'm into the fifth sequence. So I'm gonna switch gears, put it aside, and rewrite my first script for the May deadline and then add my second script for the June.

Ya got that?

I am really looking forward to this:

http://homepractice.tumblr.com/events

WHAT:

“Everyday Yoga: Extraordinary Tools for Ordinary Life,” an all-day retreat 

WHO: 

RYTs  Liz Belile, Dr. Ellen Stansell, and Jenn Wooten

WHERE:

Casa de Luz,1701 Toomey Road, ATX 78704

WHEN:

Saturday, May 18, from 9 am to 6 pm.

HOW MUCH:

$99.00 (fully refundable until two weeks prior to the retreat) 

The Retreat is currently SOLD OUT. 

WHY:

As perfectly human yogis, teachers, creative types, and mothers of young children with busy schedules, we wanted to offer the kind of yoga workshop that WE wanted to see: a day of retreat for ordinary folk like ourselves. A retreat that affords time and space to not only to practice and commune, but to share process and explore yoga and community in a way that is rooted in the reality of our daily lives.

Utilizing our combined wisdom of yoga philosophy, experiential knowledge of the energy body, yoga therapy, writing and performance skills, musicianship, parenting wisdom and bodywork, we will be offering tools that make it easier to integrate yogic practices into every day.

Together, we’ve created a day of sharing, learning, practice and creative fun to inspire and reignite all our fires. You will leave well-resourced, with new ideas of how to celebrate being the yogi that you already are.

++++++++++

Let me explain a bit. We refer to this as "Everyday Yoga." We're not the first ones to use this phrase, I've found through the magic power of Google, and thank God for that. But for me it has a slightly different origin/meaning.

"Everyday Speech" is a phrase I heard while studying poetry. To wit: 

"Verse without formal meter or rhyme patterns. Free verse, instead, relies upon the natural rhythms of everyday speech. The American poet Walt Whitman was a pioneer of free verse (see Song of Myself). However, it was fellow Americans T.S.Eliot and Ezra Pound who are generally regarded as the major instigators of free verse in English. Free verse is particularly associated with both the imagist and modernist movements. See also vers libre."

Uncle Walt is the direct forefather to Les Beats. As is T.S. and Ol' Ez. But mostly: W squared. 

Now, Allen Ginsberg mentioned it in the context of his buddy Kerouac's work, insofar as Kerouac modeled his writing on jazz, which modeled its rhythms on...you got it. Everyday speech. The inherent, informal, unglamorous glam of language we use to just effing TAWK. 

It all comes from a kind of deep listening, an honoring of the patterns of existence. The humdrum of daily life. Think of the repetitive riffs in jazz, in conversation, in a yoga practice. In a steady breath. In a forgotten breath. In the everyday patterns of LIVING. The routines. And think of the irregularity of everyday life, the informal up and down of an hour, or an exchange. The challenge in yoga and in life is to follow Ol' Ez's advice and "make it new." Life isn't inherently meaningful, they say; it is WE who give it meaning. 

The Buddha adored contemplating everyday existence and "ordinary mind."  As a somewhat depressive (still brilliant, though) mama who can barely scrape through an entire day sometimes I am deeply grateful and thrilled to have so many opportunities to experience and energize THE MUNDANE. 

Sweep the fucking temple steps. Chop the wood. Carry the water.  BE the practice. Stop chasing the elusive perfect parenting practice; IT DOESN'T EXIST. The elusive "better yourself!" yoga practice; IT'S A GAME NO ONE CAN WIN. It's like believing that there's an end goal to the journey, so by the time you get there you're been so focused on the WIN you didn't even know you were on a path. 

Don't you know poetry ain't just a bunch of pretty words in a book? It's in your phone calls to your sweetheart. To the bank. It's in what you say to your babies, your friends, your parents, the cashier at the gas station.  Yoga ain't just the super-pretzel pose demo'ed in front of 1,000 people. It ain't the years spent in the ashram, only to rejoin boring ol' everyday life and be a shithead to your fellow humans. It's the grace of you in the now. The kindness in your eyes. The thoughts you have. The words you use. It's how you are and who you are in everything you do. 

Now get to work. 

AND OH! 

PS! 

I am hosting my (fourth?) annual MOTHER'S DAY READING EXTRAVAGANZA at BOOKWOMAN again this year! With a bevy of really, really good writers and badass mothers. And musicians. Our  theme is "BEAT MOMS" or "MAD MOMS."  Should be funny, smart, ranty and cool.

In which I commit the ultimate crime

What if you were once a very beautiful young woman, and you committed the ultimate crime?

You got fat.

You went all heteronormal and married a dude and you were monogomous.

You had a kid.

You lost interest in your job/life/passions/pursuits/hygiene/shopping etc. due to hormonal changes in your body and the grueling death of your father

followed by the betrayal of almost all your family members

and many friends.

And then, worst of all, you aged.

You were fat, old, depressed and then you got

injured.

You might be bitter.

You might not.

You might ought to pick up and leave.

You might ought to issue the ultimate "fuck you" and drop out entirely.

You need glasses.

You can't eat wheat.

Put down the cheese, friend.

Drink the water.

Put your blinders on.

Then move on.

This isn't quite me, but she makes many brilliant points.

2013, WTF?

How did this happen?

I think most of my writing energy has gone toward writing THREE mother f'in' screenplays (yay! clap for me!) and a manuscript of poems, and 7.2 million facebook updates.

That's a lot of creative energy.

And I think I finally have a kind of magic supplement/herb/regimen/whatever balance to keep my cycles regular, and to mostly keep my depression at bay.

