tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72928050082519720302024-03-05T23:10:21.302-05:00Slay At Home MomThis is what happens when you leave the workforce to raise the kids, become a writer, and indulge your inner geek. I'm killin' it. Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-43932952111313645322017-06-02T13:54:00.001-04:002017-06-02T13:56:14.791-04:00Living Without Asterisks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ZgAEGY32G2VpXtgmFWn3X8PQ-8IDiyl2kuR_nWNFGuTEuovTBCzYCzu2fdspO31zrMB4zMmix11zhb1QlspWQCrlHwXzJ96tMFS2N7lPKQEmpkFY05CbSlq9bwRu6X0xp6VmXwBBEL0/s9999/IMG_4650.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" width="1300" /></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br />
Writer's note: I am aware that the main focus of this blog is supposed to be 'life with kids.' But as my very wise therapist says, "You can't take care of the kids if you don't take care of yourself." With that in mind...</div>
<br />
I am a person who hates medication in any way, shape, or form (for myself.) I've skipped taking meds after c-sections because I'm so anti-medication. I like to be in control of myself. I don't like the way medications make me feel.<br />
<br />
For that reason, when I began to spiral into a really bad clinical depression, I thought I could handle it myself. I've "managed" my symptoms for years--I'm an incredibly high-functioning person, and the worst thing about the perception of depression is that people think it only has one face. But in the span of ten minutes, both of these have been the face of depression:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlAF5egvxVRedE2u1bjFJCfOUV4M7if3a1eirx9nQDcqUqO0ctY013_BzajrGIDjMkfKYPOD5Ay9uMs94p2kX2l8GOKtasW2xtB4pYzEitlLCCC9eIyhzuAyqNBH9JqsapBr0BP_BdQA/s9999/IMG_4544.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" width="1200" /></div>
<br />
I also have moderate-severe anxiety with agoraphobia, so there are days where leaving the house literally feels like it will kill me, but I'd gotten used to fighting myself to get out that door, despite that it was sending my mental health southward.<br />
<br />
When it got to the point that I was missing more than I was enjoying, I went to a therapist, and found a great one. She didn't push me into medication, but she could see how badly I was doing and gave me every technique to combat it. Cognitive behavioral therapy, talk therapy, and mindfulness activities are wonderful things...and they helped, to an extent.<br />
<br />
But they only stalled the speed of my descent; they failed to reverse the direction. Or maybe I did.<br />
<br />
When I finally took that plunge and began medication, the world changed. This may not be the right medication--I won't know that just yet--but just in taking an SSRI for a few days, I already feel the "weight of the world" off my shoulders--as in, yesterday, I felt the sun on my face and I *enjoyed* it. I went to a volunteer cosplaying event and didn't have a panic attack on the way. I woke up this morning before the kids went to school and interacted with them before their day began. I took out the trash myself, walking in and out of the house several times without having to fight my repulsion of that damn hallway door.<br />
<br />
I'm not at 100 percent yet...I still had an anxiety attack on my way to an appointment and I can't say I'm completely ready to roll out the door at the moment. But in that moment, feeling the sunshine on my face, I realized how much sincere joy has been missing for years. Every happy moment was happy, but with the underlying weight of depression. Every triumph had the nagging voice telling me it wasn't as good as... Every morning, every night, every special moment contained an asterisk. And if the good moments had an asterisk, the bad moments were bold and italicized with exclamation points.<br />
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I'm a sucker for punctuation.</div>
<br />
I'm ready to go forward with no parentheses, no ellipses, and no quotation marks, only the occasional oxford comma to stop and enjoy the text.<br />
<br />
Revising is never easy, so I'm not expecting instant success, but like any other project, the story is all the better for it.Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-37579548585180569792017-03-17T07:49:00.001-04:002017-03-17T07:49:03.472-04:00My Poker Face<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitcWLrWuSyuJ7CMeF_XJsZ2n8EGDUD7lYC_hmkwTAgyAHG45KexfH6PmCRKxe0PV-TK0xNk0_u6KuKTY4L9ZBBy3Df4UvFI7irw0ERw8R1ruD0ddSF-NtFtE380VeshmIL41ZEmQLXC5E/?imgmax=9999" width="1024" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto"><br>It's overshare time again. Well, overshare for my generation, anyway. We didn't talk about things like mental health and miscarriage. This week marks the 17th anniversary of my first miscarriage, but it's the former subject that I want to talk about today.</p><p dir="auto">I've been plagued with anxiety and depression since I was in my late teens, beginning with a mild fear of social situations and leaving the house when I was about 19, and continuing throughout my life as depression, post-partum, and panic attacks. Grief, physical exhaustion, and stress all play parts in my mental health--or lack thereof, and when all of those things combine I begin to downright resist leaving my home, I hyperventilate, I sometimes have a pulse rate of 96. </p><p dir="auto">This month I am experiencing something new on the mental health spectrum--and I should be concerned. I want to be concerned. But I simply cannot. </p><p dir="auto">One afternoon about a week ago I experienced a major disconnection to my feelings. A separation--as in, I know when I experience something that makes me angry. But I don't feel it, not in my heartbeat, not in my breathing, not in a sinking feeling in my chest, not a thickening of my voice or a pooling of tears in my eyes. Just nothing. </p><p dir="auto">My therapist calls it a form of disassociation. I call it kind of liberating.</p><p dir="auto">I'm a worrier by nature. I spend most of my day worrying about a myriad number of things...but today, nothing.</p><p dir="auto">I stress over things that have already happened, and as a component of anxiety I am stuck replaying them over & over. But today, nothing.</p><p dir="auto">I have buyer's remorse, every. single. time. I leave the store--even the grocery store. This week I bought a car, fixed my oven, bought replacement pieces for the car's entertainment system and managed to make it to the register with two nightgowns for myself and a set of socks without putting them back, and felt, nothing.</p><p dir="auto">I would be more worried, if I weren't giddy with it. I just read the most asinine federal budget I've ever read, and while I'm able to look at it and see its absurdity, I'm not stressing about it, because today, nothing. </p><p dir="auto">My therapist assures me it's a defense mechanism, and it'll come back. But right now, I'm like this:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEAj-LZ7exK0KNinxmD8Og-KdfC-AXW6b25BAriAgdGSa2FjaIRMvk840XkSutW205GnXYigp1wZa0zqROWRBYa2-f2LJUe-TNrY-axsdANQVEQFrvGT2CYx7EpowDpSAyQvc0Rw_A_8/?imgmax=9999" width="330" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto"><br>Why am I telling you this? Because maybe your anxiety has caused this in you, and you feel alone. Because maybe you think it's probably embarrassing (even if you can't feel it), it's weird, or that there's something sincerely wrong with you.</p><p dir="auto">I'm telling you so that you're not alone. I'm here, and even if you can't feel the emotion of me holding your hand, you'll know that I'm here. We didn't talk about anxiety, and stress, depression and poor mental health when I was experiencing most of it. We didn't have internet support groups. I thought I was alone--not alone as in, no support--I have the best support system a person could have, with family and friends who care and empathize. But alone in the way that it made me think, "What's wrong with me? Why am I like this?" </p><p dir="auto">You're not broken. You're a little bent, today, but a great therapist can help; mindfulness activities are useful; and writing it down can do a world of good. </p><p dir="auto">You're not alone, not that it would bother you if you were. Not today.</p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-9089952987542373882017-03-09T23:06:00.001-05:002017-03-09T23:06:33.876-05:00Literally Driving Down Memory Lane <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mrwxkpcF21YFP3ibvaiaBF4P80RTN3T6iYRum342Sru6woNv9UgEvOQ6O272CjzQSIjNaPfrLVMYMa8MBb1Iugs7pFSVs868YEODq11eGb2B0mrFw7Mjb_V7O9TWgScu-MLNthTHjVE/?imgmax=9999" width="4031" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p dir="auto">To most people, the car I've owned for the past fifteen years is simply a hunk of junk held together with duck tape and spit. It's seen better days, certainly. But the '98 Nissan Altima that rumbles like an angry lion and squeaks when it starts in the morning also holds the best and worst memories of my life.</p><p dir="auto">I bought it after my brother passed away--using some of his life insurance money at my mother's insistence, because he "didn't want you driving his Goddaughter around in that dangerous thing" (my father's car was also sentimental for me, but wasn't exactly stellar in the winter with a baby.) So we did the thing, and we bought the car. We didn't know it would last so long when we bought it. We thought we'd trade it in after baby number two. </p><p dir="auto">But we brought baby number two home in it, and, well, both car seats fit, and both kids would fall asleep at the exact same angle in the car. I have numerous pictures of them sleeping just so. Baby number three came home in her also, and separated one and two so there would be no fisticuffs in the back seat<span>.<br><br></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBFIU7F-TcY8fgFGchWwgPEyKIGqQGelvguAUT8CzWA2EKs7t_mLbPGC-3mDVHoJoO1loEUKaKOjgzKE5mVSS2cG20_1kT0m1zwNwo0ALKjhfrL_SHuAE3lyx8wx8-Kk5dtqeQlF146rI/?imgmax=9999" width="550" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto">It was in this car that Punkgirl first got to sit in the front seat.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnzVbbuCYuiMFX1E5jZIdURdEdwl7ZBZTWdZIr5KIAoPI1qKH91a1WoyZmLy_LlXHJi5FhsItooiv16WjOJG_s58cgEb-0yX4TASHjfjVZjqOvsJl2ckPMa6oQpIUcY5l15p8eJW_Xjyo/?imgmax=9999" width="1996" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto">She took us from home to work and back every day, and home to school as well, churning out more miles but plugging along, with not too many complaints for our daily routine.<br><br>This was the car that took me to the Cape on a trip with my mom, back before that was too long a ride for her. It was the car that waited for us patiently at the TF Green garage while we were gone for the week, and was a welcome sight when we walked the long trudge through the airport.</p><p dir="auto">This car, Serenity as we called her, took me through Boston traffic to Dana Farber four out of seven days a week to get chemotherapy. She was there to comfort me with a warm fan in the cold winter air and soft seats for my bruised derrière after the giant shot. </p><p dir="auto">After my eldest brother passed away, it was this car that managed the drive back and forth to pick up my nieces in Hull, and later Marshfield, chugging it's way and making it so that I could have those precious ladies in my home.</p><p dir="auto">It was the best car for trips to the beach, holding all of our things and giving us nice soft, cloth seats to sit on in our wet clothes. It was the perfect size for bringing home our Christmas trees and had the perfect horn for our youngest to beep before laughing maniacally and running into the house.</p><p dir="auto">And it was most precious for playing the music. We listened to so much music in that golden sedan. And when I was alone, I would ask my brother to give me a sign, to let me know he was there, and always, always he would.</p><p dir="auto">So now the gold car is going to her very well deserved rest, having held us in her arms for fifteen years, taking us from point A to point B. If it seems silly to mourn the passing of a car, I can only tell you that it has been part of our family, part of our life--has given all she's had to give, like The Giving Tree but better. I give her up not because she's no longer useful to me, but because my family needs have grown--with 3 kids and 2 nieces, it will be nice not to have to shuttle us all from place to place--but I'll always remember how the gold car *did* shuttle us, faithfully, for so long. Farewell, Serenity. And thanks for the memories.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LXrlkapVcY0302K-TsKbsdzfa6r9KIJYOvLOAr3TkBq48jbRxElJNcR0UgBfh5IlNLRpURvDTOCe5Yupgo8T4islDjurqczKNV9y6DUHjHT88NDIDLpfWsowIldRJHrEKBrc9-TDJ7U/?imgmax=9999" width="1932" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcpr7Y-yWvheO6-SLMEXqPZMiMsMcJy7Iezx0N-2PCL1wHTsQvCjKxpinbZljb8SntmZulxZuJSluxnAVEeUzEC_QU3NYg_PfkwSbIovnZ3y2oDkDFARbHnvtQG_ub8Ya_6BlpG6BNs8/?imgmax=9999" width="1932" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdmKH8ekFbQitail7UcsJRFEigLDQH1AG1y6C5QchEXk-wh03n0x_ViCucW87hUAtBkIY7ZBH5EQ5oDhpNxupzzbT91iwvvvw8RsJ1hZ3lVMh2icrBfQEevYSwcI2HQ92Nxv0INMPH7k/?imgmax=9999" width="658" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlMLtFhBugkLVqobOK9uwkEGrH7OvrFvlCp-fZiNBTtWTN8CvVTI62zAF0ENHec6vYZK15T3Qb4hNs_oxuWlNPZjKymPk4Xn9ql9EO17fuWgkE_L_Od2ZLbWyuupG_5VOGkBVtza_pOY/?imgmax=9999" width="4032" style="max-width: 100%;"></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-30462429774844750762017-01-30T12:08:00.001-05:002017-01-30T12:08:34.948-05:00Some Good News<p dir="auto">In late November 2016, I came across a tweet that appealed to both my writer's heart and the newly awakened activist inside me. It was a tweet by Pact Press looking for submissions to a new anthology that would focus on diversity and social issues, and whose proceeds would benefit the Southern Poverty Law Center, a non-profit legal advocacy group specializing in civil rights and public interest litigation. I already donate to both SPLC and ACLU, but I've hit my yearly budget for donation, and I think we are going to need public watchdog groups in a big way over the next four years.