I think it’s going to be a long month. I signed up for NaNo Camp but I haven’t written a word yet. I haven’t even opened the story that I want to finish off for the NaNo project. I’m kind of at that paralised stage at the moment, where there’s so much to do I don’t know where to start so instead I play a mindless casual game in order to escape the pressure. And so I got this image in my head that I wrote about on my fiction blog about half an hour ago as my SoCS post over there for today. It’s fiction, but only in the sense that I’m not quite at that stage yet. I might be, before August gets here. You’ll find the link to that post in the comments below the link for this one – it’s not a long piece.
I sometimes wonder where I belong, you see. I belong to my family and to myself, to the extent that I have my own interests to pursue. I signed up for the editing course I’ve been talking about forever. It’s online at Simon Fraser University in BC, Canada. If I can earn the certificate I will have the opportunity to get into Editors Canada, the highest qualification in the land. From there I may start working toward my English degree. But that’s a long way off. I need the editing courses to freelance and earn the money I’ll need to get my BA.
At times I feel as though I belong to the world of literature. I thrive there. At times I feel like I’m biding my time, waiting to get there. But my responsibilities will always be at home, to my kids. Now I have to decide what Chris, my middle son will do with the rest of his life. He’s ambitious but autistic and largely unable to secure a position anywhere for himself. He, too, would like to go back to school, to college, but he’s never been without one-on-one help. It’s scary for me to contemplate.
So many decisions, so little time. So much to do, and not long enough to do it. And yet, July will take forever to be over. What a paradox.
I often feel like a servant in my own house. Because of their disabilities, there’s a good chance I’ll always have to serve my children, to some extent.
But it’s something we all do, isn’t it? There are times when it’s much easier to do a thing ourselves than take the time to teach the kids to do it. In many cases it’s justified: while in the way out the door to an appointment, or getting ready for school in the morning, when we’re tired and just want to get the thing (whatever it is) over and done with. At some point we need to stop and teach though. We do our kids a disservice by waiting on them hand and foot.
I’m tired. Not just from lack of sleep (though there is that) but because of the news. I’ve never paid much attention to what goes on in the USA except for the past few months. It is, of course, due to the Great Orange Threat. I find myself obsessed not only with what it spews but the reactions to what it spews as well, until I find myself mired in so much rhetoric that it leaves me distracted, miserable, and unable to create. A death knoll for someone like me.
My enabler is Facebook, that bottomless pit of drive-thru opinions and baseless regurgitation we all know and despise. So I’ve decided to walk away from it for a while. My posts from WordPress will continue to automatically post to my author page, but I won’t be around to comment. I’m giving it a week, if I’m strong enough. I’ll try to finish as many of the Scrabble games that I have going tonight, and that’ll be it. I’m pulling the plug.
It will be an experiment. To see how much more I get done; to spend the time I would have wasted scanning my newsfeed to write, edit, read books, read blogs, play with my family, exercise, and spend time in the place where I took the picture above. As I sat there this morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much we take for granted. That there will always be places like this. There won’t, unless we start doing something about changing our attitudes and caring about everyone and everything. Without exception.
I need to step back from the rhetoric and find out how I can make a difference, no matter how small. Do you know the definition of the word “rhetoric”? It is the art of effective or persuasive speaking or writing ~ Google. I find it necessary to stop listening to all the voices telling me how to go about doing what’s best for me. And especially, I have to stop watching what I have no power to control. I realize I must decide what is best for me, for my family, for the city I live in, for my country, and for my planet all by myself. Only then can I act. Facebook, for me, has become a means to pointless, futile worry. We’ll see what a week teaches me. Will it kill me? I’ll get back to you on it.
There’s a story behind this one: It started with my best friend, John, writing on my fridge with magnets, “live laugh love.” Later, my eldest son changed it to “give tough love.”
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I’m going to go off on a rant here. It may be bizarre–it may be the most bizarre rant you’ve read all month–but make no mistake about it, it’s a rant. Laugh at me if you must. In fact, it might be for the best if you do – for all of us.