So what I do is:

1. an hour of yoga every day (cumulative if necessary)
2. five minutes of writing and meditation - minimum
3. bodywork at least every two weeks
4. actually TALK to my partner about things that are bothering me
5. weekly family meetings so we all know what is coming up and how to handle childcare/meet individual needs
6. sleep before 11 at least twice a week (this is the hardest on the list to get to!)
7. daily doses of vitex, levoxyl, D3, omega 3s, DHEA, DiM/indolplex, multivitamin with probiotics
8. monthly doses of progon/progesterone pellets...I take 2.5 of them from day 12-24. That's my cycle, 24 days. though lately it has been 26.

Ideally I'd be getting Mayan Abdominal Massage every month, and I'd be performing the self-care massage on myself every night. I do it about once a week. But I do use castor oil packs with heat during my cycle and right before it. SO good.

But the premenstrual stuff is BRUTAL. I become equal parts angry, bitter, sad, and fearful. I have started taking an extra couple of DiM's -- the indolplex, which is an estrogen regulator -- and it REALLY helps. Also right before ovulation.

If our military could harness the rage of premenstrual, perimenopausal women, there would be no more war. Our enemies would be far too afraid to attack.

Plus I am already an ornery, fiery, mouthy l'il bitch. I was born that way.

I'm also very kind and extremely empathetic and compassionate. Generous to a fault. But I carry grudges for DECADES. Once someone has betrayed my trust, it takes me FOREVER gain it back. Usually I can't. Such is the psychological makeup of an adult child of alcoholics. Defensive, Critical, Self-Loathing, Swaggering, Charming, Pathetic.

Luckily we human beings have one quality that the other dumb animals don't: Consciousness. This defines us, and it makes us 100% responsible for ourselves. So if we fuck up, we have nobody else to blame. Or balm.

I'm getting ready to announce a big yoga project I've been cooking up with some other wonderful yoga teacher lady friends of mine.  Basically it's our creative response to the rockstarization and the Walmartization of yoga that has taken place in the past few years, and I'm looking to share some wisdom gleaned from the everyday experiences of picking up toys, resentfully washing dishes, preparing meals, cleaning up the daily poop of so many different species of creatures it's unreal, stealing an asana practice in the middle of it all, dreaming big, living bigger. And being awesome and fucking loving myself more and more all the time...even with a fat belly.

Soon you will know.

More Bullshit

Well, I didn't read with the Dick Monologues people.

I got rear-ended a few days before, and by the time that evening rolled around, I was a mess. An emotional, depressed, mess.

I think I'm sinking back into it some.

I gained 20 pounds almost overnight, in January, when my thyroid medication stopped working. It really messes with your mind to have body that is so much harder to move, and to have all your clothes that used to be your "fat" clothes feel tight.

I do yoga for at least an hour every other day now. I do eat some high-fat foods, like cheese, but only about once a day if I do. So I could try to eat less/smarter and exercise more, and I will, but so far it hasn't seemed to help at all. Even though now my thyroid meds are supposedly where they need to be. 

But I also think I'm having perhaps some sleep disorder. I'm going to have it all checked out, but man. It sure explains the Big D.

I'm feeling very rage-y today and tonight. And exhausted. I've been reading 10-15 scripts a week for the past three weeks and it's very demanding. I have more to read tonight. I put my next screenplay on hold until I'm done, which is fine. I'm looking forward to getting back to it. We are planning a trip out to LA in early August, a family road trip, to celebrate my husband getting his work into a big badass Art Show. We plan to stop over in Marfa, El Paso, the Grand Canyon and Disneyland on the way there. I can't wait! I love Southern California and the desert between here and there. I have driven this route many times, even once by myself, and it is haunting and fortifying. My son is going to LOVE it. He is quite the road warrior.

But don't even think of coming to rob our house if you're an asshole who is reading this right now; I have houseguests and their dogs who will be staying here. And keeping our alarm set. Always.

Anyway!

In other news, my little brother (who is very very big, super tall) has moved back to Austin after a while in Houston, trying to get it together there but needing to be here. So he's back, and taking his life in new directions. I'm so excited and delighted to have him here. One of my greatest heartaches has been how little my family has tried to interact with us or be part of Bodhi's life. It really bums me out. Especially since my Dad was planning on moving here before he fucking died instead.

It feels good to get all of this out.

Thank you for reading this.

In yet more news, I fired the OT practice where my son was going. I mentioned that I had a few problems with them, and just this week I was sitting in the big gym observing the action, like I always do, when one boy with some obvious "issues" had a meltdown and my son got injured in the melee that followed. It was awful. And he turned out to be okay, but it was the very last straw for me. Among the red flag items, some of the neglectful or harmful acts from the OTs who worked with my son:

--first day of "camp" they fed him MEATBALLS, even though I had packed a VEGETARIAN LUNCH, as per suggestion for kids with "special diets."

--my son, who has never disliked anyone so overtly in his life, told me he didn't like one of the male techs there. could never really tell me why, so i requested he be kept apart from the dude. was forced to work with the dude anyway as assistant. ALSO, I happened to overhear the dude say to two very young boys who were running around in glee as he shepherded them to where they needed to go: "You two are acting like a couple of babies. You're big boys."

--teaching him to spell and write his name: "BOHDI." Hmm. the first day I observed this particular OT I saw here write this on the board. "It's B.O.D.H.I." I told her.

--prize-based homework.

And the aforementioned injury.

All of this shit really and truly happened, in my opinion, because the practice itself is overcrowded. Too many kids at once. The OTs would eat their lunches while working with children. I thought this was wildly inappropriate. I understand, more children=more money flowing in. But the kids are the ones who end up paying...with their emotional intelligence destroyed.

/rant
--for now.

My Body, My Bullshit

Good Lord I've abandoned this long-form blog, haven't I?

Find me on facebook, where I can't stop writing, apparently.