<br><br>I submitted a poem about a subject that is near and dear to my heart, and lo and behold, I got an email in January informing me that my poem "40 Years in a Breath" will be included in Pact Press' inaugural anthology, available in March 2017. I hope to give more details as they become available.<br><br><br><br> </p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-27276732296128336382016-12-31T23:08:00.001-05:002016-12-31T23:08:39.739-05:00Princess Leia, Anxiety, and a Little Bit of Poetry.<p dir="auto">Carrie Fisher was bi-polar.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPuIWcqeHZDa_LnvF9CjNoZCIUMZw1-UkmQT1drAWCTJCQZamzQVAUMv7DYXTZzlZ-NnwnPnspdW2abjveYuaWc4hslhk_6cj3fP9IZZe-RXE6vkjxTZ8xuhOphXu2wNC25vWKgEp0Zo/?imgmax=9999" width="1800" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto"><br><br>Yes, she was Princess Leia, too, but she fought to normalize mental health issues for a good portion of her life. She included a lot of information about depression in her one woman show. She talked about her addictions and mental health problems in her book Postcards From The Edge. In an interview with Rolling Stone this year, she said about her electric shock therapy that the biggest misconception about it was that "you have convulsions, or that it's used as punishment in a mental hospital, which is how it's depicted in every movie. It's very easy and effective."</p><p>She was brave and funny and cast a different light, a brighter light, on the benefits of getting help.</p><p>In Carrie's honor, I'm sharing my final accomplishment of the year. After breaking into a cold sweat and tears every week, after feeling a mountain on my chest throughout most of my days, after being afraid for half of the year that I either would have to go outside or worse, that when I was ready to go outside I wouldn't be able to just go, I finally decided that my anti-panic methods were no longer working. I needed help.</p><p dir="ltr">The first thing I did was dig through my emails, because somewhere in there a dear friend, a social worker, had explained to me some things to look for in a therapist. I didn't ask her because she is one, but rather because she's one of the most compassionate people I know, and I knew she would direct me to other compassionate people. <br><br>I found a nice lady who met all the criteria, and proceeded to dread the first meeting. I asked my social worker friend in (July? Maybe?) about where to look for a good therapist. I made the appointment in the last week of December. Procrastination lives in the heart of anxiety--it is both torment and relief.</p><p>I met my new therapist, and I had prepared how to tell her what was happening. I told her about the anxiety, the agoraphobia, the physical toll. Then I explained:</p><p>"So, in the past 16 years, my Dad died of cancer in 2000, one brother of meningitis in 2001, and another brother of cancer in 2015. I've had 3 miscarriages, and I had a cancerous molar pregnancy followed by chemotherapy. I was diagnosed with celiac disease. I have three kids--two teens and a four year old--and I had really bad postpartum depression after my eldest. Oh--and my mother recently had a stroke, and surgery for breast cancer. I don't deal with things. I box them away for later.</p><p>It's 16 years later. So, I know what's causing my anxiety. I want you to fix it."</p><p>To her credit, she realized her mouth had dropped open and she closed it in time to say, "Okay. I can see you have some reasons for anxiety."</p><p dir="ltr">As a lover of all things Marvel, I could laugh at being given a list similar to Jessica Jones' naming-street-signs-method of coping:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicI8o3PaasjPRaZDYTK0nrkCiAibQ_JD5YwOaCuBuVQ89_TREUL2G6EIttauQDGzwQNbu83BSkG4nC5-Rf0I4jvif4c6TEhTmeW-aIxQe7TrEL8BsRIpphfbOdwSiSEvzxV3Wkek1Vzjk/?imgmax=9999" width="2079" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>5 things you can see<br>4 things you can touch<br>3 things you can hear<br>2 things you can smell<br>1 thing you can taste. </p><p>But as I practiced it, I by-passed the anxiety attack, but kept the anxiety. Instead of breaking down once and feeling deflated for an hour, I was in a state of constant fight or flight all day.</p><p>5 things you can see<br>4 things you can touch<br>3 things you can hear<br>2 things you can smell</p><p>1 thing you can taste</p><p>The metallic taste of fear. </p><p>I tried slow, controlled breaths. Control is not my problem. Or rather, it is, because I control myself at all times. I control the anxiety, I control the grief, I control me. Until it has control over me.</p><p>After my eldest brother died, everyone got the flu. I didn't. I drove from my house to mom's for two weeks after the wake, certain that I would have one more bad event to add to my list.</p><p dir="ltr">Don't worry, there are good things in my event list, too. I have 3 children (yes, it's on both lists, because the physicality of having them was stressful on my body, and teenagers fight...and yet the joy of creating them and seeing them grow is exponential.) I married an amazing man who loves me and who allows me to indulge my inner writer. My brother and I have taken martial arts together and gone running together. I've gone to Disney seven times or so, and I even got to take my mom to California and Disneyland. I get to volunteer cosplay. I get to take my kids and nieces to comic cons.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQy9MrwgbosE36NXOpVcXKHz8xISpmKBZ7Zc80fg1x8s6ATpqbYP_9rc6Vhv-ioSJO0z716z44lLyltW7O0kVeXA8OBxWO4KDL0i97nw0DMP2HY4bs_eYxBsEh4ivD23fCofFDmLoWlbE/?imgmax=9999" width="1200" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>Irrelevant.</p><p>5 things I can see<br>4 things I can touch<br>3 things I can hear</p><p>2 things I can smell</p><p>My unwashed body as it gets harder to force myself to shower<br>The blanket I wrap around myself as I shiver.</p><p>I get cold with anxiety. I hate to be cold. But I feel it in my bones and then I can't stop shivering. I bathe in the sink and shake and shiver and wish, sometimes, that I could step in the shower, that I didn't think I'd collapse if I did. I'm TIRED.</p><p>5 things you can see<br>4 things you can touch </p><p dir="ltr">3 things you can hear</p><p><br></p><p>My daughter knocking on the door. For a long time I tried to cope by letting the attack take me in the bedroom, but "Mommy, open the door" doesn't take no for an answer. The blood pounding in my ears--it's trying to hold me down, and keep me there, and I'm sure that my heart will stop if I can't get a breath in. My husband's voice saying, "Come away, Mama's busy right now."</p><p>5 things you can see</p><p>4 things you can touch</p><p>One time after my brother Jay died I swore he hugged me. My then two year old eldest was talking to someone in her room at night, and when I said it's bedtime she said, "I'm talking to Jason." </p><p>I told her he was sleeping, the baby I had named after my brother who had died. She said, "Not that Jason. Your brother Jason." The breath left me and I sat down, crying. She had been three months old when he died. He was her Godfather. I asked the air if he was really there and felt the crushing bear hug that only a big guy could give....maybe what I felt was depression, or anxiety, or wishful thinking, but it felt like my brother and I've never forgotten that feeling.</p><p>5 things you can see</p><p>I see the door oppressing me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KNGuV-nvDACsXwFdfn9QfD9ssv3Lv-yq6PWs8x4E-3nJgLcmhjlA_TscVt6tyNf7AtYSdnTSelLvTyHCf8Ng4dO-WATyJ-TNVb6NT5f5vlf9Cu1DK9FElIdn_LMWk-hBmzEW651xtfA/?imgmax=9999" width="182" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>The door leads outside and I don't like the door. Or not the door really, but the hallway before it. Like a miasma of evil designed both to hold me in and hold me back, it becomes a tunnel to victory because I am stubborn. </p><p>The keys are on the hook, the keys will unlock my doors and unblock my path and I cannot go without them. The bathroom is to my right and inevitably I must go in there for a minute, not to relieve my bladder but to relieve my anxiety. I sit on the seat as if my body will release me, but it's only enough to give me a reprieve. </p><p>A picture on the fridge because of course I need a drink I cannot leave the house if I am thirsty. </p><p>My own stupidity. I feel stupid, I feel restless, I feel like I can run out the door now and it will be fine as long as I go right this second--</p><p>"Mom, I forgot my jacket." And "I can't find my phone."</p><p>Sigh.</p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-85334722993783791992016-12-25T06:55:00.011-05:002016-12-25T07:52:28.460-05:00A Year in Review<p dir="auto">Reflecting back on the totality of this year, the first things that come to mind (after the event which shall not be named) are that a lot of firsts occurred--Happyboy & my niece Sam attended their first Anime Boston over Easter weekend, and loved it. Nieces Sam & Ceci came with us to their first Boston Comic Con. All four teens dressed in Black Butler cosplay for BCC, and sometimes they wouldn't break character even when I wanted them to. I also, finally, got to couple cosplay with Roffey...well, kind of. He was Commissioner Gordon and I was Batgirl, so I guess calling it couple cosplay could be creepy...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeMv5pK09ixtNkhR1OGfHfk49D9H70rS2dHOc-hXYk7YH-Pr_lTDpjqb19H7nVE4wJxwqD2viGZwK6eYhFUwDIAM2fdVQ1vbDeeI3pl_jMRjnsyDKqfWlTO6EKvRVynUw-V_yy6wycjsA/" width="1284" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zghnZD2aCAFZF8c6AoSB-yxf5jR6izO2rcD8UIuCv9_T97ZVyNKUIvtfRmJdEQlCxe6I738qvIZ5UtPZ-rNF0SYhOALDwsEMM8IaGnpOIFNa71DLJdxinkUbPs-I8cFiZMxNNvgAhQU/?imgmax=9999" width="1632" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShqtYUUg4y4LEVRWTuO8LFvTlIl2id8n25xEzHBAX8v2cw38KeVEzO4-z3NA7e88Y8jk3NVcGr66PtmTrZXUi9cGh99wmr51mOZu9BqfOxZnqSFaajmcLkSxS_0uqXTV0bzaiYtgPGoc/?imgmax=9999" width="1080" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>Shaelin joined Theatre Tech Crew and loved it so much that she can't wait for it to start up again in January. She learned to measure and cut wood with a table saw, build a bench and a wall, and apparently, how to group-nap (it's a tech thing, I don't even know.)</p><p>Jason tried to get a GSA started at the middle school level--and while they had already thought of starting one, his persistence made him one of the first people the teachers asked to help draw up posters for the new club, which will officially start after Christmas break. His artwork has been evolving into this great thing, and he has found his "tribe" at school. He is a valuable member of concert choir. He started Anime Club two years ago, and this year was told that it will now be a "permanent club" at the school, so he's leaving his mark when he heads off to High School in September. He even got to choose next year's leader.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FvcW_-u6NiUjjea54_WYsnGgEOjLY4SYC9kPZY2gV3SHRP78GlaT1qM8a3eEMQQsp1CZtVfamoFx41-qmYb7BihVRMUjA4X1-Maj5RElJSSwQsTx3WwlVyIKz-qaKYKTv9uiAkn_osg/" width="4032" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>Lily started PreK and learned to write WORDS: MAMA DADA LILY CAT AMMA. She likes to text them to me with an emoji--yes, she knows how to do that, and when someone lets her at a phone, she will do it repeatedly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisjdqT2a-HeH5VDnp-mE7Xnwr6cLY-bxRtt7H4bzvnL_ib8fEBjZgUvSRqkZmGEZKB1rnxY41ZeUsgnqMdLTGjaCEwexgFgqrCk2avYo9EiyESnPglR9VAqCK2Q5kIy1UVdKXIQc8hHsU/?imgmax=9999" width="528" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p dir="ltr">Roffey and I both had great birthdays in Boston, with dear friends, rounding out the nights with memorable drinks at the Hotel Marlowe, my new favorite place to stay. We also ate at the Friendly Toast, which had amazing gluten free Turkey Club sandwiches.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWCYfdUfjDCwjImKb4u5qMO3A5kZUliCBZb582IWdu4_JN9nF-VYw0Wgw7sLtXVx7tjrjCIS8OOaeCrgwj0YrIQVNUEN9RAFdNokk3htWLRbwJmuH00fx0DWATQOS2q3OoZLqEnD1zuZU/" width="2048" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p dir="ltr">I completed an entire manuscript, and started a second. The first one got picked for a second look at HerUniverse Press (though, alas, it wasn't ready when they asked for it--I knew it wasn't ready, but was too filled with excitement and sent it when it was unedited--so ultimately they declined. So I learned! Never send it without editing first.) I won NaNoWriMo, a month long commitment to writing 50,000 words. I took an online writing course--Storied Women in Fiction--through the University of Iowa. I made an author FB page, and reached 1000 new followers on Twitter. I also got back into sewing! I made a Hannah cosplay for Punkgirl and a Batgirl costume for myself.