For all you parents out there who think their young kids take advantage, consider this:
A Deaf child who doesn’t want to go to bed, really can act like he’s not listening if he refuses to look at you…
Tag Archives: writing
Making Everyone Happy
They say you can’t make everyone happy. But what if you can’t help trying?
I’m okay to a point. I can say no to people if I feel that what I’m saying no to is in most people’s best interests. Or if what they’re asking for is impossible. Take Alex, my youngest son, for instance. He asks me to take him to the toy store a minimum of ten times a day, every weekend. I tell him I don’t have the money to buy him a video game every weekend and I stick to it… mostly. On average he somehow ends up with about six a year.
On Friday my mother moved into a retirement home. She is of course not happy – I’m told that it’s rare anyone is, for the first little while. If she lives alone it will be up to me to get her groceries, take her to her appointments, make sure she’s safe and healthy, and all this from the other end of town. Granted, it’s not a big town. But when I’m faced with dragging a kid around who may or may not be hooked up to a feeding pump and leaving my Autistic son, Chris, at home alone for an indeterminate period of time, it is a big deal for me.
Having her in the home where she can be supervised 24/7 is a huge worry off my shoulders, both because I know she’s safe and I know she’s eating well. And yet I can’t stop thinking, What’s one more thing? I can handle it… make her happy and let her live alone.
How do I convince myself that I matter in all this? I have to stay strong.
Stream of Consciousness Saturday Fe22/14
The wind blows where ever it wants to blow. It’s warming up outside and so the gusts are fierce. It’s days like today when branches weakened from the weight of snow and ice come down on roofs and cars (two things I’ve been having problems with of late). Times like this I listen to the creaking of the trees around my house and I want to say to the wind:
Wind, dude, stop blowin’ already. Get outta my trees. C’mon man. Ye’r makin’ me nervous, dude.
But you can’t reason with the wind. It blows where ever it wants.
Like ice. It forms when it snows, and then the snow melts and the water sits there until it freezes into sheets of slippery pavement that have me flailing as I deliver my newspapers. Like the wind, I want to say to the ice:
Ice! Stop being so damn slippery!
But you can’t reason with the ice. It keeps on being slick. So much so that I thought this morning, as I slid around the block not moving my feet because the wind was blowing me on this ice, maybe this combo ain’t so bad after all.
Dude.
Force Of Nature
Remember the pretty icicles?
Look! No more icicles!
And no more eavestroughs too!
*grumblegrumblegrumble*
Shhh! Don’t Tell My Mom
The last thing I want to do is worry my mother, so I’m keeping this quiet. I can tell all of you though, because she doesn’t read my blog.
I think her car is trying to kill me.
I went out in it today to pick up some groceries, for myself as well as for her. As I came up to a stop sign I put my foot on the brake and the engine started to rev. The more I pushed the brake, the faster the engine went – and the faster the car went. Luckily there was nothing coming (and there were no cops around) because I blasted through that stop sign.
Since then I’ve started putting it into neutral when I want to stop. That’ll teach it.
But in the meantime, would someone please tell it I was only going to buy her cookies?
I Don’t Want to Intimidate You, but…
Do you remember how you felt when you started on WordPress? If you’re fairly new here, I would imagine it’s pretty fresh in your mind. Even I consider myself a bit of a newb, but after just a little more than a year I’ve come to feel comfortable here; I’ve found a great community, some wonderful friends, and plenty of people who I can joke around with.
What stands out most in my mind from when I started, however, is how intimidated I felt when I stumbled across a popular blog and I wanted to comment. Should I? They seem like such a tight bunch of people, bantering about things they’ve learned about one another…
So I was considering this, and I wondered if people who are just starting out feel that way when they stop by to read my blog.
In light of my pondering, I decided to change my comment box prompt from “Leave a comment” to what it is now.
How do you make newcomers feel welcome? How do you encourage them to join in the discussion?
How Are Chickens Like Days Off?
I’m within an hour of the end of two days off. Yesterday I got a fair bit of work done on my manuscript – almost fifteen pages edited, which for me is flying through. I managed to take the evening off from everything and just watch an episode of “Breaking Bad.” I’ve only watched two so far – still wondering what all the hype’s about.
