The Best Parenting Book Ever

Nothing prepares you for parenting. Nothing. It's the most difficult thing you will ever endeavor to do. Part of the difficulty lies in the fact that there is no how-to manual. Oh

This would be the cover pic of my parenting book.
If you don't know why, you probably don't need
the book! 

sure, you will read books on parenting but, in my experience, they aren't terribly realistic. They are like magazines that have the call-out, Top Most Slimming Swimsuits, on the cover, then you turn to the pages and see they are modeled by women who have never said, "why, yes, I would like to super size that!"

If I were to write a parenting book, I might call it, Parenting for Dummies - You Are a Dummy, or The World's Okayest Parent! Not sure, still tossing around ideas. But, I know for certain these would be some of the chapters:

When You Don’t Know Who Did It

When You Know Who Did It but You Can't Prove It

When You’re Sick on the Toilet and A Kid Starts Screaming

When You Agree to Something While You’re Asleep

How You Ended Up with Guinea Pigs

So help me, child...

Perfecting Your "So Help Me Child," Look

How Not to Laugh While Fussing at Your Kids

What to Do When Your Kids Pee in the Sink as an April Fool's Joke

How Not to Laugh During a Teacher Conference

When You Discover Your Child Hasn't Worn Underwear in Months

Who's Poop is This? 

Hiding Places for Parents

When You Forget It's Your Turn to Bring Snacks 

Coffee Matters

Why Dad Always Gets to Sleep In and How to Make Sure the Kids Wake Him 

You are Always Wrong

How to Be Everywhere at the Same Time 

100 Kind Ways to Say Shut Up

When There’s No Toilet Paper

When All the Kids Vomit at the Same Time

All Your Friends Are Better Parents Than You

Chocolate Matters

You Have a Mini Van. Now What?

Why Everyone in the PTO Looks at You Like That

In truth, I think parenting is incredibly difficult because you're trying to do it right, because you love your children more than yourself, because you care. I try to remind myself of that. Most of the time, I'm pretty sure I'm messing up. But, at least I am aware of my ineptness. Something to be said for that, right?  

360 Fusion AKA Fried Egg Surgery

I had back surgery. And, technically, front surgery too. Ultimately it was for my spine. Part of it was done with me lying on my back and part with me lying on my stomach. I asked about the logistics of that, how I would go from one side to the other. The doctor said they would turn me which, considering I was under anesthesia, must have been something like flopping over a huge fried egg! 

I had a collapsed disc, L5, for you sticklers for detail. The collapsed disc pressed on a nerve and caused foot drop which means I lost function in my foot, the left, as well as feeling. If you don’t correct that situation within a few days, the foot deal becomes permanent and you live the rest of your life walking like a “gangsta” and with a cane. Which, admittedly, sounds cool but a look I’m pretty sure I

Also, if I had a gangsta
limp, I'd dress like the pimp
from I'm Gonna Get You
Sucka!

couldn’t pull off nor wish to attempt. (For the record, if I had a cane, it would be a steam punk deal that would look like a regular cane but then when I hit a button, all kinds of gears would appear and dispense little doubloons of dark chocolate. Not that I’ve given it much thought…or drawn out the specs… and sent them to an engineer…)

Thankfully, I was able to have surgery in time, however I still do not have full function or feeling in my foot. If I walk slowly, like maybe I’m trying to creep up on somebody, you can’t tell. If I pick up the pace, which is still difficult still two weeks post-op, I look like I have a “hitch in my get-a-long.” It is improving daily, 
thank the Lord.

Fall risk, indeed! You have no idea!

It was a big surgery, a 360 Fusion it’s called, and a much bigger deal than I expected. I didn’t understand the scope of the thing, it was done in an emergency so there wasn’t much time for me to wrap my brain around it. But, I got a better idea when the anesthesiologist said I would be intubated and when placed on my stomach, he would breathe for me. I think my reaction was, “Ex-squeeze me?” I suppose I thought it would be a little stick here, a few stitches there. And, really that’s all it was it your idea of a little stick is three, four inch long incisions. (I wonder how much of that I have to blame on my surgeon’s large hands.) After that, a neurologist came in and put little stickers all over me. She said they were the sites where she was going to attach wires to monitor the signals from my spinal cord!!! (WHAT??? I seriously felt like I was a bad sci fi movie starring Keanu Reeves. Just kidding. No Keanu Reeves sci fi movie is bad. EVER.) 