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE1BXQaJ_uL7_t5HBZWvLLqMaB-EA0bOUl6QlZIdm2GqlzDR6wNay7SWkZYNZTokt1v9yNyeZ6bGalXE5BqlRw1UOYcuCXfUesWyPpBKtvlkpzYp4xqRpSgsjr1ybcVL-bJc0vCZ39JI/?imgmax=9999" width="2304" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwlrApSDCee2zO3OFwnD6jClqW7SO3GAL4xTtJO1QwvtsvI-ky9vl2FlvYwoGHZ9htnj6QiKKYNAOzLrF-1Kjrxcmaffde7A8tVjR8dh6n8wghISlROB9XL9uszyfhstEjuNDOyiC6TE/?imgmax=9999" width="1536" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr">Roffey photographed an amazing engagement photo shoot for his nephew and soon to be niece, and I got to tag along and shoot video, and we made a short movie of the photo shoot which was, honestly, a highlight of my year. <br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-amc42ez03ljSXvEtbe_v2PVSkVET11FoSJtfA2CiQsYmqiwc39Q-HAiCpqJEwlPXUpBgokL_SwjBk46ikmvPmvixCvCJy19spqly-hKpBiYci5K6KqXLpThfQmtE95UWJGIXrT0wGPk/?imgmax=9999" width="1080" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr">I started a Couch to 5K program with my brother Bill that had me actually running (and still does, though a 9 week program has stretched into about 20. Nevertheless, I'm still moving.) Like many others, we all fell in love with Hamilton, which has become my go-to running music. <br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVeCAKVU1emr-Kwz47SOlj8dv_eBEX9PGoQ_awchZHVWAZlJdSNdL559aTN8ZsVx8MhqylqWiAAUyVFLIYbrYPuY59L7xU7x7YmjZu8M7kzAvFHKnvCZlmP_tgHHNdk12rmR2rFWLqak/?imgmax=9999" width="576" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr">I volunteered through a couple of cosplay groups at the Special Olympics/Summer Games, Make-A-Wish Foundation, Making Strides Against Breast Cancer, and Camp Miracles and Magic, and I walked 16 miles in the Boston University Relay for Life by myself, a team of one. I've met some of the kindest and generous people of the cosplay world, and am proud to call them friends. Roffey volunteered at the Magical Moon Foundation (a camp for terminally ill children owned by the lady who wrote a version of the Velveteen Rabbit.) He literally moved a house, and always leaves a little bit of his heart behind when he comes home. Jason volunteered at a booth that sold breast cancer awareness ribbons to benefit the American Cancer Society, going in early each day and standing out in the cold to sell them. Shaelin volunteered with GSA to help get people to sign a big card for the victims and families of the Pulse Orlando shooting. She is also volunteering for "8th grade night", where 8th graders get to come and check out all of the clubs at the high school. All of us, plus my nieces Cece & Sam, marched in the Boston Pride Parade (some with GLSEN and some with BCBS.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGOLZHXZ3wf7Ekqpf1nTiXwwAR60DjRjguPS5ni768-fn35L1crQHQ4pdHIALCL_3VCphEUMK7L__EjYVd6umuL4O16GIysNMgi6UB8sX3s5H82rqdeFY-AXRAw9IsYRSSMPpn3P2OIo/?imgmax=9999" width="780" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JPuO0HG9GSPciv-eGmL_HFQgUQwfI7aAAfJuDkt9aqoyGIj-limNnNJggCAlNljmw0sC3HAt7IvrvR4bXCpwWEwlis5BOqnVcVtDUyCGmD1OqwcWnb9gf7jbMKZ2BUsWZe_Lo7y6u8g/?imgmax=9999" width="588" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>I managed to meet up with two people who I never get to see in person--my cousin Kevin and my dear friend Lara.</p><p>We voted for the first female Presidential nominee. I cried as she conceded, as I sat in the waiting room at Mass General Hospital Yawkey Building most of the day, waiting as my mother had surgery to remove the invasive breast cancer that had been found when she had a stroke a few weeks before.</p><p dir="ltr">Oh, Yeah...my mom had both a stroke and breast cancer in the span of weeks. The stroke kept her in the hospital for a while, and the PET scan showed a spot in her breast. I sat in a little room with her when they told her her diagnosis, and I snapped at them because we had no idea why we were there (no one called after the mammogram), and we had waited days knowing only that we were meeting a "multidisciplinary team," which is doc speech for really bad news. It was great for weight loss--I literally lost 8 pounds from stress--but we had no idea what was going on and the giant Breast Cancer Center sign on the wall greeted us as we walked in.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvU26HwbaevGZAolVLwmdT_oaqoZQ-BINFN_WbG_wbKjDasmR_4KU3-e4_j7JZzoyj3Xu1CUmkw7eJJLRZpaMALzYJINQjkdfxVAXLAnlVT7hkuRTYt19-VUbjXH4l_gpuSQkiB0HbrEM/" width="1536" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr"><br>If you know me, yelling isn't generally what I do, but I kind of flipped out after the third person came in without telling us anything but mentioning surgery...that was sort of an accomplishment, and it succeeded in getting someone to actually explain what was going on. They explained that it was invasive ductal carcinoma, breast cancer. Cancer, the enemy of my family, which took my father and brother and messed with my uterus for awhile, was back to wreak havoc again. They did surgery a week and a half later (because she refused to miss the baby shower, of course.) My mom came through surgery well, because she is the badass I want to be when I grow up, and things are looking good--nothing in the margins or lymphs. She has been rocking physical therapy for the stroke symptoms, all while recuperating from the surgery.</p><p dir="ltr">(This is where I could post the picture of her playing Pokémon Go in her hospital bed, if I wanted her to smack me. Instead I'll post this nice one from Thanksgiving.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYaWxuYiFwnLyeYAm7D3Xt32dmulO0ri7ZphpTxIuM-PrKMiBNsamrBqCBIBinSkzXbP_3vWGvq7QFMXwX-ZWBl66koAJn64Xo4qjEXAGn4XF8slMWxkaVRm3A0z89bqYdGLtSFxoRwg/?imgmax=9999" width="612" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>We hosted a successful Thanksgiving, even as we worried that mom might not be up for it (she insisted on making the veggies) and got to see our four favorite teenagers belting out show tunes from the top of a wooden bench after we stuffed ourselves on Roffey's excellently prepared turkey, and got to enjoy the company of my lovely, warm, caring 90 year old great aunt Theresa and my mother's cousin, also named Theresa.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIshu5rQye35fhNFvzu4zw6S4bu-LO_HJv9UJV9D-bvpcWpOq6nni-ydkSs8OcWBtjRy0IU8OlcgmoB8bvLDzXgK54dDZYHTCClte3Uf0OnH86vAm3Pg-Pn3xTGTvwkCm5KaINLiNt_M/?imgmax=9999" width="1752" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p dir="ltr">I attended Rhode Island Comic Con as Press this year, which didn't allow time for cosplay but allowed a lot more time for getting the stories I wanted to get, and best of all, gave me a sense of "working" again (I work my ass off--but I'm not answerable to anyone; it's nice to sometimes feel like a professional again.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AT9ebxmM0bzardqcAergfXlm-NJoasAxbEW2iOrAL1eYO4xTwZEawA9_W9OHi4p8fMa7dNeC4w7URScNUnt2_ZiOh4iRYl5RNVTW8PhitBtFzoQtmsNKtXIGk11rr0X3gzXRAUEE2Zk/?imgmax=9999" width="588" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p><br></p><p>Roffey got an acknowledgement from Southern Poverty Law Center for his continued support, and I got a letter from President Barack Obama after thanking him for his support of the LGBTQ community, making the world a better place for my kids in the process, and we considered both of those things highlights of the year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSr-QQDNTkofulAzaO2f6UW53nC2occ1O1U_5tCOxWHArnPW1Md8ZWPjRTKg2dFtlCyKlvSlzuwxkUAk5UyFvKuhDBexvTUGbW-bQIHuGQHzlp1FWLrAzjohM3g0rGIlN_ZUxzhr2vQ0/" width="1536" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p>The New Year is coming; I believe it will contain challenges; but I also believe that this year has encouraged me to act. I will begin the year with a march for women's rights in January. I will volunteer and donate as I can. I'll continue to support the rights of the most marginalized, whether with my words, my body, or my bank account.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi10Xz3LQSLRo1vL_DluIRILjU2DmYlKid_4jd8k0PEaLXcckNyKpHOGiqEVvkiyMv_lrtuELLKVJ0ouokfrC_OSfkh-6ZibsCXCdNl3ncRkkhuEImKs2q-oiCFgqTJ8tu-tbN-Uxb9Lto/" width="1284" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr">Let 2017 begin. We'll be ready.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36dm32OpDVT0ObY_WdnD5BMZ8tte-nA7lGAey3oSTI28AJLeJFO35Wtwcf3exK58JPearXxVHti0W9LXIOXfd20yAu78c9rr07ALvs8U3tYsDdtzLGVJHMVdKUWuofPLTPTqOwAwxNmU/?imgmax=9999" width="1284" style="max-width: 100%;"></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-80887670366247816222016-12-07T10:57:00.002-05:002016-12-09T21:39:13.382-05:00Why I'm Going To Keep Talking About LGBTQ Rights (or How To Shorten Your Christmas Card List)<p dir="auto">So, I know, people are tired of hearing about emotions and elections and want to move on and "get over it." I'm feeling the need explain the depth of my feelings, because maybe it might change a mind, and if it doesn't, well, maybe it might mean I'll have fewer Christmas cards in that pile I forget to send out every year. I'll try to keep it as short as I can.</p><p dir="auto">For the next 4 years, my government will not have my children's backs. My two eldest are LGBTQ teenagers who already have felt the backlash of this election--they've already faced kids who feel emboldened to put them down (though, in my next post I will talk about the positive activism that both schools have embraced in the wake of it.) The next President's cabinet is stocked with anti-LGBT crusaders. Now you might respond with "I suffered through 8 years of Obama, you'll survive Trump," and this is where I have to buckle down. You have every right to feel that President Obama's policies didn't do good things for you. Some people do feel that way. But the next government will treat my two LGBT kids (along with many friends and close family members) like they are less than people. Like their rights aren't as important as anyone else's. Like it won't matter if they can be fired from a job or refused service simply because they are LGBTQ. Like they shouldn't be able to marry, co-parent, or even bury their own spouse.</p><p dir="auto">So what I understand, at last, is that in the absence of a government that supports them, I have to step up. I can't any longer turn a blind eye to qualifying statements about them. For instance: "love the sinner, not the sin." It seems simple. But it's a hidden qualifier--I've yet to see anyone saying about a divorcee "love the sinner hate the sin." I've yet to see about a rape victim who hasn't married her rapist (yes, that's a definition of marriage in the Bible, too), "love the sinner hate the sin." Why? Because those qualifiers are absurd. My children are human beings who are intelligent, kind, and strong, and yes, are imperfect, too. But loving another person of the same sex is not what makes them so. Loving another person is not keeping anyone from practicing their religion, any more than NOT being a polygamist (again, also one way that marriage is defined in the Bible. Look it up.) does. If you think it does, if you can look me in the eye and say that my kids do not deserve the same right to love, marriage, and happiness that every other person does, that a gender-fluid person doesn't deserve the same love and dignity that a cis (physically born into your gender) person does, that a person shouldn't be able to love another consenting person of the same sex or a trans person or a gender-fluid person, then you may not want to read further and probably we will never have anything more to discuss.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eDR7qCxi9EgQtMlC57mlP-ntgBfQSQgwZXdJiRfnVyC2NXeSCZSWbKT08R2p92-iocPc-2uzGuRRGbsAFsV984XNwHAje5Ru-iu_xDNHjzFAe57Rr8Slm4gqo2-5KLsSgTKpbqtEnhk/" width="640" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="auto"><em> Image credit: FKH8.com </em></p><p dir="ltr">I'll attempt to put it another way: I try not to equate the struggles of LGBT people & people of color--they are, for the most part, different struggles. I see them as sometimes similar, often differing, mostly because people of color cannot choose to hide in plain sight (which no one should have to do, but which is possible for LGBT people who fear discrimination.) So they are different struggles with some parallels. Except in the case of marriage equality. Obergefell v Hodges fell back on the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment just as Loving v Virginia did, because those Constitutional rights were apparent even to the Supreme Court. And yet, I know people who, if I asked them if a black man should be able to marry a white woman, they would say, "Of course!! What is this, the 1950s??" They would be offended that I asked. And yet they cannot see the same absurdity in the question about a same-sex couple. To me, you're then saying that every other person (whether white or person of color) is equal--except LGBT people--they aren't. (And no, I don't think people of color are treated equally. They aren't.) I cannot say that I love and support my children and then say it's ok for anyone to say they are unequal.</p><p>In that same vein, no less than three people this month have said "I don't need to know what goes on in their bedrooms. I love them."