I have been taking a screenwriting class since January. I have written one first draft of an entire feature, and the outline for my second feature, which I plan to finish in the next six weeks. I'm currently volunteering for the Austin Film Festival, reading screenplays entered into their screenwriting competition. I have to read 70 scripts by the end of this month. So far I've read 30.  Whew!  What's the point of this, you ask?

Well, I always wanted to be a screenwriter. I wrote my first script as my senior thesis in college. I debated going to film school, chose poetry school instead, for graduate work. After grad school I moved to LA with my playwright friend, who is now a tv and screenwriter. I loved LA and the whole Hollywood Game.  Unfortunately, like many, I got caught up in my own emotional dysfunction and alcoholism and blew SO. MANY. OPPORTUNITIES.  I also HAD so many opportunities, a really good and successful time overall. But then I moved back to Texas, and decided to pursue instead the Healing Arts. I'm pretty damn good at 'em too. But ultimately, my calling is elsewhere. Is it screenwriting? I don't know. But I need to find out.

Last Fall, as part of this year-long life-coaching program I am in called "Evolve," we did a bunch of work around "Your Best Year Yet," in which we wrote and processed around our deepest dreams. I came to realize that not only was winning and Oscar for screenwriting my deepest dream, but that actually, when it came down to it, I wasn't doing shit toward realizing my dream. Not one thing. Just fantasizing. So I looked up screenwriting workshops in Austin (and online; there are several good ones) and found the class I'm in now. I'm taking it for the third time, and plan to continue all Summer until I get this damned second script written! So at least I can say, as a mom, that I took heed when I spoke of living my dreams. I'm doing it. Not winning the Oscar, which would be okay I guess, but actually pursuing learning the art and craft of screenwriting and then getting off my ass and putting in the ungodly hours it takes to do it. Seriously...major butt power needed for this form!

So I say to parents, especially Moms, PURSUE YOUR HEART'S DEEPEST DESIRE AND YOUR WILDEST DREAM. Try it. Your kids will be so happy that you did. I decided that rather than resent my family for eating up my time, I would devote myself to pursuing my wildest dreams. Can you imagine? My kid is going to grow up knowing that I had the courage to pursue this crazy dream shit? And he may even grow up believing that he can pursue his own heart's deepest desires?  (In another entry, I'll relate how I actually grew up in a house with a parent who followed his passion and succeeded in realizing his wild dream, so I knew it was possible. And preferable.)

Oh, but there is still fine art.

Tonight, instead of going to my screenwriting class, I'll be reading with Spike Gillespie and her usual suspects from the Dick Monologues for a night whose theme is "My Body, My Bullshit." I only wish I had some material! (HA!)

I figure I'll recite "My Country, My Cunt" then read something short about my poop incontinence post partum.

Luckily that's no longer an issue.

My son will be FIVE in October. He has bloomed! He tells me all the time: "I love you Sweetie," and "Honey I love you." He tells me he's going to protect me, to which of course I say "Honey, you don't have to protect me, it's my job to protect you. But thank you." It is so awesome.

On the other hand, he often hits me and tells me how much he hates me, and wants to kill me, and wants me to die. We'll see a butterfly, and I'll say, "Oh! How pretty! Look at the yellow butterfly!" And he'll look at it then say "I want to smash it and kill it!"

Man, the life of the mother of a young child. Particularly a young son.

In some ways I admire his freedom to express his desires to crush, maim, destroy and kill things. I sublimate my anger instead. I think we'd all be a lot healthier if we could express our anger in a way that gets it out but doesn't harm anyone, really, and can be contained and expressed with a loving adult nearby to hear it and really play witness to it.

He's been going to occupational therapy since April? May? And for the most part, it's okay. He enjoys it. I observe every session. I've had a couple of problems with his therapist, which I mostly attribute to her not listening to me and to the practice being kind of a kid-mill. I've also overheard some really shitty, shaming words coming from some of the other therapists there, and I told on them. So I'm "that parent," maybe. But too bad. I think most of B's core strength issues are getting resolved, and it's been helpful for us as a family to work on giving him boundaries, chores, work, more outdoor and heavy play...really the usual stuff of childhood.

Anyway, this has been the VERY BEST way for me to procrastinate writing my stuff for tonight. So thank you for reading. And see you sooner than five months from now, I hope!

Sisters

Here's a little something I read at the most recent Dick Monologues show, last week. The theme was "Sisters." 

On the topic of Sisters.

or

Sisters, a Vigilante is born.

I need to warn you.

This is going to be sad. 

And not the kind of sad that says, gently, “please feel for me.” “I know you feel for me.” It's not the kind of sad that invites empathy or resonance, or really anything but, I don't know...guilt. Competition. This will be the kind of sad that wants to crush any other sad that stands in its way. This sad does not shake its head and glance off to the side, wistful and melancholy. This sad is angry, bitter, and seeks the very worst sort of revenge. In fact, maybe it's not really sad at all. Maybe it's just pure, hot lava, smoking seething volcanic rage.

Be wary. This is a vicious, fascist kind of sad, and it will kill you if you fuck with it.

Once upon a time, I sat under a circus tent pitched out on the green lawn of the Naropa Institute in Boulder Colorado. I was one of seventeen creative writing students who were all studying with our teacher, the great poet king Allen Ginsberg. It was a time.

George Bush the Senior had just been elected president, a horrible, horrific nightmare come true after eight years of rule under Ronald Reagan. Bush Senior had already been vice president for eight years, so when he was elected president we realized we would have to endure at least twelve years of his lizard lips shit.

By 1988 it was becoming obvious that the conservatives were only going to keep trickling down on us, so we Poetry Students were all feeling quite glum. The topic of direct action came up, so we asked professor Ginsberg, arguably the ultimate example of a poet using poetry to change the political consciousness of the masses for generations to come, how WE could personally use OUR poetry to incite freedom. And he said: “Keep writing. Don't ever stop. ” And – most importantly, here you go: “Always write about the wound that never heals.”