First, they went in through my abdomen and pulled out the disc. I asked what they did with my guts, throw them into a bowl? My surgeon is a serious man who doesn’t find me amusing in the least He claimed it was not an issue. So, yeah, I’m assuming they just scooped out my entrails and threw them into a stainless steal bowl. You can totally do that. I’ve seen it on The Walking Dead.

After they pulled out the disc they turned me over (fried egg), they screwed in some stuff, one of which is a spacer with polycarbonate fibers that extend into the gap. Eventually, bone will grow into the space, through the fibers, thus making me a bona fide cyborg or something like that. It was explained to me at some point but I forget what they said so I looked up a live surgery on YouTube, which I strongly suggest against. Oh my word! That’s a scar that won’t heal! Anyway, when it’s all said and done, you end up with something that looks like this...

TA DA!

Now, speaking of fried eggs, if you are my age-ish, 80s pre-teen/teen, you may remember the anti-drug, fried egg commercial. “This is your brain, (they showed an egg) this is your brain on drugs (they cracked the egg into a frying pan and it fried). Any questions?”  

That commercial is perfect for my circumstance as not only did I have fried egg surgery but while under the influence of pain meds and anesthesia my brain was super fried. Still is actually. I won’t lie. Even though I haven’t taken pain meds in days, and the anesthesia is long since gone (is it?), there’s still a fog over me. I forget a lot of stuff. If you want me to remember something, write it down. Then write another note reminding me that the note you wrote is real and I didn’t dream it. And put a little top by it so I can spin it and make sure I’m not in one of those Inception situations.  

Before the surgery, I was in a lot of pain and the doctor gave me a script for some humdingers! I took the pills and drunk texted my friends, yes, plural. I texted multiple people, I remember it and it made so much sense in the sweet, sweet arms of hydrocodone. Mind you, I’ve never been high or drunk and am diminutive to boot. So, when I take something, I get my money’s worth as you will see.

“I feel squishy and like the world loves me.”

How I felt, in a nut shell

“The world feels like a kitten.”

“I just want to text everyone and tell them I love them…And I love you so much and you lob me.” (yes, lob)

“I feel everything I see. The walls are petting my eyes.”

“My eyes are furry.”

“I am so so so stoned.”

Also, once, while watching TV, the screen suddenly went black. I had the remote in my hand and started touching buttons and I could hear the TV change but couldn’t see it…because my eyes were closed.

In the hospital it was a bit worse. I don’t even remember some of this. It was told to me after the fact. What I do remember coming out of my mouth, I also remember thinking, “this is not what I want to say but I’m still saying it.”  

1. “I got a whoooooole other leg under there.” - do not remember. The cardiologist said I told him this as he examined one of my legs. I’m assuming “under there” refers to a blanket and during surgery they didn’t some how fold my legs up under me Transformer style.
2. “You got to show this to my husband because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know any of it. Ok? You have to show him. Because he just won’t know.” - do not remember. Said this to the nurse as she bandaged my incisions. Apparently my poor husband was standing right there watching, learning how to bandage me, and I was clueless to his presence. Then suddenly, for whatever reason, I did see him and I screamed and jerked. I remember that part. It was like he was a ghost…which I also saw. Keep reading.
3. “Can you feed me more paint chips?” - remember. I laughed after I said it. I was asking my husband for more ice chips. I then turned to nurse, told her what I said and laughed and laughed some more.
4. “First night you stay in the hospital is free.” - do not remember. I do remember that I was sitting up in bed talking to my friend Max. She was asking about the hospital stay and how much insurance covered. Well, apparently, for me, first night was free!
5. “I need shag (carpet).” - remember. People, I called the nurses’ station at 3:00AM for this one. It blasted over their monitor. Here’s the rest of it…
6. “This thing is here and it’s here. It’s the thing.” - again, remember. I heard these words coming out of my mouth and could not stop them nor communicate in any fashion that my IV was beeping.

Also, there was a ghost cat in my room. It ran around my bed at night. I saw it. Since I’m being honest, I saw a ghost too. It walked to my bed then the ghost cat ran around the bed, scared by the regular ghost no doubt.