</p><p dir="ltr">But love doesn't happen in the bedroom. Love happens with a look, or two hands holding, or a hug or a kiss goodbye at the train station. I have kissed both parents hello and goodbye on the lips for my entire life, and I kiss my husband of 18 years goodbye 3 times every single time I leave him. No one bats an eyelash. I kiss in front of my children--I always have, so that there will be a good role model of a loving relationship for them--and I haven't done that for fifteen years so that they can spend their adult lives hiding their own love, because love is not something that should ever be hidden. <br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRciom6USoTDMir-KZEMhsO3BCIVMD_3a6NEe_w0mcxzUicX4hMap8R99KlKzOEZgJUaZgLV9CfXdvk9oR5cFxJAF5zxH4oZvTYWJ9RPwmXMc5NwvBjKxW13FgXfnvAPMxD9WNEomZU7w/" width="393" style="max-width: 100%;"></div><p dir="ltr"><em>Author's Proof: "Love Doesn't Happen In The Bedroom"</em></p><p dir="ltr">So there it is. It may feel like it's unfair for me to draw that line in the sand. But I can't protect my children from a President who condones racist, homophobic, misogynistic speech, a Vice President who thinks it's beneficial to use shock therapy to "convert" gay people (to what? The Church of Straightdom?), and a cabinet who has done everything from vote to make it illegal to have "gay sex" in your own home, to declaring that homosexuality is the same as pedophilia or bestiality, if I can't start closer to home first.</p><p dir="ltr">In the words of Lin-Manuel Miranda, "You will come of age with our young nation, We'll bleed and fight for you, We'll make it right for you..."</p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-790606985282187522016-11-18T08:24:00.006-05:002016-11-18T10:08:54.400-05:00Do Not Go Gentle/Happyboy's Positivity<p>Yes, the election upset me. It's far too easy to fall down the rabbit hole of what could happen. My faith in people's belief in equality was shaken--and I'm not even close to one of the most marginalized groups. I'm a white girl whose husband has a well-paying job. But my family and friends are among those groups--from cousins who are people of color and indiginous people, to my children, cousins, and loved ones who are LGBTQ, to the many women I admire and count myself lucky to know. Like I said, worry for them makes it easy to curl up in a ball--but they aren't, so I won't. I'll take a page out of Happyboy's book.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHETWR-sw7x6Clpd3EWw_8aFNKgcxWCVK1rtG5WoQUCSfMQP8ugengk61q4JaLICVml4xhyesCiU3zo-sgsfXZFUDuHv3LdXLCIlM3EPhULhfFB67hNXAEB6xHPna0kgOYTMVPovIrL38/?imgmax=9999" width="1329" height="1779"></div><p dir="ltr">This guy has been called "wannabe girl", "thing", and a couple of other names this year. He still rocked this Tshirt two days after the election.</p><p>My 13 year old boy gives me hope for this world. He woke up Saturday morning with a mission. He wanted to start a Gay-Straight Alliance at the Middle School level. He wanted to take action to show the kids around him that we should be and do better. He researched it. He made sure he had enough students and a teacher. When he didn't get permission at first, he went to the Vice Principal, who explained that it's something they're "working on." He didn't take that for an answer, and he researched and asked his sister for information and pushed and pushed and explained that we don't need this later, we need it sooner, because there are lots of LGBTQ kids hurting and lots of non-LGBTQ kids who want to do something positive and proactive to show those kids that they're wanted at school. The VP called to explain that they are moving forward with it, they just want it to have the right (knowledgeable) teachers, and they want to offer it to more than one school, and they want to come up with a name that is more inclusive to begin with (a less binary one.) Regardless if they were already (unbeknownst to Happyboy) working on it, I'm so proud of him for finding a positive way to deal with all this worry and angst-and not just his own, but that of all his friends. He asked to remain updated on the progress of the program, and I have no doubt that if it loses fizzle he will bring it back to its original verve.</p><p>There are so many things you can do: My huaband donates a portion of his check to the Southern Poverty Law Center. We are members of the ACLU. I volunteer with a cosplay group who has worked the Summer Games (Special Olympics), veterans' events, and Making Strides Against Breast Cancer among other things. You can volunteer to escort at Planned Parenthood, or if you're feeling snarky, join the other 44,000 people who have donated in Mike Pence's name, or you can do the same for The Trevor Project.. You can put up a sign that says I love people of all religions and none. You can join a local march for equality. You can wear a safety pin to let people know you support them. You can start recycling, or composting, or invest in and/or support clean energy programs. You can research valid articles on how to help and post them on your social media accounts--because to me, social media is how this election was won. So use that tool and help people with it. The point is: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night...</p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-50036743176305787852016-10-01T22:51:00.006-04:002016-10-28T23:46:47.516-04:00Running for Dummies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY2cTS9vfi4kMrGJaDq8U3BmqxLgl-HBjH2PuVmbRNQZeNAd5C311TUW3x2k4Pj7R4L4Giuw18jIH__B1eHX3yuNfZKGid7NISQLmbDjt8ov4MKj7y_1xGg3k5KWC5EsWLcvFXrWtOF-s/?imgmax=9999" width="932" height="1174"></div><div class="custom-html-block"> I took the summer off to polish my novel, work on query letters, navigate the needs of two teens and a three-year-old, and participate in some volunteer cosplay events. Oh, right, and I forgot--to start a new Couch to 5K program that I'm enjoying enough
to buy an actual good pair of sneakers. If you know me, you know that thrifty is my middle name, so for me to willingly shell out cash to run is a pretty powerful testament to the effectiveness of the program.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoNA9XRvnTwT5S17z2not3rKgAVkgZ2YYJfe6klvdK2cjFuIDwc730HiW4OoLtTUIv_7akyQGJCLMpf-3QwlLLq5xfTW2D8xgP0FHexmT3Tv20EPT2BjOFO9ent9K_-odtWJNDQc3SzE/?imgmax=9999" width="2915" height="2690"></div><ul><li>some new to me Asics sneakers</li>
</ul><div class="custom-html-block"> Since I'm only in week four, and haven't actually run more than sixteen total minutes per session, I preface this with "research for yourself. I'm not a doctor or exercise professional." With that out of the way, I'd like to share some things that helped
me in the hopes that it will give another potential runner a head start.</div><p><br></p><div class="custom-html-block"><div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
First and foremost, download a good program. There are tons in the Apple App Store, and I'm sure there are for Androids, too, but I went with Active Network LLC's Couch to 5K program. Why? Because I can pick a zombie or unicorn to be my coach.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHTFycoFjh3lubjvGZjLKdmXDL-87oIFCWnSikxqMy0BujI005hKJMJ6fH-Q2eK8ZrEXxcn03Goy8ibuI4P4RtymDBjBG7Uy383lTH4q6AV6nenE0e7lO1fI8Qe65CTYph9_Zk1cy1cU/?imgmax=9999" width="588" height="707"></div><p>Active Network Couch to 5K app</p><div class="custom-html-block">
<br> Runicorn is supportive, happy, and full of pep. I respond better to positive reinforcement than a drill sergeant yelling at me, but if that's your thing, the app has five different coaches to choose from.</div><p><br></p><div class="custom-html-block"><div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
The app is easy, telling you what week you're on, what session you're on, and breaking down your walking and running mileage and speed. Walking? You thought this was a running app! Well, yes, it is, but it's one that's designed to keep you going without
hurting yourself--so you start off with a pattern of warm up, walk, jog, walk, jog, walk, jog, cool down, for a total of 30 minutes of activity.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0TOvfH9VywVhtLYyOKwAVLKXvWedFwXWafl83eChDWHiwzz9EPxE9JvaYfwYf5JACzTBBRhnwoFtQU2mx4bJdV4Kw8CZxuTk_F8PRzn4W_NFgxce88Nnyje47vBD5jgpOWV_f0wi2Js/?imgmax=9999" width="640" height="1136"></div><ul><li>Runicorn is the best!</li></ul><p>Here's where I have to warn you. I did a lot of research after my first two runs--because I was in excruciating pain, and because I figure Google was made so that I could learn everything I want to know about anything. (Seriously, people. It's your friend. It's like a library at your fingertips.) I had spent two sessions in a row with terrible hip, knee, and shin pain--and I thought that was how running was supposed to feel. It's not. </p><p></p><p>In my research I found three problems--the first is that I wiggle my hips while I run--one drops lower than the other, and that causes undue stress on the lower legs because your hips aren't doing their job of supporting your upper body. So all 170 pounds of my body were crashing down upon my shins, giving me awful shin splints (yes, I just told you my weight. I'm going to tell you something about numbers soon, so bear with me.) I corrected this by consciously holding my hips even on the next several runs. Yesterday when I ran I realized that my body had finally succumbed to muscle memory and my hips stayed in place without me actually focusing on it.</p><p>My second problem was that I was crossing my arms over my body as I ran. All the people who look like they're having fun jogging do it. Apparently, it can also cause pressure on your lower body. According to Prevention.com your arms should go back and forth at a 90 degree angle parallel to your body, not across it. My knees, which don't like to pivot, we're very happy when I discovered this trick.</p><p>The last problem was my stride. Your body should be be above your foot as it strikes the ground, and if it's behind it you may find yourself with some pretty intense shin splints. I shortened my stride length to a very short one for now, and once I did the shin splints seemed to disappear. I also invested in a pair of new to me Avia sneakers which work with the way my foot moves when I run (you can check your pronation here: http://www.runnersworld.com/running-shoes/the-wet-test.)</p><p>Fixing those three problems gave me a good physical start on running--but something that surprised me was that running isn't only physical. I'm not even talking about the endorphins you produce while exercising--though those are pretty great! I'm talking about the difference I feel depending on where I run, as well as when I run and who I run with. Obviously, this will be different for everyone. But for me, I run much more effectively by the beach. While I can get my run done in my neighborhood, I'm thinking more about getting through the run and getting home to finish this, that, and the other whereas on the beach I'm focusing on the beautiful shoreline. I feel supercharged after running at the beach, as if I've absorbed the sun, wind, and waves through my skin.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXqB078aEji4-SThQPGGYhwuy8gfUfygLw8xNGFSyIanJ6pKWzEPdsfJlrm-3mmMG3XaiCY_TYGWex7T9gC27tPIdYsfmtOm6R3KYrqX9KmTttd2-Z9vj61S-snBVD46FC7HFS6guUIo/?imgmax=9999" width="548" height="916"></div><div class="custom-html-block"><br>
<div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
I also find that my runs are different when I run with a partner than when I run alone. When I run with my brother, I'm motivated to go further and run faster because I'm competitive, and I also get to chit chat with him while walking. I find that when
I run alone I have less motivation to match his pace, but that I also pay more attention to my own technique to make sure I'm creating good running habits. In my opinion, both running alone and with a partner are essential--and again, I know that it
will be different for everyone. But I feel like I benefit from running with someone and running alone in completely different, equally important ways.</div><br> Lastly, I'm going back to that number: 170. It's the most I've weighed in my life. But while,
in the month+ I've been using the Couch to 5K program, that number has changed little to not at all (despite eating healthy and under the necessary amount of calories to lose a pound a week), my body is absolutely changing. My legs are stronger and firmer;
my arms are more toned; and my waistline is suddenly visible. I look in the mirror and see a strong person instead of the number. Each time I finish a session, I feel motivated to go run again. Don't get me wrong: there are some days I finish and feel
like this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLBykQORSwxLsQDR0rSA1tT_U6Rv-z0u0WJGx_Y-E1xPZroIqAp2tSrbCEpPPOwMRS4aCnvdv00O_nFaJbSOv3k7BXQt46rZ7oVlLW_NUrMavulV8YTuWpbvpB3wshYyQqR2gOYWT6Xw/?imgmax=9999" width="884" height="989"></div><ul><li>I might be dead in this picture. I'm not sure.</li>
</ul><div class="custom-html-block"><br>
<div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
I'm an injury prone woman with celiac disease, joint pain, and severe anxiety, I have three kids and am writing my second novel, so it's not inconceivable that I won't have a day here and there where I'm just glad to get through it. But I've stuck with
this one long enough that it's become one of my favorite things to do. I hope this encourages you to try the Couch to 5K!