At 23 years old in Reagan Bush America, I knew instantly what the unhealed wound in my life was. My sister.

OUCHH!

It's so retarded, seriously.

It's fucking retarded. It's a fucktard.

So retarded its gay. It gaytarded.

What?

People get so angry that we can't use this word any more. Like really pissed that they can't call someone retarded any more. This is recent. Back in Reagan Bush America, we could still say it. Nowadays, in post Clinton post racial America, we can't. The PC Police are on it, man.

It's the N-word of the disability set. And really, I feel for our nation's totally shit comedians, and for every single high schooler or college student or drunk asshole frat boy, for anyone really, like who has been denied their right to call someone, anyone, anything, RETARDED.

I grew up with Retarded, man. Then handicapped. Then mentally disabled. Then mentally challenged.

Shanna  was born early. Premature. Came out two minutes before her brother. So they put her in an incubator, and the rest is history, or so they say. We don't really know. We don't really know what caused it, we just know that it started to manifest as early as a few months old. She was slow. And she had a twin growing up beside her, so all the developmental milestones would have been obvious if she was missing them. And she was. Then came the blinking, the eye twitching, followed by long pauses, followed by hysterical crying. My mother didn't know what it was that she was seeing. When she mentioned it to anyone in the family, she was accused of not loving the baby enough, or of trying to blame Shanna's seizures on our epileptic uncle. 

 

OUCH!!!

The big one, the Grand Mal, happened at about age five. We were all jumping on the bed, like we weren't supposed to, and Shanna fell off and hit her head. Immediately started vomiting, eyes rolling back in her head, biting her tongue. We had to put a washcloth between her teeth. We ended up taking her to the emergency room, where my brother and I saw a guy cradling his own severed thumb in his bloody hand. She jerked and seized all the way to the hospital. 

 

OUCCCCCH!

When my son was born, four years ago, they ended up having to pull him out with forceps. I have agonized over this endlessly, worried sick that there could have been some neurological damage done to him, weighing every decision over his health and well-being like I was on trial. And truly, the kid is fine. “Normal,” you could say. Whatever that means. Except for maybe having a little more energy than most kids I meet who are his age, and constantly wanting to wear costumes and set up traps and pull pranks. Normal.

There was something not normal about Shanna. We used that word, freely. “She's not normal, like you are.” We had occupational therapists coming to the house, all manner of doctors and nurses and we put her in special ed. We took her out of special ed after we discovered that the teacher had pinched her. My mother got the teacher fired. I wish she could have gotten the bus driver fired; one day my sister didn't come home from school, and later they found her wandering in strange neighborhood, naked. The bus driver had let her off somewhere that was not her home. She was probably about seven years old. 

 

OUCH.

When she was nine, my parents decided to put her in a state school right outside of Houston, where we lived. My brother and I wept. We were told she would be treated well there, would have friends. We liked that idea: she needed friends. But wait! We were her friends. We were her protectors. We had gotten the kids to stop shoving grass down her throat in the front yard, even as their parents stood and looked on. We punched out and tattled on the assholes who called her names. Retarded, stupid, ugly, weird, whatever. We loved her, we played with her, we always included her. 

 

OUCH!!!!! 

 

So off she went, permanently placed in a school for the rest of her life. I won't bore you any further with the painful details of my mother's tears, my father's denial, or my brother and I's sense of loss. How our whole family fell apart when she left, really.

I won't bore you with the list of names I saw in the registry at the front desk the last time I went to visit her, the names of her visitors at the school, and the dates that went with the names. How few and far between they were.

The difficulty of having a profoundly retarded person in the family was too much for my parents. They really thought they were doing the right thing.

OUCH.

When my son was born, I knew that I wanted my sister to be part of his life, and I wanted him to be part of hers. So we began our visits. Somehow, despite living three hours away and traveling with a newborn/toddler/four year old was easier I guess than making the 45 or 30 minute drive it would be for my mom or my aunt or my brother to visit Shanna. I never saw their names on the list when I went to sign her out.

OUCH!

My mother called to tell me the news that the state schools were in danger of being closed, something we had all been expecting since Reagan first began closing psychiatric hospitals in the eighties. She wanted me to consider becoming my sister's guardian, at the school's recommendation. Shanna had been made a ward of the state when she turned 18 because my parents did not want my brother or I to have to take on the burden of her care, they said. In case we couldn't provide the 24 hour medical supervision she needed. And now, with the seemingly eminent closure of her facility, where she ends up living after that could be decided by the state. And it could get kind of ugly. Unless she has a legal guardian to make that decision for her.

When I go, when I visit, she is a delight. She is mostly confined to a wheelchair now. She has rosy pink skin and dark curly hair. Her face is heavily scarred, and her teeth are mostly gone, thanks to the medications they've given her, but she responds to most things with a childlike glee. “Shanna is so sweet,” the social workers tell us. And she is. She loves her nephew, her “baby.” He's a little wary of her, but that's okay. He still gives her kisses and hugs. “She doesn't look good,” he tells me. I haven't figured out how to explain or not explain it to him yet.

There was a time when I believed that having a child with severe disabilities, handicaps, mental and physical challenges, would be an unbearable trauma for a family. And I can tell you, that for some families, it is. But after my boy was born, and I wrestled with the possibility that he might not always be okay, or that I might not always be okay, I began to see things a little differently. 