Leaving the hospital didn’t stop my craziness. On the drive home, every time my husband turned, braked, or moved I jumped and threw my legs and hands out, like one of those baby ducks that are hatched at the top of trees and have to jump down like 50 feet to the forest leaf bed below. Except I clung to the car door and gasped. About the tenth time, my husband asked if I could just please stay awake. I was going to cause him to wreck. I couldn’t stay awake. Just couldn’t, I told him then he shushed me. Apparently, on narcotics, I’m a bit of a loud talker.  

Two weeks later, although foggy minded still, I am doing well. As I said, I am slowly regaining use of my foot, have little incision pain and NO back pain. That’s a huge deal for me. I’m walking daily, without a walker (hurray!), and doing therapy. Over the next months, my L5 disc will fuse with the mechanism and attach to the disc below, S1. This apparently will restrict my movement a bit but so did the pain beforehand, so, what’s the diff?

I didn’t tell many people about this. Again, it was an emergency surgery so there wasn’t much time. Those I did prayed for me and my friends have helped me, checked on me, walked with me when I didn’t want to walk, called me and suffered my drug induced ramblings. Above all, my husband has taken care of me and all but

Not the baby carrier I was
referring to but this is
AWESOME!

carried me in a Bjorn thing on his chest. He’s good people. They say love is not having to say you’re sorry. Nope. Love is helping your wife shower while she’s crying in a drug induced stupor, “this isn’t sexy, I’m so sorry.” I appreciate him so much and all of you even though you hadn’t a clue about any of it. Situations like this do that somehow, make you appreciate things. They say you don’t know what you got till it’s gone, but I think it’s more that once something is gone, you finally see how much you have left. 

I’m very blessed. 

Now pardon me while I go feed the ghost cat.

Pork and Beans With a Side of Anxiety

Pork...the other white meat.

I know in my last post I said I would write about what’s great about Asperger’s syndrome. And, I will. I just need more time. It’s hard for me ‘cause it’s very personal. I mean, it’s my kid and it gets me all emotional…so let’s just settle down, ok? Let’s just all relax! I will get to it!  

Speaking of my son, he loves guinea pigs. There’s one at school that he has wrapped in a blanket and rocked to sleep. Seriously. He and that little cavy both relax in one another’s presence which, for my son, is a precious thing. He struggles greatly with anxiety as most Asperger’s kids do. I think we’d all be anxious if, like autistic folks, we heard every sound, noticed every light, smelled everything, tasted every ingredient, felt the smallest

Pork and Beans. This is the best
pic I could get of the two as they
are loathe to stand still and pose!

temperature change and were “on” all the time. But, I digress. 

So, we decided to add guinea pigs to our household. And, because I went to gifted school and am an idiot savant - emphasis on the former - , I did not read up on them at all. I had no idea what I was in for. I knew the one guinea pig from the one teacher’s class and my first impression was: that pink bottom lip is creepy. BUT, for the sake of my son, I will do anything, including walk blindly into rodent ownership.

This is an actual guinea pig,
a Peruvian. It's the Donald
Trump of cavies.

We went to the pet store and my kiddos picked out two. Ya need to get two, I did know that. They are community creatures and according to the sales gal, can, in fact, die of loneliness. I did not know that! I also did not know that we would have to leave them untouched in their cage for at least three days to avoid stressing them out and giving them a heart attack. Yes, a little heart attack. (As this is an issue, shouldn’t the pet store automatically give you a “Borrower” sized automatic defibrillator machine? Some little nitro glycerin pills? Something!) Apparently they are anxious creatures. In the wild, (Do they really exist in the wild? Do they? Especially the ones that look like four footed toupees.) they are all prey all the time so they must be on their guard always. Which, yes, lends itself to anxiety.

So, we got them home and my son named them Pork and Beans much to the chagrin of his sister who wanted one to be Captain Cuddles, which is a pretty awesome name. We put those tribbles in their cage and they lost their hairy minds! They scurried and I have to say, weeks later, they still scurry. It doesn’t matter how often I talk to them, and I do, feed them, and I do, they still dart around that cage like I am gonna pop one of them into my mouth Jabba the Hut style.

Here is what I have learned about guinea pigs since becoming an owner:

1. They are emotional creatures. They talk nonstop telling you of their woes and constant hunger. However, they don’t talk to you directly. You come close and they clam up. But, oh, you turn around and they are all, “wheep, wheep, we need service over here!”

2. They also avoid eye contact. They look to the side of me, it seems. Obviously eye contact with the likes of a beast such as I is too much for them what with their delicate hearts and all.