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXEQT58R06R1Vsmr6Vc7EIGaK1vNyuzNm49cmchYNGeFVfoeG5BpJyPUfWy9mOEw-RtRJLivQCkmEwxXqk-qwrYjmNbCZzyBjkQdPnoc24F8mwBLGxQkBJGedWewIgrLYKQa2fAn-p6Y/?imgmax=9999" width="832" height="1113"></div><ul><li>Feeling strong!</li>
</ul><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-37353767871425150162016-10-01T17:04:00.002-04:002016-11-07T23:01:57.644-05:00That Hamilton Thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRju5BCCP3lhu-NKsDRmo1R7ecSeExNBrx-0rEjUOCZrEJVwgfegcTvYO_8RIXTdUtPoe6YHMcFGhVoU2r8lexafdKuxIxEdIKcuyM2WZ6SS7gYCYIXL5UebYmi1a-94mQ0aqQgNtWZUg/?imgmax=9999" width="242" /></div>
<em>Image credit: Wikipedia</em><br /> <br />
<div dir="auto">
For months I didn't quite understand the Hamilton hype. I knew it was special, and that the unique decision to have women and people of color tell the story was groundbreaking, but I didn't get why so many people <em>loved</em> the story of founding father Alexander Hamilton. In fact I must confess, when Roffey began playing the Hamilton soundtrack around the house, I thought, "ok. This sounds decent. I don't hate it." I loved the concept of the play; I love Lin-Manuel Miranda....but I had nothing to connect it to my heart. Then my son Jason decided to sing "Wait For It" with his friend for the talent show. He began singing the lyrics to practice, and listening to that one song over and over. One line caught me: "If there's a reason I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died, I'm willing to wait for it." <br />I've lost my Dad and two of my brothers, and lately, my mother has been sick. That line stabbed me, drove straight into my heart, and left me on my knees. I drove around bawling to that song, to that one line. I ran to it, slapping my feet to its rhythm. <br />I began to listen to other parts of the story. The connection between Burr and Hamilton began to dawn on me, where one of them took the loss of their family and turned that into driving ambition and no fear of what people thought, and for the other it led to caution and fear of wasting a legacy or a life. I could identify with both, they're both familiar kinds of grief. </div>
Most people most likely fall for Hamilton for the drama, or the music, or the love stories or the history; I fell for the pain, that feels so similar to mine. And most importantly, the hope in the middle of that--"Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now."<br />How lucky we are to be alive right now.<br />Suddenly the story was so much more than a theatrical rendering of a founding father. It was a testimony to what we can do with grief-- let our light burn out, as it did for Hamilton after his son died, or use it to reach for the stars and go for it (so long as we don't stand still, a la Burr.) The moral of the lesson: do not throw away your shot.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img height="727" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipHJRoq9RrPewTK1ISn0pvqJ-_7vTaUgZycJh8qwUAgVPnmbGJQvDKxEFS-cLkUQADbTmmw_aPv_W-cOiQvDjyf4th4XKpdGISWu_LY6uw1g9anRlR7fSTWQ0s3Lup4JoMud3n4KmbR1Y/?imgmax=9999" width="750" /></div>
<em>Slay At Home Mom's Brothers</em>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-21754499865921910602016-06-06T22:24:00.001-04:002016-06-07T09:07:09.736-04:00Bathrooms Aren't The Only Problem<div><span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPSqDE9JaN9iqWValn0rbIVIILlgMegJM-9RC47Uri3kMqYmSO9b7ddmhqjMGT5WqYC95VSBQbsYJC9sY7kLLV337yYkwf3wLhdWlCvb1ZDesTz6Lb4RaCntvskN6J4tXwLC39g4zFC0/s640/blogger-image-197162324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPSqDE9JaN9iqWValn0rbIVIILlgMegJM-9RC47Uri3kMqYmSO9b7ddmhqjMGT5WqYC95VSBQbsYJC9sY7kLLV337yYkwf3wLhdWlCvb1ZDesTz6Lb4RaCntvskN6J4tXwLC39g4zFC0/s640/blogger-image-197162324.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><br></span></div><span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">My son is in the seventh grade, and he likes to wear pink shirts, long hair, and earrings. If you live in the Northeast, you might ask, "So what?" No big deal.</span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">And, for the most part, except for a few comparatively small moments, it hasn't been a big deal. But recently there has been a surge in media coverage about transgender people and their use of the bathroom. My son isn't transgender--that is, he doesn't feel like a girl in a boy's body. But he doesn't identify with any of the boys around him, all of his friends are girls, and he would rather shop in the girls' department for clothes.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Last weekend, after school, two boys asked him if he was a girl. Taught that some people are just curious, he answered politely, "No, I'm not a girl. I'm a boy."</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The boys didn't believe him, and in not believing him, began treating him the way they thought girls should be treated. I can't use the language they did without my stomach churning and my heart pounding; but suffice it to say that it was tantamount to rape speech. At best it was sexual harassment. The statement one boy made to another, "No, he's not a boy, he wants to be a girl. It's okay if he wants to be a little girl," was followed by what sexual thing should happen to him because he "wants to be a girl." Prior to this they had grabbed at his backpack a few times, and I don't know what would have happened if he didn't text me with an urgent message. I rushed to the school--I didn't even stop to put on my shoes. The boys were being taken inside by an office assistant. When I picked my son up, he got in the car, holding himself together until we drove away. He told me what happened, shaking and sobbing and telling me he didn't want to go back to school. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Infuriated, shaken, I called my husband, and he called the school (because my husband, when angry, is icily succinct, whereas I get so mad that the words come out jumbled and unclear.)</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The school administration, to its credit, handled everything incredibly well, not balking for a moment at taking things seriously and dealing with the situation quickly and conscientiously, involving both the parents and the police. I have no complaints about the outcome of the actions the school took, and was relieved to hear that the parents were as horrified that their children said and did these things as the administrators were. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">But my mind dwells on the fact that we have so much media coverage about transgender issues, but no real education on what being transgender (or for that matter, gender-fluid or gender-neutral,) actually means. We have sexual education. My son knows what happens when you go through puberty and you get a morning erection. He knows how to make babies. But it's not a priority for the school system to teach children how to treat another human being who doesn't identify the way they do--some don't even know how to treat another human being, period. Our children deserve better.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><i><b><br></b></i></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><i><b>"But my child goes to school to get an education." </b></i></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">It's a valid concern. But one to which I respond that if we have something called Health Class, isn't mental health just as important in every way as sex education and nutrition? I'm not talking about transgender issues or LGBT issues, because I don't want to promote the false ideology that those are mental health issues. I'm talking about bullying and sexual harassment. The stress of being harassed wears on the human psyche. And it's not just my son. Yesterday, as Happyboy walked home with a female friend, members of a sports team walked behind them and said things like, "What's that? You want Happyboy's (blank) in your (blank)?" You can insert your own nasty words. He and his friend moved out of the way and let them pass, and they left, laughing. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">There's a part of me that wants him to just hit someone. "One good hit," I think, my mama-bear instincts kicking in, "and they'll leave him alone." He took Martial Arts for two years, but for him, actually hurting someone was always a problem. He's a gentle soul, an artist, and why should he have to give that up because some kids are acting so miserably? </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJ-ZWm3px1uddxJdpdNB2sxNl4AjT2FKQencQGBXB4LRE1qz8Jzht2_pE4hv38DgUCa4xs7mUA9MODuNy_3-ruw_nvhORCPnIJdBgFuRu9pe-WrrZrg1-AHW9526wzcKfOqC8ZP4jX2c/s640/blogger-image--824415700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJ-ZWm3px1uddxJdpdNB2sxNl4AjT2FKQencQGBXB4LRE1qz8Jzht2_pE4hv38DgUCa4xs7mUA9MODuNy_3-ruw_nvhORCPnIJdBgFuRu9pe-WrrZrg1-AHW9526wzcKfOqC8ZP4jX2c/s640/blogger-image--824415700.jpg"></a></div> <i>Some of Happyboy's art</i></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The school is planning a seminar next year that will address issues of harassment, bullying, cyber-bullying and their consequences--and I do appreciate that. But I long for the day when my son can go to school to get an education without fear of feeling different. When being yourself is as lauded as being part of a team. When he can go to the bathroom without people looking at him as if he's in the wrong place. When it doesn't matter if you're transgender, cisgender, gender fluid, or don't identify with any of those. My son isn't transgender, and I don't want to appropriate those struggles; but some of the basic challenges he faces are often similar to those of transgender children. I think about that often--that if he goes through this and he's not even transgender, what must children who, on top of this kind of harassment, have to emotionally navigate having a body that isn't the one they identify with have to go through? In this day and age, where many more children are feeling confident enough to express themselves in more than just the ways society deems appropriate (read: blue & trucks=boy or dolls & pink=girl), we need to make sure that school is a safe space for them, a place where they can learn without fear of being called out for differences. And maybe even a place where someday <i>all</i> of our children can go to just get an education.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-22363567489182671412016-05-22T07:11:00.001-04:002016-05-22T07:11:52.471-04:00Birthdays and Balloons. Or: Ode To My Comic Book BrotherHow do I tell you about my comic book brother?<div>Today's his birthday, the 46th from birth and the 15th from death.</div><div>15 seems like an eon, "get over it already!", </div><div>But you can't get over missing a limb, or an organ, or your heart.</div><div><br></div><div>Sunday driving isn't the same without car dancing</div><div>Comic book movies fill me with love and sorrow on your behalf </div><div>(Where are Nick Fury and Thor? Two of the baddest badasses</div><div>And why are Inhumans masquerading as mutants?)</div><div><br></div><div>Nobody shares the same stories that we did</div><div>Nobody shares my birthday, I thought I'd love that</div><div>But birthday candles and cake can't compare to the wishes I make</div><div>They always involve some kind of dream reunion</div><div><br></div><div>You and Dad and Charlie, Lily says you're up in the stars</div><div>Because I can't believe that Heaven isn't too far away</div><div>You would've loved all these nieces and nephew, Godchildren who would have blessed you</div><div>If only life hadn't had so many other plans.</div><div><br></div><div>I frequent our place in Quincy, the kids think it's "their" store now, too</div><div>I can't walk in the door without seeing your face, even the guy is the same... </div><div>It took me 30 years to ask his name, but you know, the one with the ponytail and glasses</div><div>I'm too afraid to ask him if he remembers a boy with Brillo pad hair, because if he doesn't it will break my heart.</div><div><br></div><div>Sigh. It's your birthday. We'll send up balloons. Balloons used to soothe me so.</div><div>Now every balloon is a minute, and there are too many balloons behind us, and too many balloons to go.</div><div>Because I fucking miss you. I had to say fucking. Nothing else was strong enough.