 

I saw people who went out of their way to adopt children who had major disabilities. I saw parents who already had children who didn't look good, loving them anyway, raising them, and making it work out in this godforsaken, brutally cruel world we live in. I have friends who have children in private facilities and friends who have siblings in group homes, state run hospitals or jails. I have friends who have dedicated their lives to working with people of all ages and abilities, and as my friend Chris reminds me, when I'm worried that something will be wrong with my son, “LIZ. THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ANYONE.” 

 

Ouch....

Having survived post partum depression, my father's death, and the first four and a half years of my son's life, I want to say that I think I can handle this. And some days, I can. Tonight, I'm uncertain. I have taken baby steps toward guardianship, acting on that in between so many other things. I want to do what is best for her. I want her to know simple joy and freedom from pain. I want to make sure she knows she is loved. I want to know that everything is going to be all right.

I have to admit it's getting better

...a little better, all the time.

A couple posts back I talked about my son's possible behavioral, sensorial, neurological behavior problems.

Well.

Since then, my husband and I basically shifted our paradigm, and...

Things got better.

Much better.

Remarkably better.

We made an appointment to get an evaluation with an OT (who knew there was such a long waiting list for such things?) which will not be happening for two more weeks. But in the meantime, we made some changes, mostly the aforementioned paradigm shift.

We started to be more firm in our boundaries. Like what, you ask? Well. Only one toy/one toy set out at a time. We must put said toy set away before taking out another. All toys must remain in the playroom, and out of the kitchen and other rooms. Screen time is limited. Outdoors time is doubled. Morning walks with mom before school, no matter how short or how many dogs bark at us on our way. Mom picks up B at school and immediately grabs him, hugs him to her chest, and makes a quick getaway, thereby avoiding prolonged contact with other kids and overstimulation. Bedtime routine reinforced. Must eat dinner at table with parents, or at least stay in same room while parents eat. No playing and eating back and forth. Parents being totally consistent with "no." Working the principles of NVC when we can, where "everyone gets their needs met." It's remarkable, because when it happens, when everyone gets their needs met, he announces it. Its pretty cute, and really profound.

So after a couple weeks back at school, I had a brief chat with Bodhi's teacher, who seemed to think things had gotten sooo much better that an appointment with an OT wouldn't even really be necessary.

I think it goes to show that, in our case, our son was unable to regulate his nervous system off of our frazzled nervous systems. So just by practicing a few more boundaries, a lot more self-care, and ritualizing some routines, we were able to get better behavior, and everyone is better able to relax.

Now, all of this is not to say that I/we didn't have a total meltdown at the rodeo last weekend. We did.

But the other things, the smaller yet larger things, are beter.

Rest in Peace and Party It Up Out There, Willya?

Today my beloved father Mike would have been 72 years old.

I miss him something fierce.

He was that, fierce.

His death still haunts me, but his life was so vivid and fabulous in so many ways.

He was a person who followed a crazy dream against all odds (cliche but true) and got to live his passion. He loved his work. It's a great role model to have in your life.

Who do you know that has lived their dream? Is it you?

O Come All Ye of Little Faith

Well, my worst nightmare came true and it wasn't so bad.

My son's nursery school teacher had a little chat with me, expressing her "ideas" for how to help him. Help him in what way, you ask?*

He might be happier if he can learn how to interact with other people, specifically children, better. For his sake, and for all our sakes. From very early, B has been incredibly touchy/feely, and seemingly unable to listen and honor boundaries. Like, "Please don't spit on me. I don't like that." Or "Ouch! Biting hurts!" Or "I don't like that, please give me some space." Etc. I've watched him, many times, glom onto a kid at the playground and be relentless, chasing, touching, getting in their face and not listening to their pleas to "Stop!" until that kid or their parent got frustrated and I had to intervene. So that.

He is bright. Hilarious. Creative. Physical. Clever. And he sucks at giving people room to breathe.

When his early preschool teacher had a similar chat with us, over a year ago, I was devastated. She was speaking far outside her scope, and used terms like "Aspergers" and "Autism" and "Sensory Disorder" and "Special Needs." I was horrified. As I've said in this blog before.  I grew up with a sister who was severely, profoundly brain damaged and had very, very clear "Special Needs." We had Occupational Therapists coming to our home for a time, and she was badly abused in public schools by both students and Special Ed teachers; I do believe that our understanding and attitude toward children with disabilities has gotten better out there by now, some 40 years later, but then? It was a fucking horrible and compassionless disgrace.

So my reaction to the first teacher's assessment was to fall into a deep, endless spiral of despair and fear.

And  I'm not done with it yet.

But it is getting better, as they say, all the time.

That teacher, who is not a bad person, but is a terrible communicator, actually apologized to us (me and my husband) for speaking outside of her scope. But I did agree with her, that she should have interpreted B's behavior as telling us "I'm really not happy being here" in her school. Because that was, beyond a doubt, part of it. He was tired of being there, and/or it wasn't for him.

So I'm considering that as a possibility even now.

Maybe it's that school is still such an enclosed, structured place, and he craves action and space.

OR

There may some neurological problem that he needs help for.

Maybe part of his problem is a neurological glitch that occurred during our long labor and forceps delivery, after which we made no skin-to-skin contact, which has been shown in innumerable studies to be so crucial  to neurological development. It's just a hunch I have. That he makes up for that lack of contact after being born by making too MUCH contact now. And frankly, if this "misbehavior" he is exhibiting now is a result of that, and the ONLY result of that, I will die complete.

But it's just a theory I have, not, as you might worry, a way of beating the shit out of myself in some sort of self-blame. Though that is definitely a danger.

I also think that, in part due to my "scare" from the first teacher, and my subsequent falling-in-love with the principles of RADICAL UNSCHOOLING, I am not ready for him to be in a school situation. Period. In spite of how truly wonderful the school, the teachers, the director, the other parents and children all are. WONDERFUL, I tell you.