Still one of my favorite shows ever!

3. They are funny about being touched. Some days they are fine with it, other days they panic. And, you can’t push it with the touching. Remember, they will keel over from anxiety: cavy cardio infarction. That is ever present on my mind. Seriously. I imagine them standing up, putting their four fingered paw over their heart Fred Sanford style and squeeling, “Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you honey,” as they deposit another five dozen poops in their food bowl.

4. They are picky eaters. Today they like carrots, tomorrow no and careful what greens you feed them or they will explode with intestinal gas like hairy, over-filled, party balloons.

5. They are sensitive to the temperature of the house.

6. They are sensitive to loud sounds.

7. They are sensitive to very bright lights and sometimes need their cage covered with a blanket. They will feel more safe that way and they need little shelters to run into as well. Being out in the open can overwhelm them. And, you know what that can cause…

8. They purr (yes, really) but the purr sounds strangely like the brrrr, a sound they use to express anger. So, you never know what you’re getting. It’s really messed up. Love/hate/love/hate - loves me/loves me not/loves me/loves me not. I went to middle school already, ok? I don’t need that type of emotional roller coaster again.

Look at our cat at the top
right of the pin. She watches
those pigs like they're
Game of Thrones!

9. Speaking of hate, hell hath no fury like a guinea pig scorned. They can get royally ticked off out of nowhere and even though they won’t hurt you, they got those teeth so you are very aware they COULD hurt you. (I have run the scenario through my head many times, them gnawing my face off, and the horror would shock Wes Craven.)

10. They do not like change. Don’t go switching bedding or furniture around in their cage. It causes them great anxiety. (Insert death dirge)

11. They are funny about how you touch them. Beans will buck your hand away if you touch her head but purrs when I scratch her back. I think she is purring. She may be lashing me with lower food chain curses. Pork still freezes when I pet her. Again, Jabba the Hut syndrome. 

So, I went and bought two little anxiety-ridden creatures that are hyper sensitive to the

My son holding Beans and
talking to either her butt or
face. Hard to tell the two apart!

world around them because they are constantly “on”. They are touchy about sound, lights, touch, tastes, have delicate constitutions, always need a safe place to hide and have proven themselves to be nothing if not mercurial. In essence, people, I have upped the autistic population of my household 300%.  Wait...(mathing, mathing...) 200%! Again, IDIOT savant here. Or, you can just go with idiot. It is what it is.

On a good note, these little poop machines remind me what my little man is going through every moment of everyday. If I can remain calm with these pigs, in which I have no vested interest outside of a little cash and more sanity than I care to admit, I can summon a little more patience with my kid in whom I have invested nearly ten years. I now understand why he loves these fur balls like he does. The world may not see it, but inside, just like Pork and Beans, he is scurrying too. And, he is looking to me to reassure him that everything will be ok, that he won’t be gobbled up by the world Jabba the Hut style.

Now, if you will excuse me, the door bell just rang and I need to make sure the cavies haven’t gone teets up with fright. “Hold on Pork and Beans! Don’t go into the light!”

Where I've Run Off To

Before anyone corrects my grammar, my title is a Southern colloquialism. “Where’d you go off to?” is a way of asking why you haven’t been around. It’s usually followed by “how’s ya mama?” The response to the later is, “old.” The former unfortunately can’t be answered so succinctly. Oh, before I forget, I’m not even stressing over grammar and punkchooashun in this one.

How I feel most of the time.

When I began my blog, I never thought anyone would actually read it. I hoped, but I wasn’t counting on it. But, I’ll be dipped, I thew out some scraps out and now I can’t shoo you away. Bless your hearts. (Which is Southern for many things but in this instance it means you must be a little nuts. Wow, I stink of country today.) It means a lot to me though, you hanging around on my porch like you do. That  in mind, you asked and I feel like I oughta answer. Where’d I go? Well, crazy town. And, to be honest, I’m still there. It’s not bad. More crowded than I expected.

I don’t talk about my personal life much to anyone. I am mindful that when I speak about me personally, I am speaking about those in my life by default: my husband, my kids. The second of those I guard closely. And my absence has been because of one of them. 

My son is on the autism spectrum. It wasn’t obvious at first, at least not to us. He was our normal. He has always been very bright and introverted. However, with age, that intelligence and introversion changed. Slowly, bit by bit, a toothbrush and single sock at a time, Aspergers syndrome interloped into our home and we didn’t have a clue what it was until it was hanging out on the couch making a real mess of things.