</div><div>I have too many things and people here to want to go, to die any time soon...</div><div><br></div><div>But that just makes me ache a little more, because I know, I KNOW what it means:</div><div>Balloons, and longing, and missing you, and wishing you'd visit my dreams.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>PS: Thanks a lot for making our last dance together YMCA. I look great bawling to the Village People.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0sxVO4NKYolRuicALsAVc9dpktgFNbYb8f0gA7sKjN3n4ZM9Ja8-XaxXm-vbtNB4CVsBCvLd_e4kEjp0e6VnKXAL4vhM3YoUWsCk_lIE7J4dqxHaW6tftkL4qGeZ4CMGvyx-r-DpjAE/s640/blogger-image-1985982444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG0sxVO4NKYolRuicALsAVc9dpktgFNbYb8f0gA7sKjN3n4ZM9Ja8-XaxXm-vbtNB4CVsBCvLd_e4kEjp0e6VnKXAL4vhM3YoUWsCk_lIE7J4dqxHaW6tftkL4qGeZ4CMGvyx-r-DpjAE/s640/blogger-image-1985982444.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>PPS: Happy birthday, Jay. I love you. I miss you. Come visit my dreams.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-56513135601303807842016-05-21T09:06:00.001-04:002016-05-21T09:14:10.325-04:00A Weekend of Memories<br><div><div>I've been focusing on some positive things to get me through the weekend (after which I'll be having a very important meeting at Happyboy's school.)</div><div><br></div><div>So. Here are my (mostly) happy thoughts... </div><div><br></div><div>Today is the day (20 years ago) that Roffey proposed. It was my grandparents' wedding anniversary. (BTW, it was the smartest decision I ever made, saying yes even though he didn't have the ring yet.) We aren't celebrating it, but it always serves as a reminder of how long we've been together and what things we've weathered together.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEbBusdkWOr8Q1KyxDNiz2epAPVinzF6LORaKzTpl5iiEN-Rjb8GlBJHtf2nZfrwdMnmJimhh8YmV1hwc6Bao3IIZAAels-WKXBRn5utfZJKsbZwP-YYRFuerqbwfKuxrwFR7w7XCoGU/s640/blogger-image-53509199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEbBusdkWOr8Q1KyxDNiz2epAPVinzF6LORaKzTpl5iiEN-Rjb8GlBJHtf2nZfrwdMnmJimhh8YmV1hwc6Bao3IIZAAels-WKXBRn5utfZJKsbZwP-YYRFuerqbwfKuxrwFR7w7XCoGU/s640/blogger-image-53509199.jpg"></a></div><i>Is it any wonder I said yes? He wore those jeans in the summer. </i> </div></div><br></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Tonight, I get to see my amazing niece Joybabe in concert. Joybabe and Madlove are my oldest brother's daughters, and I have crazy, embarrassing, sloppy old love for them. The universe has thrown a lot at them lately and through grief, stress, and too much adulting they have taken all the punches and still kicked the universe's ass. Joybabe is playing the flute tonight, and helping to raise funds to support the arts. It reminds me that she's growing up, and will be 16 in August, which is both inevitable and unacceptable(!), and that my brother would have been so proud of her for taking up her instrument again. I'm proud of her, though her sister Madlove, who shares a room, does </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">not </i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">have a mad-love of the flute. </span></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-EcqNV2Fq4r46_0UrKvvOEsoH1u8onPWCTof_-ZBZXOkXd0iZS2HscfG0NVGnhroWjIxR_Wtk-pszCYtHTB0SG1SXefqTct-eZiXeQD-1b-IyXztXsrHqAz4cVa0AcX6qKxt2h-af8U/s640/blogger-image-537379640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-EcqNV2Fq4r46_0UrKvvOEsoH1u8onPWCTof_-ZBZXOkXd0iZS2HscfG0NVGnhroWjIxR_Wtk-pszCYtHTB0SG1SXefqTct-eZiXeQD-1b-IyXztXsrHqAz4cVa0AcX6qKxt2h-af8U/s640/blogger-image-537379640.jpg"></a></div><i>All the whackadoodles together</i>.</div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And tomorrow, my family will gather together to send up balloons that we write on to my brother Jay, who would have been 46 years old. It will be 15 years in July since he died of Meningitis, and still not a day goes by that I don't think of him in some way...as Lily says, "Uncle Jason is in the stars with Uncle Charlie and Grampa." They're having a party up there. Jay and I used to share our parties when we were kids, because we were exactly 2 years 1 month apart. I think some part of me is always subconsciously unsatisfied on my birthday, not because it wasn't great, but because there's a missing piece. This year, Coffeeguy loved his birthday so much that he has taken it as a personal challenge to make mine amazing (more on that in another post), and my biggest fear is that I'll have a great time and <i>still</i> feel incomplete. Or, I don't know, maybe that I won't. My birthday is always tied up in Jay, and our birthdays together, so that missing piece is kind of a reminder that he's still here inside my heart. (Don't worry, Coffeeguy, it's still going to be awesome!)</div></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIXD_G3SnNwtNoaTEtfgve9ltc6bmvOqjsF6SRh76-AJJryQ7ed_GZGl45CMF00tZx6z7GzaG-bZVzC603jxkxEYgKEM0-4SLjXT0fR_0xz8VBZ6v7x7PHPXaajY9jglkTYUnx_-G95o/s640/blogger-image-859980411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIXD_G3SnNwtNoaTEtfgve9ltc6bmvOqjsF6SRh76-AJJryQ7ed_GZGl45CMF00tZx6z7GzaG-bZVzC603jxkxEYgKEM0-4SLjXT0fR_0xz8VBZ6v7x7PHPXaajY9jglkTYUnx_-G95o/s640/blogger-image-859980411.jpg"></a></div><i>My brother's and my birthday. [Side note: I know, today the feathered headband would be known as cultural appropriation--but it was the 70s, and also, we had a super-cool uncle who was a Wompanoag, so at the time it seemed more like we were being "cool like Uncle Ronnie" than anything else.]</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>So that's my weekend, after which we get to go up to Happyboy's school to address an incident that is too painful to write about right now. How is your weekend shaping up?</div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-60440573044658470612016-04-13T11:04:00.001-04:002016-04-13T11:04:34.684-04:00How to Grow Old Ungracefully<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My daughter found four white hairs in my head on Monday night. I'm not ashamed to say that it was pretty upsetting at that moment. I've never had to dye my hair (not that I <i>have</i> to now) to hide white/gray hair. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I'm noticing the wrinkles around my eyes--which are getting a little deeper each year. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But as I told my 15 year old, I've earned them. I've earned the fine wrinkles and I've earned the white hairs (oh, I'll still hide them, dammit, and I'm not ashamed of that, either. I'm not even ashamed to feel bad about growing old. I've earned the right to do that, too.) </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I'm almost 44 years old and I've been to more funerals than my 90 year old great-aunt--and she's the last surviving of 9 siblings. I've beat cancer and dealt with crippling anxiety. For the most part, the grief that is always waiting to pounce is outdone by the positivity in my heart (my good friends and close family know I can bring the negativity too, but I'm working on it.) That's not to say that I can in any way see a positive in the deaths of my family members--but I can focus on the way my brother's beautiful girls are growing up, the way my younger brother and I shared so many Sunday drive-to-Dad's memories, or the way my children have my father's dimpled chin. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So yes, I have some white hairs and a few new wrinkles. But I also live my life to the fullest, doing exactly as I please, writing and geeking as I like. Despite the appearance of the white hairs or the wrinkles I don't feel too old to volunteer or cosplay or enjoy life. I've learned the lesson that life is just too short to skip out on doing anything you love because you have a few off-color invaders on your head (eww, I'm not talking about lice--if you have lice, please, skip out on attending public events & get treatment.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Getting older is still, I'm sure, going to be hard for me--I may be 29 at heart, but after three kids my <font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">body doesn't always feel the same. But I've done more to further my personal happiness this year than I have in a very long time, so I'm going to share a secret with you--I'm 43, and I'm just getting started.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4V7s7H0DcMcE0oCDa3yWpTpy4jdWRlQM8GWOTirI0Qphao5hwgtvJjljVJKlcK9jkjqP07rEoKL1l9nZfzgvY2wLxizsJQoRz52hq4Va8Vp3U7SRrFpoiYldv4QUC-b_iumiTquBM30/s640/blogger-image--2121823726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4V7s7H0DcMcE0oCDa3yWpTpy4jdWRlQM8GWOTirI0Qphao5hwgtvJjljVJKlcK9jkjqP07rEoKL1l9nZfzgvY2wLxizsJQoRz52hq4Va8Vp3U7SRrFpoiYldv4QUC-b_iumiTquBM30/s640/blogger-image--2121823726.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Crinkles and all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-61438244596352844382016-04-04T10:18:00.001-04:002016-04-04T10:18:39.744-04:0020 Things I Never Said Before You Left<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5T4GxYVMxyrWxo9zGFCAAjpCcvUnEgBkdonrjPtvEZKP_gBmfr_LwrZkiJKalN_6PAaHQh95XiBRyGIu4PQN1OOAMCnsprCUcdEp9T9f0ccTX18QCJ56N6FVzAeqKK2-rwLHl23sMOLA/s640/blogger-image-1047889838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5T4GxYVMxyrWxo9zGFCAAjpCcvUnEgBkdonrjPtvEZKP_gBmfr_LwrZkiJKalN_6PAaHQh95XiBRyGIu4PQN1OOAMCnsprCUcdEp9T9f0ccTX18QCJ56N6FVzAeqKK2-rwLHl23sMOLA/s640/blogger-image-1047889838.jpg"></a></div><br></div><span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div><span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></span></div>Having lost a father and two brothers, I know a little about regret. I try to live my life these days with that in mind, so that the sinking feeling that "I never got to say" doesn't ever plague me again. </span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">But before I was so world-weary and wise, I left a lot on the table. I forgot to say some things, and I forgot to do others. With that in mind, this one's for my Da.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">20 Things I Didn't Say Or Do Before You Died</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">1. It's okay to be scared. You had lung cancer, and you grew up in an era where a man worked, a woman stayed home, and guys were not allowed to feel fear. I was scared for you, and I know you were too, and I wish I'd let you know that I knew, and that I didn't think any less of you for it.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">2. At the end of my wedding video the videographer put us on the spot and asked if we wanted to say anything to our loved ones. I fumbled, and stuttered, and I said "Mom, thanks for everything, you are the wind beneath my wings...and Dad, thanks for being such a great dancer!" It sounds silly, but the idea that you thought that it was your only contribution to that special day haunts me. I was honored to walk down the aisle on your arm. And yes, you were a great dancer; but what I really meant was that I waited my whole life to dance with you in your handsome suit, just the way I remember dancing on your shiny brown shoes when I was a child.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgke81G1LY8JarZsolpVgLA2OArn_4riVG8Q01LQSwzvPVLXqOcNIOsOLhHTf4xXnUScz-Nr1L1nkMXckRAqCAK0mM1xi2Tg__GvAFZRdell4IFbUyZYOOk346p9eEpq7XDSYqsaWpwmIY/s640/blogger-image--17319529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgke81G1LY8JarZsolpVgLA2OArn_4riVG8Q01LQSwzvPVLXqOcNIOsOLhHTf4xXnUScz-Nr1L1nkMXckRAqCAK0mM1xi2Tg__GvAFZRdell4IFbUyZYOOk346p9eEpq7XDSYqsaWpwmIY/s640/blogger-image--17319529.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">3. I talk too much. It's a nervous habit, and on Sundays I'd jabber away, instead of listening more to you about your life.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">4. I'm sorry you only met Chris after we were engaged. I never thought you'd be interested in meeting my boyfriend, and now that I'm a parent I realize how much that must have hurt. I wish you'd had more time to bond over old movies and character actors, and maybe you wouldn't have had to stare him down the first time you met if we hadn't already been engaged.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">5. I'm sorry if you thought I didn't care when you were sick. I hope you didn't believe that, even as your wife threw it at me in the kitchen. You told me not to listen to her, and I have to hope you didn't either.