Yet I'm told by my parenting guru, and the literature does seem to confirm, that  children who are preschool-aged (think about that term for a minute) really DON'T need to be in any sort of socialization setting.

Scary thought, huh?

That our little ones actually don't need the socialization we subject them to from birth on. Not until about kindergarten age (most) and really not even  until first grade age (some but not all). 

For me this continues to be a paradigm shift.

My own mother so strongly believed in putting us in daycare to help us "get socialized" that this has been a fundamental tenet in my parenting. You know, the Fundamental Tenets of  Parenting you have before you actually become one? That.

So.

Back to the wonderful teacher I had the conversation with a few days ago, and the wonderful SCHOOL where she teaches, and where my son is currently enrolled.

She was careful not to use any labels or terminology. Which I more than appreciate. She was gentle and compassionate, and gave me clear examples of behavior where Bodhi was pestering (my word) a child who didn't want to play, until one who did came along and solved the problem. But really, who wants their kid to be the one on the playground that all the other kids dread because he pours sand on their head even when they're not playing? Not me!

So then she suggested that we find "professional help" for him. To give him, and to give all of us, tools that we can use to help him learn HOW to honor boundaries, how to control his compulsion to touch, how to help him calm himself and be okay  when he is presented with the word "NO!"

Now the thing is, I've been vigilant. Too much so. I don't know if any of you other parents out there know what it's like to have a kid like this, who you must constantly police to make sure he doesn't harm any other children, or run gleefully into the street or in front of the train when you've clearly said "No" to that. I know that teethbrushing, hairbrushing, going to sleep and getting dressed, all the little rituals at home that we must learn to maintain ourselves and to interact healthfully with others, I know that all those little battles and their winners will come and go. They already do. And in fact, the pestering and pushing and biting, all of that, has actually grown exponentially less and less troubling. Or frequent.

And the fact that all of these troubling behaviors have shifted, one by one, as time goes by, is basically what I hang my happiness on.  That he really is "outgrowing" (or growing into) a lot of it.

But still.

I finally, truly, DO want to find someone who may recognize what is going on with my boy. Who, as my dear therapist Gail says, "Can see differences and not disorders." I hear many parents happily tossing around the terminology: "My kid has Aspbergers" or "He's on the Spectrum." And do mean MANY. I am sure that once these parents get a bonafide diagnosis, and learn that there is HELP on the way, their hearts sing. I can totally dig it. The label names the problem that has been making everyone miserable, and offers a course of action.  

I just can't do it.

And yes, I do wonder what happens if kids are just acting out or reacting  to an uncomfortable situation, like being in daycare or school, when what they really want and need is to be in a freeform playspace at home, and not be in a school setting till they are older?

(By the way, I don't give a fuck if my thinking that or publicly saying that makes anyone angry. I really don't. Just like you don't give a fuck whether I homeschool, unschool, or public school my kid and feed him gluten free cookies. Got it?)

I don't mean to insult  anyone who chooses to send their kid to school and/or to Occupational Therapy. Some of my best and loved friends send their kids. And some of my best friends are OTs. And one of them, who had to design a curriculum for rich white kids (not that I'm biased) that was all about Sensory Integration Disorders, told me bluntly that most of it, that is the cottage industry of Sensory Issues or Autism Spectrum Disorder,  is  basically bullshit. But also, that some of it isn't. And just like with the 80s and 90s epidemic of ADD and ADHD, some kids who suffer from it really do suffer and get better with medication and therapy. And some kids are misdiagnosed and do therapy and take medication when they shouldn't.

I just won't accept one teacher, or even two teacher's, assessment or observation of my son's behavior as "wrong." I choose to see it another way. And that is my right and my privilege as a parent and as a person.

The moment he is labeled as having "issues," or rather the moment the issue gets labeled, he will be in danger of being seen through the filter of that label. Period. No matter how progressive and cool the teachers are.

That is what I do not want. That is what I will not allow. 

Where my mother saw my sister's condition as being a HUGE family tragedy, as an adult I've grown to see it as a gift, and that her life, my sister's life, is deeply meaningful to her. And to us. She lives in a state run facility, one they are thinking of closing, and my hope is to move her to a care situation where she will be closer to us and more a part of our lives. As a child, she was sent to this place in the hope that she would have 24 hour medical and therapeutic care, as well as friendship. I've never quite recovered from the gap that left in our childhood, to lose her like that after knowing her for nine years. Even with our frequent visits, my mother always mourned for her "life lost." That is a powerful message to send to children. That the life of a "retarded" person is a life lost.

As my dear friend, the aforementioned OT said to me when I was bemoaning the prospect of there being something "wrong" with Bodhi: "Liz, there's NOTHING wrong with ANYONE."

That is the label I choose, the paradigm I want to live by.

So let's see if we can find someone who wants to help him feel and live better, who can recognize his beauty and quickly help him integrate and regulate so he can vibrate with full intensity and light.

Or, I can do the radical thing, like I usually do, and unschool him and nurture his wild nature so that he can be free to save the world or simply unfold into who he is meant to be...at his own pace.

Or, even more usual, I may take what I can use and leave the rest. After all, I go to talk therapy every week, do physical therapy, journal, get and give every type of bodywork under the sun, practice/study/teach yoga and meditation, and eat a vegetarian diet free of gluten, as well as free of alchol and usually sugar. So I do a fuckload of stuff that was suggested for me to do in order to maintain my wellbeing. Why wouldn't I want that for my son?

 More on this to come, I bet.

Happy Holidays!

(Ugh.)

*on that same day she told me she wanted to "chat," his gardening camp teacher reached out to me in total frustration about his behavior of pestering and bothering another camper to the point where she was worried about the quality of the other camper's experience. sigh. when it rains it pours! but i'm listening, Universe, to what you are trying to tell me.