If you don’t know what Aspergers or autism is, join the club. Even those of us who are hip deep have trouble describing the thing. Best I can do is it’s a brain condition that hinders people in navigating the world mentally and physically. It doesn’t make it impossible, it just makes it hard. Like swimming through oatmeal hard. (For the record, I’ve never done that. As far as you know …)

Folks with Aspergers, in particular, are great people. I love being around them. My next post, if I can birth another - yes, this one feels a bit like birth. I’m grunting and breathing hard as I type. I’m also in a hospital gown and on tons of pain medication but that’s just because it’s Thursday. Tomorrow I will wear long johns and talk like a pirate. You know, the normal Friday thing. Anyway, if I can get another post written, it will be about the awesomeness of Aspergers.

Awesome though it is, it has difficulties, especially heading into puberty. Once the frontal lobe of the brain develops more, many of the struggles lessen. I keep saying that to myself, clinging to the day when our lives calm down. For now, we are, wow, how to describe it… Well to quote the

Cheshire cat: “We’re all mad here. I’m mad, your mad. We’re all quite mad.”

People with Autism are very sensitive to the world around them. They see, hear, smell, feel, taste everything. It overwhelms them and often to protect themselves they do one of two things: they go inside themselves and quietly ignore the outside world, maybe patting themselves, humming or rocking. Or, they have a meltdown, a very loud meltdown that looks like a tantrum. If it happens publicly that is what folks will think it is and they will make everything better by looking at you with heaping loads of judgement. (That’s sarcasm. It doesn’t make it better. At all.)

Sometimes we see the meltdown coming. Other times it’s like the stomach flu when one minute you’re fine, the next it all gets very real, very loud and painfully destructive. Either way, we live not knowing, for the most part, when it will all fall apart. And as his mother, I walk around sick with anxiety. I hold it together pretty well most of the time. Then, just like the stomach flu, the anxiety just comes out with an explosive shock except it’s tears not vomit and diarrhea. I am thankful for that, I have to admit. Although, I think if it were the later, folks would understand more. They wouldn’t question my absence or aloofness. They would smile, wave from a distance and say, “no, no, it’s ok, really. We don’t want you to volunteer/call back/attend/participate/act normal…no, really! Stay away! We will love you from way over here.”

Having anxiety is walking around too close to a ledge. Your stomach is sick, your legs feel weird, you tremble, feel off balance and use all of your energy to simply stay upright. But, nobody sees your ledge. They don’t even see you teetering. You look fine to them and you don’t want to tell them about it any more than they want to tell you they talk to themselves when they are alone. And, they do. We ALL do. But, we don’t want to talk about it. Too embarrassing. Too close to crazy. Same with anxiety. It’s totally normal to feel anxiety just like its totally normal to talk to yourself, dress up like Diana Ross

Diana Ross dog

and sing into a banana like it’s a microphone. Ok, forget that last part. Anxiety is normal. And, I feel it. I’m drowning in it.

I sometimes struggle to catch my breath, for no reason at all. That causes me to panic on occasion. Panic is the glass shard filled cherry on top of the anxiety milkshake. Just makes it all that much more interesting. It hits me a lot in BJJ. (Brazilian Jiujitsu) Can’t imagine why being tied in a knot brings it out in me (again, sarcasm). But, sometimes it does. I sit out and watch for a while, which kinda makes it worse. Then I cry. Folks at the gym are great. I love that place so much. They either don’t notice me crying, do and are too nice to ask or they just hug me. One girl assumed it was because I had been rolling so bad. I thought, wait, what? I’m rolling that bad! Anyway, the crying, yeah, I cry all the time. I should be a paid mourner, the hard core, Middle Eastern sort who tear their clothes and bang their chest. That would be awesome. I wonder how much they get paid. Maybe it would be enough for me to get private BJJ lessons so maybe folks wouldn’t assume I’m crying because of my crummy skillz!

Every now and then, anxiety creeps back just enough to let the warm blanket of depression slip over my head. It’s a fun filled cycle and I do try to laugh at it as much as I can. I just throw my head back and cackle like a crazy person because after all, I’m a citizen of said city. I already told you that.