So, menopause. You’ve all heard of it. Even if you’re not there yet or you’ll never be there, you probably know about the hot flashes. Some of you may have read or know first hand about the mood swings. The books all tell us about bouts of unexpected crying, of possible depression, and of flying into rages over the littlest things. But what about the laughter?
Laughter, you ask? I’ve never heard of a menopausal woman flying into a fit of laughter. Well guess what? Neither have I? So why am I ranting about it?
Imagine this scenario: You’re trying to get your kid into bed but he’s busy playing with the dog. You’ve been asking him to get into his pyjamas for fifteen solid minutes. You’re trying to make his bed so he can actually get in it, you’re frustrated, harried from a long day, tired, about to lose your cool, and suddenly the dog jumps on you and your kid starts giggling. And then completely out of the blue, despite the fact that you were just about to blow your stack, you start giggling with the kid. UGGHHH!!! Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to start laughing when you’re trying to be mad?!?
And it keeps happening! Used to be when I was angry, I stayed angry. Wake me up six times through the night because you want to be covered up by me when you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself, I’m going to be damned mad! I’ve got to get up in an hour, and I’ve only slept for 45 minutes all night! But now? By the sixth time I’m snickering and wondering if I’m ready for the funny farm!!
The only reason I can think of for this new bout of hilarity is menopause. Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be like this!!!???!!!
Is it just me? Is that why? If not, let’s discuss this well-kept secret so everyone can have it to look forward to, along with the damned hot flashes!
I spend way too much time on Facebook. The reasons I go there are to find things to laugh at, see pretty pictures, get world news (shake your finger at me if you must, but it’s where learn what’s going on), and get into arguments.
One of my most recent was over the gender bathroom issue. I’m talking about this here at the risk of sounding like I’m trying to validate my views. I’m not. I just really want to talk about it, because it’s been on my mind for weeks. Before I go any further, I want to go on record to state that I’m not against transgender people using the bathroom of their choice. I realize the chances of a transgender woman (male to female) getting beaten to death is much higher if she uses the men’s washroom than that she will abuse anyone in the women’s washroom. In fact chances are that she’s so self-conscious, it’s unlikely she’d even look anyone in the eye, let alone peek under a bathroom stall. I’m not here to debate whether it’s right or wrong for transgender people to choose a bathroom. If you are not of the same opinion as I, that is your right. If you comment just to state your opinion on which side you’re on, you’ll get a smile emoji and I’ll say nothing else. All I really ask is that you keep it civil.
The whole Facebook argument started when I came across a meme on a friend’s page concerning not only the bathroom issue, but whether or not transgender people should use change rooms in gyms. I wasn’t aware that this was an issue, so my comment was something like, You mean they’re allowed to use public change rooms too? Okay, yes I probably could have worded it better. I was called out for using both the word “they” and the word “allowed.” I had to explain that I didn’t mean I think transgender people are inhuman, but rather I was speaking in a broad sense the same way I would speak about men vs. women. I don’t consider men to be inhuman, even though I call them “them” when differentiating between my sex and the sex that isn’t mine. Also, I didn’t mean to say that they’re any less human by saying they’re not “allowed” to use the women’s washroom, any more than I’m saying cisgendered men are lesser beings because they’re not “allowed” to use the women’s washroom. They’re not. Right? I just love over-sensitivity.
So on with the actual discussion. I told the woman I was speaking to (we’ll call her Mary) that I wasn’t necessarily against transgender women using a change room where she could feel comfortable. I agreed it was important that she not have to change in front of men. But in all the gym change rooms I’ve been into, everyone gets naked and I wouldn’t be comfortable changing in front of a person who is, no matter how she identifies or feels deep inside to be, is still physically a man. And I wouldn’t want my daughter (if I had one) to be confronted with a grown man’s penis. Mary asked me what there was to be afraid of. It’s just a penis.
I tried to explain to her that the sex education of my children should be up to me, that I should be able to decide when the time, the place, and the mode of teaching is appropriate. I believe it is both my right and my responsibility as a parent to choose how and when my children learn certain things. No one should make this choice for me, whether it’s a person with the physical attributes of a male in a change room or a flasher on the street. She disagreed, telling me that it would be the perfect opportunity to teach a young daughter the difference between boys and girls. She said it was the same as when her daughter asked about her infant son. She then went on to tell me how much of a bigot I am, and how I’m part of the problem.