This Moment, Stolen, and Full of Some Hope

Just about ten minutes to go at the coffee shop before I head home to relieve the sitter.

Last night I couldn't leave the house fast enough to go take...a Restorative Yoga class! Yes, even though I'm feeling quite thick and need to move this body, I was so inconsolably sad yesterday that I thought I'd try something gentle and nurturing instead. And it was great.

So today I taught my Therapeutics Class, which I loved, and have now taken these last couple of hours to research writing contests and submissions, and have decided to rework the story of my father's death from the POV of the brother instead of the sister. It is really interesting. The brother's perspective is way more angry. It's probably more like how it actually felt for me. I just wanted to smash in everyone's face the whole time my dad was dying. There were some serious assholes around, making it more miserable than it already was.

Anyway.

Okay, now I have five minutes before I have to unplug, go home and be with my little guy. I'm actually feeling a lot of relief from the pain I was in yesterday. A night of semi-decent sleep and a restorative session will do that.

It's funny, I was getting all ramped up on my teaching schedule, then we left for Colorado for nearly two weeks. (That is its own adventure worth reading about!) The three of us, crammed into our car, for 8-9 hours a day of travel. We stopped in Boulder (the site of the true beginning of my life, oh so many years ago), went to my husband's art show opening in Fort Collins (he had a photograph in a group show! yeah!) and then on to a rural community up in Northern Colorado to stay the weekend with cousins. It was idyllic. And the driving was stressful, over snowy roads and icy mountain passes. But I hate flying, so I was willing to drive over slick highways. It was SO good for all of us. Bodhi loves to travel. This is good.

Okay, now I have two minutes left and I'll need to pack up. It's raining here in Austin, which is actually rare these days. We've been in a two-year-long drought. It has been quite unbearable, in fact. Enough to consider leaving this place. But meanwhile, the rain is sweet.

BACK to my thoughts on my teaching schedule! So yeah, a trip away derailed it. It's always so ridiculously hard to gain momentum of attendance for a yoga class, and if you miss a class, you have a sub, but the students seem to take forever to trickle back in. What IS that thing? It's so real. I had a good size group today, but who knows how it will be tonight and the rest of the week since I missed two weeks? Well. The point is, I was loving teaching so many more classes, but now...well. I have choices in this life. And I love teaching yoga. But it isn't my calling. It is a passion, and I'm very good at it, and I have a lot to offer. To be sure. But if I don't reserve the majority of my free time for writing I will not survive. I need my yoga too, but I really need the writing now. So that is where most of my free time is going to go for a while.

And now I really have to go.

Return of the Dark Night of the Soul

Oh dears.

I love the holidays.

I really do.

I love the trees, the lights, the food, the family, the friends, the time off, the time on...but what I don't love is the insanity. The "just one more thing" I always add to my day or my life. And here I am, doing this one more thing, writing a little blog entry when it's almost midnight and I could barely function all day because I was so exhausted.

Well, some of it was emotional.

I had to go in for a mammogram today. It's been a year. Last year's mammogram revealed that there had been changes in my breast tissue, "calcifications." You never want to hear that.  Especially if your mom had (and survived) breast cancer. It was fucked up.

Anywho, it all turned out okay. But that same breast, that calcificationsy  breast, has been fuller and thicker than the other for many months now. It's about twice the size of the right. Which I guess is somewhat normal, but the difference between the two has gotten quite profoundly obvious. I've also had a frozen shoulder on the left, still have it after over a year now, and my theory is that fluid can't move out of the ducts on that side as readily as they can on the right. Which is not very good news in itself, but helps me to make sense of the size disparity and the density disparity. Left breast = Pamela Anderson, Right breast = Deflated balloon animal.

I carry around with me this sense of dread ever since my son was born.

Like this is all just too wonderful to be true, to last. Surely one of us will be struck down with some horrible disease, or worse.

I hate that my mind will go there. And that I'm so afraid to write it out, to spell it out here, for you to read.

But it's true. Agonizingly, heartrendingly, true.

Just before the scary mammogram last year, I had gone through this horrendous process of having his preschool teacher tell us that she thought he had sensory issues, would possibly grow up and never have any friends, was going to need help...etc. Fast forward a year, and I put him in preschool again, hoping that his issues would resolve or ease..and for the most part, the shit has eased. But today a couple of things happened that re-triggered me and sent me down the dark spiral of shameful despair.

I'm still ambivalent about the prospect of School, of ANY kind of school.  As wonderful as his school is, my jury is still out on it. I love the other parents. Love the teachers. Love the other kids. But...I don't know. I'm never sure 100 percent that he is in the right place.

So we will see.

So there ya go, a little trip down memory lane and back into my Dark Night days. Today I sobbed and felt hollowed out by it all.

So I better go get some sleep...and tell you all about my poem in the poetry anthology and the screenwriting and poetry workshops I just signed up for....later.

Happy Birthday to Us

Don't think I don't think about this blog all the time.

I do.

I know, I abandoned it in favor of facebook, where I can get instant gratification on witticisms and/or commentary. It's very seductive.

Nowadays I hear people refer to blogs as "longform." And that we have all abandoned this longform for the shortform.

Guilty as charged!

My thing was always revealing too much. "Telling the hard truths." In my writing, that is. In my performances. Sort of socking it to the audience.

I still value that.

So much has happened since the last entry here. I started teaching a lot more, and I set some goals to live out my wildest dreams. There are a couple of things I know I need to do, things I owe it to myself to do, before I die. Or before I turn 50.

I have been reminiscing, feeling what it felt like for me four years ago at this hour. I was probably being turned away from the hospital again. I've gotten less angry about my birth experience, but no less emotional. Tonight I was standing in the kitchen, cooking cupcakes, and quietly sobbing.