I have been told to see a therapist/psychiatrist/therapy group. I’m not against that at all. I’m just against what that would require and that’s talking about it. To talk about it, I have to think about it. I have to put skin on it and I just can’t do that right now. It’s my son: my heart, walking around outside my chest. To describe what he’s going through is more than I can bear. Also, the thought of being in a therapy group listening to other people talk about their personal misery sounds about as inviting as a gasoline enema. (Is that a thing?) And, I’m pretty sure I would get irritated at some point and demand that everyone who didn’t seem to have it all that bad quit whining and put away all the folding chairs. Also, I would punish them by making them bring the snacks for the next meeting that I would attend only long enough to eat.

Living in Crazy-town is great for some creative types. Poe did

You gotta love this guy.

very, very well here. But, the raven on my door isn’t doing much for me. I can’t write. This is the first I have written in months. And, honestly, what I have written over the past year hasn’t been stellar. I brought the creative drought issue to a writer friend of mine for advice, I wanted to get out of it, at least turn on a sprinkler or something. He’s actually more than a writer. He’s an editor, publisher and writer. In short, a big deal. I knew whatever he said would be golden. Also, he knows about autism, what I’m experiencing with my son. He told me to give writing a break. The stress was draining my creative juices dry. I needed to focus on just staying sane, being good to myself. Oh, it was music to my ears.

So, I haven’t been writing. I haven’t had it in me. I even went to a writing conference and hoped it would pull me out of this. Nope, I cried while I was there. I made a professional appointment with that same friend (He had one on one appointments with writers at the conference, helping them with their manuscripts, giving them writing advice etc) and I cried. I’m sure the other writers were watching me from a distance and thinking, “wow, her manuscript must be awful!”

But, here’s the good side, and, yes, there is one, which is another reason I’ve written this. There’s 3 reasons, this is number 2: I’ve gotten to a place where I’ve accepted that this is what God has planned for me. As Beth Moore said in her book, Get Out of that Pit, “you think you’re being picked on, but you’ve been picked out.” God chose me for this. He took a look at Crazy Town and said, “oh yeah, that house is super cute. She needs to be in there for a while.” 

Why has He chosen our family for this? I don’t know. And, I don’t have to know. I trust Him. Doesn’t make any of it easier. But, it reminds me that my spot here is just a lease. I won’t be a Crazy-ite (Crazilian?) forever. And, when my lease is up, I’ll be stronger. Tougher. As I say about fight training: tougher the training is to take, the harder you’ll be to break. I feel that way about faith as well. God’s got something brewing here. No clue what but I know I can count on it. (Unlike my Keurig that has the brewing dependability of the coffee pot in my daughter’s Barbie RV. Seriously, I got up at 5:45AM, stood in front of the Keurig and it just spat at me like a coffee

This llama is so committed
to this spit!

llama. Pretty sure it’s got something to do with ISIS.)

Now, before anyone of you offer the condolence that God won’t give anyone more than they can take, I have to tell you that isn’t in the Bible. It’s not scriptural. If it were, John the Baptist would have been buried with his head and Joan of Arc wouldn’t have a syndrome named after her. So far, I’m creaking under the pressure, but have yet to explode. I’ve rubbed my arms raw, gotten a tic or two but I haven’t exploded. And, I’m keeping perspective. It could be worse. I pray it never is but I understand it can be. When I jumped on the Jesus train as a pre-teen, I had no idea how hard it would be and I warn all of you, if you think loving the Lord will make your life easy, you will be quickly disappointed. God doesn’t make wimps of us. I have long since learned the truth of it: God is tough on those He loves. And thus far, He has loved me to the brink. I praise Him for not loving me over the edge! He’s pulled the rug out from under me and in the fall I have learned He alone is in charge and who among my loved ones is willing to hang out on the floor with me. In some ways, this very difficult time has been a blessing.

So now the third reason I wrote this… A lot people are having a hard time in life. That’s how life is. And, I’m afraid sometimes we get drunk with the delusion we’re the only ones hurting. We scroll through Facebook and all the nauseatingly perfect, posed and color corrected posts and assume that’s life. We assume that the cleverness of the memes are directly correlated to the perfection of the person who posted it. (Woah, check that alliteration Eminem. Bam!) That’s just not the case. No matter how great somebody’s life seems, they too are human. It’s like the baboons, (I know it’s a leap, work with me) one may be the Alpha with the best leaf bed, but in the end they all have weird looking butts. That’s how I see it. Everyone hurts, everyone has problems. Some are just really, really good at hiding it. Maybe if we didn’t hide it so much, maybe if we just all turned around and showed that our butts were as weird as the next baboon, it

The least offensive baboon butt pic available.

would be a little easier to navigate the savanna.