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">6. I'm sorry I didn't believe you could die. Even when they said there was no hope, that you only had a few months to live, in my head I believed that MY Dad was stronger than any disease. I planned the following week off to spend time with you--but I was too late.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">7. I wish I hadn't been so concerned about doing everything in its due time, because waiting to have a baby meant that you didn't get to meet Shaelin, or Jason, or Lily.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">8. I'm sorry...but I'm glad you weren't alive to see the death of not one, but two sons. I can't stand seeing what it's done to Mom, and we both know she's always been the stronger one. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">9. Being a child of divorce was painful, but I appreciate that there were times you tried to make it easier in your way. You made a point to tell us that your new girlfriend's cooking wasn't as good as mom's, and as a kid I thought that was a weird thing to say...as an adult I realize you were trying to take away any sense of replacement or competition. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">10. Thank you for traveling two hours on a Sunday just to spend the day with us, to take us to China Sky or McDonald's or the movies. To this day I can't see a first run movie without thinking of the way we would wait in the lines that went around the building to see the next Star Trek or Star Wars movie. (FYI, I can't see a Star Wars or Star Trek movie without thinking about you, either.)</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">11. I wasn't the rabbit that ate the carrot. I know you thought I was, but I wouldn't have left a half eaten carrot in the couch cushion--I would have eaten the whole carrot.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">12. I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I know you (and I, to be honest) expected me to take the R.O.T.C. scholarship and join the military. Things didn't work out that way, and there will always be a part of me that wonders if you would have been prouder of me if they did. I have no regrets--I loved the career I chose instead, and I love the writer's life I live now, but I also would've loved to make you proud.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">13. I picked Butterfly Kisses to dance the father-daughter dance at my wedding because I was focused on the Butterfly Kisses-- you always gave me "Eskimo Kisses" with your nose when I was little..but all you were focused on was "after all that I've done wrong I must have done something right." I never thought about things you did wrong, both because I loved you too much to care and because Mom always hid that stuff from us.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUSxlITrntZqpV2btW1Qa5mwtcruaMNf7zkplaQEaQy_63b-ndZ-B2G-FFqYfLXz73SRiZh1xFoTczVZznzymFcqFrZga4oiJohGi7SgwZob4dX0HFH8YvMnYt9TegvEuCfRKa7FL46c/s640/blogger-image--628308220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUSxlITrntZqpV2btW1Qa5mwtcruaMNf7zkplaQEaQy_63b-ndZ-B2G-FFqYfLXz73SRiZh1xFoTczVZznzymFcqFrZga4oiJohGi7SgwZob4dX0HFH8YvMnYt9TegvEuCfRKa7FL46c/s640/blogger-image--628308220.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">14. Stop smoking. Stop smoking years ago.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">15. I love you. I know I've said it before, but there's just no way I could've ever said it enough.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">16. I hate John Wayne movies. I wouldn't change the fact that you watched them all the time, because now it's nostalgic and they remind me of you, but God! I didn't fall asleep on the couch because I was lazy or over-worked, I fell asleep because I couldn't keep my eyes open when that cowboy drawl came on.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">17. I always thought you were 6 feet tall, even though you were only a couple of inches taller than me.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">18. No man could ever replace you. If you ever feared that you were loved less because somebody else lived in our house, you were blind to the hero-worship that we had for you. Proof positive: I married a tall, handsome guy who loves old war movies, cheap beer, and bad jokes.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3026b-c9xCPKURlff9czePxhpp4zjzwDEyQBkJBoSzpBzDtA3v4V8rQR6qJLBe0FItiY1lRy0GLfWMB0vxdgvWqn6lmrWMuZiiwMf36__tx5h5CP5BZ2HwhyilsZDLqhyphenhyphenvutgajcswug/s640/blogger-image--764536583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3026b-c9xCPKURlff9czePxhpp4zjzwDEyQBkJBoSzpBzDtA3v4V8rQR6qJLBe0FItiY1lRy0GLfWMB0vxdgvWqn6lmrWMuZiiwMf36__tx5h5CP5BZ2HwhyilsZDLqhyphenhyphenvutgajcswug/s640/blogger-image--764536583.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">19. I'm jealous that you brought each of the boys to play golf with you. I know I can't hit the ball to save my life, but it was such a huge part of you that it always bothered me that you didn't share it with me. (It's like that "mountain"--which I've since discovered is really more of a small hill--at Breakheart that you always took the boys to see but I was too little. I'm bigger now. Grown up. I can golf. Sort of.)</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">20. I'm proud of you. I know that there are things you've done in your life that are not things to be proud of. But you also worked hard at a job you loved, taught me to read at the age of three and fostered a love of a good Stephen King book, laughed at losing half a finger because it bettered your golf grip, weren't afraid to hug or kiss your kids, fought cancer as hard as you could, and left at the moment you chose to leave.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6P65a-hGiil0hX_rur_9xu3Dhh1WykQ-VJD38xhyphenhyphen-g9EOj-lszAtEmChhK_T8WGV5f2J3A0PMhMWorVpSutrcuKRyRH9ARh5vLSk0k_dBnTtwCxiSFdpoja5CeDYLoJs1UcJxCK6Tcg/s640/blogger-image--1103338132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6P65a-hGiil0hX_rur_9xu3Dhh1WykQ-VJD38xhyphenhyphen-g9EOj-lszAtEmChhK_T8WGV5f2J3A0PMhMWorVpSutrcuKRyRH9ARh5vLSk0k_dBnTtwCxiSFdpoja5CeDYLoJs1UcJxCK6Tcg/s640/blogger-image--1103338132.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-55283935515717383502016-02-10T06:55:00.001-05:002016-02-10T06:55:26.292-05:00AHSOKA TANO IS READING MY BOOK!<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosj96vghHIzZ5KVUPyqeDlBQcris-z6ULvW1QjiAOXNWXjJJPkZ7P8EoDFAlizc8jEnaenhREmY64GkLkJeyfcQfL5g9TvEDPilEkg61QevkGYlXZ-KUteO3OpJZSwIfxlNZXEW6m27M/s640/blogger-image--101055270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosj96vghHIzZ5KVUPyqeDlBQcris-z6ULvW1QjiAOXNWXjJJPkZ7P8EoDFAlizc8jEnaenhREmY64GkLkJeyfcQfL5g9TvEDPilEkg61QevkGYlXZ-KUteO3OpJZSwIfxlNZXEW6m27M/s640/blogger-image--101055270.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>I have a new piece on The Good Men Project's All Things Geek today. If you have a fantasy or sci-fi novel in your back pocket, Her Universe Press, the new publishing company by Ashley Eckstein (voice of Ahsoka Tano on Star Wars Rebels) has an open call for submissions!<div><br></div><div>Read more here:</div><div><a href="http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/211549-xela/#comment-2284756">http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/211549-xela/#comment-2284756</a></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-52763781191121972552016-01-24T12:05:00.001-05:002016-01-24T12:12:07.832-05:00To Be A WriterI've been slow to post lately, though I do have a pretty good reason. I've been working on a novel, and after years of working on writing the story that comes <i>after</i>, I realized that what I really needed to tell was the story that comes <i>first. </i>For an early Christmas gift my mother gave me a James Patterson writing class. It's through a company called <a href="https://www.masterclass.com/classes/james-patterson-teaches-writing?utm_source=Paid&utm_medium=Bing&utm_term=Aq-Prospecting&utm_content=Brand_Search&utm_campaign=JP" target="_blank">Master Class</a>, and for less than $100 I was able to get tips from the author, interact with the class, and get feedback and resources all in one place. It was interesting, and James Patterson is an engaging speaker. I loved the class, but the section on outlining was where I really learned something. In my head, outlining involved paragraphs and supporting facts and a beginning and an end. Mr. Patterson has a completely different method of outlining, and while I didn't end up using his method, it opened my eyes to the idea that there were many different <i>ways </i>of outlining.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tabled the book I'd been working on and went back to the beginning.<i> </i>I had written a short story a while ago, and loved it, but re-reading it made me realize that <i>it</i> should be the start of the first novel. I took the short story and made it into my first draft during <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">National Novel Writing Month</a>, a whirlwind 30 days where you spend every minute of your life completing 50,000 words of your novel.<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shortly before NaNoWriMo, my editor at <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/category/all-things-geek/" target="_blank">The Good Men Project's All Things Geek</a>, Alex Yarde, had shared the news that <a href="http://www.heruniverse.com/" target="_blank">Her Universe</a>, a female-centric chic geek apparel website founded by Ashley Eckstein, entrepreneur and voice of Star Wars Rebels' Ahsoka Tano, was branching out into publishing. <a href="http://www.heruniversepress.com/" target="_blank">Her Universe Publishing</a> was looking for female writers--that's me!--who had a fantasy or sci-fi manuscript--again, that's me!--with a preferably female protagonist--wow, that's me, too!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I sent along my information and a five page synopsis of the story, and set about the onerous task of <i>waiting.</i> In the meantime, I wrote and edited--I've found that writing involves a LOT of editing. In the back of my head, I was convinced I'd get the dreaded "no thanks", or "good luck placing it elsewhere." This was my baby, my story, my people. If they didn't like it, it was telling me I wasn't good enough.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Two months later they asked for my manuscript. </div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbWCi5TP8YQe-3th4iNrhnBEVpINV4G4FZdt_csEDQDLc2UiyS_cJKg-9Itfx1cVRXsowOWqu5p4fqjXdDU0DRXS3x_aPLj7SFVTFQbNZJH7W-HUdJ9F7Ky0nyU3-b7Jtou4LlKpp4P8/s640/blogger-image--1237601645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbWCi5TP8YQe-3th4iNrhnBEVpINV4G4FZdt_csEDQDLc2UiyS_cJKg-9Itfx1cVRXsowOWqu5p4fqjXdDU0DRXS3x_aPLj7SFVTFQbNZJH7W-HUdJ9F7Ky0nyU3-b7Jtou4LlKpp4P8/s640/blogger-image--1237601645.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I panicked. It wasn't perfect yet! I couldn't send it yet, could I? I worked on it for three days straight, avoiding housework, cooking, children, husband, and in some instances, eating or sleeping. I did what probably would be frowned upon in most cases, and sent them my first draft, explaining that it hadn't had any heavy editing yet. In this case, the first draft didn't have enough conflict (I felt), so I set about rearranging a few sections to fix that while I await the response yet again. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I dragooned a few people into beta reading to get feedback, and I did some </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">more </i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">editing. I figured out how to use Scrivener to make an e-book format for my novel, so I (and my betas) could read it on a Kindle. </span></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO8JuM4aueXr0LBgIEznANd8ZhKjReTxSK-d89fH0tLLppQ_CE-pikdLMhPDq2EYAwVITTpQFpLqiB3ma4W0CDMjXmvm1dHIM8oT62pMQ7ZW0ycO-pxE6Bkz7clV6FlytNrMripjOz08/s640/blogger-image--1845666610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO8JuM4aueXr0LBgIEznANd8ZhKjReTxSK-d89fH0tLLppQ_CE-pikdLMhPDq2EYAwVITTpQFpLqiB3ma4W0CDMjXmvm1dHIM8oT62pMQ7ZW0ycO-pxE6Bkz7clV6FlytNrMripjOz08/s640/blogger-image--1845666610.jpg" /></a></div>
<i>It looks so pretty on a Kindle. All rights belong to this author.</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