So there ya go. A woman has survived the dark night of her soul.

And got a baby in the process.

Only now he's four. He says "Mo-om" in that teenager-y way; he yells at me and slams the door. He is a small body full of huge feelings. He is also entertaining beyond belief, wearing a new costume every single day, and making up songs and stories. Telling us his dreams.

Tomorrow we are throwing a medium-large shindig for him at the Zoo. Some old friends and new friends will be there. I'm looking forward to it, actually.

I better get some sleep and think about writing here again soon.

Dear Bodes,

In case you ever somehow read this
I want you to know:
you are an amazing kid.

I can't believe how many times a day you tell me you love me.
How creative, hilarious, inventive and mischievous you are.
You change from costume to costume all day long.
You rock out and make the goofiest faces when you hear
the Black Keys, the White Stripes, and your little kid music.
You cry over sad songs.
You demand that we respect it when you cry. And we do.
You are, right now, uninhibited and free.
You have said, more than once or twice, "I love myself!" and "I love my body!"
I hope to God you retain this for the rest of your life.
I no longer worry about you, how you are going to do with others.
I worry about how the world may try to crush you.
How a bitter child might look askance at you, or envy you, or put shame on you.
I pray your spirit be indomitable, stainless, bullet proof.
I pray you find your tribe of supporters and lovers and friends.
I pray that you know down to the cellular level, down to your soul,
life is a beautiful game.
You're already a winner.
You're perfect just the way you are.
Show me, guide me, teach me
make your passions evident
so that I may nourish them in you,
and give you plenty to go on, more than enough support to
follow them and to realize your dreams.
Over and over.

Two Minute Baby Meditation

I am trying to give myself at least two minutes every morning, first thing, even before I get out of bed, to revel in quiet and empty space. So far so good.

Last Monday nightI attended my parenting guru, Carrie Contey's, workshop on parenting a four year old. Since that is what I will have in a few months. Right now he is still decidedly THREE. But all of the wisdom I absorbed last night must have been of great comfort to me; I was at the very end of my tether yesterday, completely depleted, flat-ly depressed, and hormonally bereft. I had nothing left. I was running on empty. My battery had drained. I was a shell, a husk of a woman. A mere shadow of my former self.

I was tiiiiiired.

So tired.

And just being around other parents who are also dealing with biting, screaming, kicking, adorable little people, all of whom are trying so hard to Parent for a Peaceful World, was balm for my soul. I know for sure we are not meant to parent in a vacuum. Nor are we meant to parent among judgmental a-holes, but it happens. Usually the biggest judgey-a-hole of my parenting is myself. At least it's obvious when others are doing it to me, and I can easily and righteously be properly outraged. When it's myself, well, I have every right to skewer my  horrible parenting skills (or lack thereof) and I know, while no one else does, that deep down inside I am a cruel, lazy, selfish chicken poop of a mommy.

Sheesh.

So much of my Yoga Work has been to lovingly and thoroughly, systematically at times, embrace all the parts of my self. It's easy to embrace the smart, slender, hilarious parts. It's harder to embrace the chunky, angry, petty parts of my self. But those irritants are my best teachers, the rough edges that keep me interested and involved.

Speaking of irritants, I really struggle when we are around other parents, the types who are still doing it "the old way," and not in the Slow Family Living way. And when I'm tired, which is often but not always, I struggle. Period.

So at some point during Carrie's presentation, I told of a weekend incident in which I, against my intuition, took my son to the swimming pool "for his own good." Even though I was already feeling vulnerable, angry with my husband (who was in a kung fu workshop all weekend), and deeply tired and resentful of _____ (you name it), I went. Even though I felt fat. Weird. Out of sync. And lo and behold, all of my worst fears about my child's behavior (He's too clingy! Autistic!) (He doesn't understand boundaries! SPD!) (He'll never have any friends! He doesn't see that they don't want him here!) (He won't share! He's a serial killer with no empathy! And look! He's hitting and splashing someone! He's a Bad Seed!) played out. I was MISERABLE. And the other parents, who seemed kind enough, just triggered me with their behavior (They are so much younger and more fit than I am! They must be wondering what such an old-looking mom is doing with a young boy!) including continuously calling him "Brody" instead of "Bodhi" (Do I correct them? They'll think it's a weird name and ostracize us! Why did I give him such a hippie name? What's wrong with me? Does he know that's a socially unacceptable name? That it brands him and his parents as weirdos, as worthy of scorn, as LIBERAL NEW AGERS or worse, TREND-FOLLOWERS?) OH WOE. IS ME. Why didn't I just name him Jack?

Ugh. Well. The moral to the story, as Carrie gently pointed out to me when I brought it up during the workshop, is that SELF CARE COMES FIRST. She reminded me/us that perhaps I shouldn't have put myself and therefore the two of us in that vulnerable situation when I was feeling desperate before we even left. That his "acting out" was his effort to maybe get energy from another source, since he wasn't going to be getting it from me. And yes, there is a fine line between honoring the self and getting out of the house and getting transformed by it, AND in wallowing in self pity, and in pushing yourself when you're already depleted. So I guess I'm not done learning that lesson yet.

Thus enters the Two Minute Baby Meditation.

Every morning, before I check my iPhone, I remember to breathe and create space for two minutes. Before the storm. And I do it sitting up if I can, though lying down with it is just fine. It's becoming habit, which I know means I am accumulating prana, and conserving energy. It is changing my life, dare I say.

I know, it's not a week-long silent meditation retreat. Not in chronological time, anyway. In the big scheme of things, in the eternal flow of time, it is. Every day. So when I give myself that much space in a day, the old junk clears out, and there is room for new insight and clarity.

There is so much to be said for this, for any practice at all.