Then today I was woken up early with a phone call – Chris was sick at school and they couldn’t reach his dad. So I texted my ex, got up, delivered the papers, had a piece of toast and lay on the couch … and proceeded to sleep most of the day away. No editing accomplished.
How are chickens like days off?
Don’t count them before they’re hatched.
I need a week off.
Of All the Things to Whine About
I’m content. Basically, I am happy with my life, and yes, I’m whining about it. Let me tell you why.
The tortured soul can write poems of epic proportions. In times of loneliness, of pain, of near breakdown, a writer can bleed upon the page. But when this writer has nothing to cause her grief, there is nothing but fluff. Lint, even.
Is it strange to wish I longed for something? To pass my finger quickly through a flame doesn’t hurt. But the flame sparkles, enticingly.
Shall I burn for the sake of my art?
Awareness
Child abuse is a subject that keeps coming up around me of late, and not only because I’ve recently re-released my semi-biographical story, “Boy Series – One through…” A few minutes ago a glimpsed on Facebook a photo which made me want to throw up. I refuse to describe it – it’s one of those things that once seen cannot be unseen, and I’m sure I will have nightmares because of it. It’s worse in my mind than anything I could have imagined by myself, and in many ways, so is my series.
I’ve made the decision for a few reasons, to reveal the man behind the story. It’s not a big secret, and I don’t claim to be the one-and-only person to know… but I think having all the information that I’ve researched in one place will make the true story that much more interesting. I’ve been working, therefore, to compile links to interviews and decide what of his work might be most relevant to the story of his life. Strangely, something he said in one of the interviews I read last night cemented the decision in my mind to do this – it was almost as though I received a sign to say that it’s okay to go ahead.
The excerpt from the interview spoke of a song that he wrote about the tragedy of war. He has written several. He said that, (paraphrased) although there is little we can do about it, just spreading awareness that it exists and what it is like for those who are a part of it, whether it is their own decision to be or not, might cause someone to act differently.
And so I believe it is the same for my story of abuse. The more we are aware that it happens, even in our own neighbourhoods, the more we may look for the signs. Though we may not be able to help all of the children everywhere who suffer, if we can be kind to a child who we think may be abused, it might mean the world to that one child.
To Nav, John, Willow, and to all the people who had a hard time reading my series, I thank you for your perseverance. It was as heartbreaking to write as it is to read, just as it was for me to hear of it originally. I hope you’ll all stick around to learn the truth; to see that the man who was the boy has done well for himself despite the odds, even though he still bears the scars of his own, wretched war.
Missing the Magical Switch
Greater, more successful writers than myself (not a stretch) state that in order to be a writer one must dedicate one’s effort into writing: a writer must write. Here lies my conundrum.
I have no qualms over calling myself a writer. It’s what I do constantly – if I’m not physically typing on a keyboard or writing little notes, I’m composing something in my head with hopes that I’ll remember it.
But being a single mom, 80% responsible for two kids (meaning that I get to sleep 15% of the time and the other 5% is when their dad takes care of them) and having to be always within calling distance of my own mother, I don’t have time to write. What might take me three months more of full-time editing on my novel to render it publishable is, at the rate I’m going, bound to take me three years. Frustrated doesn’t begin to describe it.
I imagine there is, somewhere in the universe, a switch that can be flicked which could cause me to be able to stop merely calling myself a writer and become one. I realize that I cannot expect to ever take on a full-time job; my life is with my children, and taking care of them is apparently my job and mine alone. Would I want it any other way? Absolutely not.
Yet writing is also my life. I don’t live for my children – anyone who says they do, in my opinion, is in for a huge let-down when their kids leave home for good. I live for myself and I am a writer. I have a story that I feel needs to be told, of a world where I hope one day people will be able to escape, as I have. It’s inside me, it’s on my screen and it’s on paper, and all it wants is to be polished to a bright, shiny tale that many will love.
If only the magical switch to make it all come true wasn’t so far out of my reach.
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