The next day I went to my government’s website to see how we deal with this situation in Ontario (Canada). I found out that my government does its best to accommodate transgender people. They state that it’s necessary for all businesses to have a safe place for everyone to go to the washroom, change, and shower. Most facilities already have family rooms that are well-partitioned and/or are for single-person use. This, to me, is the perfect solution and ensures that everyone is comfortable. Still, I’m seen as a bigot.
It seems there is a line between common sense and entitlement. Political correctness, not wanting to offend anyone and over-sensitivity overrun our society to the point that there is little logic left in the world. Society runs on emotion, and that is the case for Mary who, as I found out later in our discussion, is the mother of a transgender girl.
I believe until we, as a society, are able to think with our brains rather than our hearts we will always be in conflict. But hasn’t it always been that way?
What makes one a parent? Is it the simple act of creating another life? Or is it having days like the one I’m having today? It started with coming out of my bedroom to find the kid at the top of the stairs holding a dog biscuit up above his head and the dog about to jump up at him from the stair above (the kid was one step down from the top) and about to knock him down the entire flight backwards.
Said kid has been frustrated all day by one thing after another, and screaming his head off (as he is now) and testing my limits as he does it.
The second time he tried to kill himself today (I’m saying this is the second, because things come in threes and I want it to be over already) he decided he wasn’t going to eat today. At all. I had visions of him ending up in hospital hooked up to an IV because his heart can’t handle dehydration.
And then (you’ll really get a kick out of this one) he pulled the power cord out of his laptop (still plugged into the wall) and decided it might be yummy. He actually put it in his mouth before I noticed. !!!!!
If being stressed out means being a parent to a child who doesn’t realize how self-destructive he’s being, and actually staying with him while he practically kills me, then apparently I’m a parent.
I actually thought about recording him but I don’t want my audience to hate me. You’re welcome.
P.S. In case you’re not sure how to take this post, I’m still smiling. Smile with me. We’re all still alive.
Do you remember those infant’s toys that demonstrate the sounds all the animals make? Maybe you still have one laying around the house. Loads of fun, and a great teaching tool as well.
My first two kids played with one of those things until I was ready to strangle the turkey and eat it for dinner. Yet strangely, when Alex was born, I missed being able to add the detail of what an animal sounded like to its name. Or its sign, as was the case.
This has transferred to everyday life. The word, “zip” makes no sense to him in an onomatopoeic way. He processes impacts such as “bang” and “clap” in a very different way to those of us who can hear. He feels them.
Having said all that, Winston has a very loud bark indeed. Loud enough that it penetrates Alex’s profound, though not complete, hearing loss. I can finally have fun with, “The dog says, ‘Woof!'” once again.
In my post yesterday, about how difficult it is for my son, Alex, to play with the neighbourhood children, I mentioned that part of his problem is my fault. Thing is, the other kids tend to play from one side of the street to the other and up and down both sides. Kids, being kids, sometimes run across the street to beat the traffic. If Alex follows them but doesn’t see the car, (and of course he doesn’t hear it) the results are literally the stuff of nightmares for me. The traffic on my street should be going at 40km/h (25mph) but occasionally people speed down it as though they were the only ones on the road. On that account I’ve tried to get the city to put up signs, but they refused, saying they deal only with signs that meet provincial standards.
The signs I’ve seen in this province, in various towns and cities, include “Elderly Persons Crossing,” “Children at Play,” “Turtle Crossing,” and “Duck Crossing.” But they won’t put one up for my Deaf son. There are actually a couple of “Deaf Children at Play,” signs across town, but they won’t put one up here. They told me that perhaps they’ve been there since the guidelines were changed.
As parents, we all have to advocate for our kids, whether for their schooling, the services they need, their health… The list goes on. This is just one of the many I have to deal with. I need to find help, I think.
What have you advocated for on your family’s behalf and succeeded?
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