In summary: 1. Where’d I go? Crazy. And, that’s ok. It’s just as normal as talking to yourself which we all do. I’m doing it now actually. 2. At the end of the day, God is in His heaven and does as He pleases. I don’t have to understand Him. I just have to trust Him and I am. I will keep on keeping on. I will embrace my crazy until sanity slips back in place. (Although, if you know me, you will know my sanity has never been terribly sane. Lucidity is often highly over-rated.) And, finally, 3, we’re all struggling. I’m no different than any other baboon. I just had the nerve to show my butt. Join me, won’t you? (That’s not literal. I do not, under any circumstances, want to see your butt. I know what it looks like, in theory. That’s enough.)

DON'T Mind the Gap

The fam and I went to see a movie today at one of those movie and a meal gigs. I love those. Nothing like chowing down on food you can’t see.

At this particular theater, there’s a long counter sort of deal in front of you, then a small walkway for the waitstaff, then another row of seats and a counter, walkway etc., etc. Under the counter is a gap and on more than one occasion, because I have a bladder the size of a walnut, I have ducked through that gap into the waitstaff

See that gap under the tables? It's sizable, but you
have to get down low to get into it and if you are on
a riser, you have to step down from it onto the
walkway. It's kind of a tricky maneuver.

walkway to make my way to the facilities. It keeps me from having to walk by people in the American fashion and by that I mean, with my rump to folks’ snouts. I know in other countries they turn about face but I’m not sure how that is less offensive. I’ll take a bum in my face over what lies on the other side of that coin, if you know what I mean.

Today, the woman next to me had the same idea. She was going to duck under the counter and through the gap. However, unlike me, the poor gal had yet to put the idea to the test and, I got to be honest, I’m glad she hadn’t because that made me privy to her maiden voyage.

Now, if you don’t know me, I’m about the size and build of a strapping fourth grade boy. It’s the truth, I have embraced it. At 42, I’ve accepted this is all there’s gonna be and as such, I just make the most of it. One of the ways I do that is the duck under move I mentioned earlier. It’s my go-to escape at this theater when a retreat the restroom is required. However, even at my pre-pubescent proportions, the maneuver can be precarious. 

The gal next to me was not of my particular dimensions. She was an actual woman and hers was a size that did not seem fitting for the scenario.  She, however, was not of the same opinion. I heard her say she was going to the restroom and apparently, she looked at that little space, felt it doable and made her move. Into the gap she went. 

Well, she got deep into the process of it all and, although the lighting was scant, I saw her face the moment she realized she had made a grave miscalculation of not only the size of the gap, but herself as well. Her expression was one of shock, confusion and a third look I have not personally made as I would imagine it is one that can only come from this exact predicament. 

She froze, because, really, she had no other choice. She had one leg through the gap to the walkway and her arms outstretched still clutching her seat and I mean she was hanging onto that seat like it was the landing skid of a helicopter and she was a mile up in the air. The rest of her was all pulled together in a wad. It’s what I imagine is going on inside a turtle’s shell when it disengages. 

Ok, so, here's this poor woman, looking like she was being sucked into another dimension and her only hope for salvation is me and her teenaged son. And, let me assure you, that boy, he wasn’t making a move, so it was left to me and I got to be honest, I was confused as to what my responsibility was exactly. If I were to help, it might add to her already very depreciating circumstance. 

Thankfully, the woman started laughing signaling that she was still able to breathe - I had my doubts for a moment. The laughter altered her positioning and she began the process of freeing herself. Seeing her safe, I did what any lady would do, I turned my head toward my children and covered my face to silence my laughter. I’m not proud of it, but again, even sitting here clear-headed, I’m not sure what the protocol is when a person next to you in a dark theater just throws physics to the wind like that.

People, I’m all about taking a chance, doing a thing you aren’t entirely sure you can do. You don't know something until you know it. And, personally, I’d rather try something and get stuck than just sit and wonder if I’m gonna wet my pants.

Dare yourself today, readers. Don’t be mindful of the gap! It is not nearly as important as what is beyond it. Just wedge yourself straight into that sucker. If it works out, hey, you won, you beat the gap. If not, laugh it off and live to wedge again another day.