If you write a lot, and you're looking for something better than Word for plugging your thoughts in, take my advice and buy <a href="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php" target="_blank">Scrivener.</a> It comes in both Mac and Windows versions, and it makes rearranging sections, comparing chapters, and keeping up continuity throughout your novel a snap. It even has a virtual cork board and an outliner if you choose to use them. You can even try it for free!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
So this is where I am, waiting for more feedback from beta readers and waiting for a response from Her Universe Publishing. I've begun plotting the second book.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Here's the important part. I began writing about this character in fits and bursts since I was twelve years old. I know, that makes me sound a little crazy. But it's true. This is the first time in 31 years that I've completed this story (or at least one part of it) from start to finish. I credit three things with my determination to finish: James Patterson's Master Class, which gave me encouragement and new ways of looking at novel-building; Her Universe Publishing's willingness and desire to reach out to female authors of fantasy and sci-fi; and my eldest daughter's interest in writing. I've determined as I wait that if HerUniverse says no, I'll try another publishing house, and another, but even if I have to self-publish, I want PunkGirl to see that it's worthwhile to follow that writing path. To complete the story. To be a writer.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-30229520202653931892015-12-31T22:55:00.001-05:002015-12-31T22:55:02.977-05:00The Upside of Grief<span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> So here it is. This year began hard, and it made me doubt that things happen for a reason. Or at least that they happen for any reason that I'm okay with. I felt overwhelmed--grief, that old enemy, and anxiety, my greatest demon, had found me again. And I was okay with it for a little while, because I didn't want to be happy--I wanted to be full of the grief because it's fucking grief, and we need to feel it, we need to be sad, and angry, and for just a minute, grief and anxiety need to be in charge because then we know that it matters. </span><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> Maybe they would've won this year, or I don't know, maybe I would've lost, but apparently, I'm from sterner stuff than that. I'm determined to be the girl who reaches out and grasps the upside of grief.<div> When my brother Jay died I took up tap dancing. No, it's true. At the tender age of 29, I realized that all my life, I had wanted to dance. And since my brother had been 31 when we lost him, I knew there was never a guarantee that life would be long. I joined a class where I was the youngest member, and the only one with no prior tap experience. For two years, I put on those shoes and learned how to do parididdles and cincinattis, meeting once a week with the class but practicing all week long, tapping out a reminder that life is short. Life is short. Life is short boom de boom.</div><div><div> I wasn't a tap Goddess, but I felt alive. Several years later, two kids and a full work-load let me forget about the shortness of life. I threw myself into work, missing out on tap and to be honest, too many of my children's achievements. It took two miscarriages, the death of my in-laws, and a bout with cancer to remind me again: life is fragile.</div><div> I found myself searching for something new to remind me that I was young, and alive, and strong enough to hold onto fragile life. This time it was martial arts. My kids had been attending a local studio, and the movements fascinated me. I was overweight, and nearly 40, and the last thing I thought I would look good in was a white uniform. But it did make me feel strong. I felt some of my muscles used for probably the first time, and the forms held a certain kind of comfort when I did them well. I've always been attracted to movement, and feeling my body flow from form to form as it remembered what my conscious brain did not was soothing in a way I hadn't even known I needed to be soothed. Oh, sure, sometimes I could not convince my hands that they knew how to move the jong bong (like a bo staff) in the right direction...but other nights I felt like I was water flowing through the wind. I continued my training until I was eight months pregnant with my youngest, and then retired my belt to once again marvel in the young life I was raising. I forgot, again, about my own life. I got lost in "there's always tomorrow for me."</div><div> But last year my oldest brother died. Grief returned and with a vengeance reminded me that tomorrow has never been guaranteed, and that if I want something I need to grasp for it now. I need to work hard and make it happen. I didn't go back to tap dancing or martial arts. I already knew I was physically strong. This time, I needed to nourish my creativity and challenge myself in other ways. </div><div> I wrote a novel, a fantasy, and submitted it for publication. Pressing the send button was probably the most nerve-wracking thing I've ever done.</div><div> I also found the Boston Superheroes, a volunteer group where members dress as superheroes for charitable events.</div><div> You might laugh at a 43 year old (still overweight) woman signing up to dress up as Black Canary and parade around at volunteer events in a leotard and tights, especially when you realize that her anxiety disorder often prevents her from leaving the house. I certainly laughed. I laughed nervously while I signed up for an event, and laughed with a little bit of horror in my voice as I drove up to Patriot Place for the Cupcakes For Heroes event. I checked my blond wig in the mirror and took several little hyperventilating breaths before getting out of the car. I had never met a single member of the team in person. </div><div> But I felt like I had the entire time I was there. I gave children high fives and made them laugh, and I was with a group of people who were diverse and interesting and down to the last wanted to be a part of something bigger than themselves. I had stepped as far out of my shell as I could and not felt foolish or unwelcome once. </div><div> This was a year in my life. My brother will never be here again, and that isn't something I'll put away on a shelf. It will always be with me. But as I stress about leaving the house I'll remind myself that I can. As a new year rolls in, I'll remind myself that the next one is never guaranteed. And I'll write and submit, and I'll squeeze into my superhero duds, because tomorrow I might not get the chance.</div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> If there is an upside to grief it is that it can remind you that the end of the race isn't the goal. The sights along the way, the skills we learn, and what we put out into the universe, those are the important things. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div></div></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-29602599795700749422015-11-13T13:50:00.001-05:002015-11-13T13:50:55.600-05:00Thankful<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIOTrrf0s7Fzayus4i8JN9KYmN83jeMOCqpBxOSNOUB3J2bij0zCa7Ffy_XB3ZnMLPaYkYmNRTMKZonA65uezXj4-zEhVeEjXn0RPFOl6eilk9EeMPcb-YIVe884SuAcP8gMBJF4AHPE/s640/blogger-image-440722424.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIOTrrf0s7Fzayus4i8JN9KYmN83jeMOCqpBxOSNOUB3J2bij0zCa7Ffy_XB3ZnMLPaYkYmNRTMKZonA65uezXj4-zEhVeEjXn0RPFOl6eilk9EeMPcb-YIVe884SuAcP8gMBJF4AHPE/s640/blogger-image-440722424.jpg"></a></div>I've been watching all the "thankful" posts on Facebook over the past few weeks, and most years I jump in with both feet. There's always something to be grateful for, and I mean that sincerely. I have a wonderful husband, amazing kids, a loving mother and a ...not completely hideous brother (you're welcome, B.) But I'm still finding it hard to put all my thankfuls out there, onto Facebook and into the Universe. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjaCEBsn8zzHF8S3ZPGwJJtIdJXAmFZjfGVP0Ko1Y0ipS1TEhTjHGF7dggRPqiPPRAvZioazOd0SQmFk-lDkmIqnLoAFydZvZWKRRkjxkH_ALFxyKFJli0fTXvpZqhbgg1i9IoiWPkTs/s640/blogger-image-1285062379.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjaCEBsn8zzHF8S3ZPGwJJtIdJXAmFZjfGVP0Ko1Y0ipS1TEhTjHGF7dggRPqiPPRAvZioazOd0SQmFk-lDkmIqnLoAFydZvZWKRRkjxkH_ALFxyKFJli0fTXvpZqhbgg1i9IoiWPkTs/s640/blogger-image-1285062379.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Last year in November my oldest brother was diagnosed with Colon Cancer. I put it in caps because it's big, and scary, and a nightmare. As many of you know, the fight from there on was quick, and nasty, and it didn't end well. I can't seem to shake the sentiment that for all the things I'm thankful for, he doesn't have. I have my health. I can hug my kids every night. And I have the luxury of whining about the fact that I have those two privileges. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm thankful he got out of the hospital in time to have Thanksgiving one last time. I'm thankful for the chance to spend so much time with his two beautiful girls. I'm thankful for every happy memory I can give them, or better, remind them of about their Dad. But that thankfulness is tainted by the thought that he is gone.</div><div><br></div><div>Im thankful that I'll have my mother, my brother B, my nieces, and (for the first time) my great-auntie and mom's cousin for Thanksgiving dinner, but the addition of guests is sobered by the fact that one is missing. </div><div><br></div><div>I know; I know. I should focus on the positives. I am positive we will live through it. I am positive that after each first (Thanksgiving, Christmas, anniversary) we will begin to adjust--not heal really, because the scar will still be there, but like one who has lost a limb we'll learn how to function without. I'm looking forward to that November, where I can post that I'm thankful I've survived. </div><div><br></div><div>For this month, I'll read all of the things you are thankful for--I love the positive posts. I'll just save my own for the day I can be anything less than reserved. The day I can release the negativity into the wind, and embrace the future with both feet.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiGc59alsYIgi0KjlWfd0754fK5c2KU9NI8jWRDz8ckNCwYcJuK4dOA32wttzjqhJPfqpESRslzZWskO3U3ousyo-rWafca0EaIrTLJd0dse368tqYZYh1weKag5uDAVS807Y5EbNBP0/s640/blogger-image--569232306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiGc59alsYIgi0KjlWfd0754fK5c2KU9NI8jWRDz8ckNCwYcJuK4dOA32wttzjqhJPfqpESRslzZWskO3U3ousyo-rWafca0EaIrTLJd0dse368tqYZYh1weKag5uDAVS807Y5EbNBP0/s640/blogger-image--569232306.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-15383337129651731622015-11-08T06:22:00.001-05:002015-11-08T09:19:18.934-05:00The Voice of Edward Elric<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9DIWwic3PnpXGfOu7P7GRqBpLaqh_wfDaXsfneyM2tITNt9ZuhV2KI6tmJ8Rrc__qS6TvKdstXUgbmbRZjXnU1gP90RKoRlRXOo1RA9fe-zFk35ImKdvkJr4VpItynj4oni_py7BNIs/s640/blogger-image--1235838034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir9DIWwic3PnpXGfOu7P7GRqBpLaqh_wfDaXsfneyM2tITNt9ZuhV2KI6tmJ8Rrc__qS6TvKdstXUgbmbRZjXnU1gP90RKoRlRXOo1RA9fe-zFk35ImKdvkJr4VpItynj4oni_py7BNIs/s640/blogger-image--1235838034.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>We were fortunate enough to go to RI Comic Con this past Friday, and for all the problems they appeared to have Saturday, Friday ran pretty smoothly for us and was a great time. My only negatives were the lack of real direction--we had to ask a vendor to find out there was a whole other building; and the poor design of their convention app. Because the app didn't have any direction (the celebrities' areas were listed as "TBA"), we were left trying to find the one guy who knew everything to find the things and people we wanted to see. <div><br></div><div>We saw the Batmobile:</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02arBIV64MTC7oTucrGJS8QNb3ysZE9xuYrWdb44jy9OSbV7KNdjlMk7wOMatVJBsm8nJXrsE47aD55V1W31Vwl6BxcPKHmAo83saOQsrk5S-Vr62cwqbW5gYJUi1E5PHiSb5DSL5PcA/s640/blogger-image--2013861772.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02arBIV64MTC7oTucrGJS8QNb3ysZE9xuYrWdb44jy9OSbV7KNdjlMk7wOMatVJBsm8nJXrsE47aD55V1W31Vwl6BxcPKHmAo83saOQsrk5S-Vr62cwqbW5gYJUi1E5PHiSb5DSL5PcA/s640/blogger-image--2013861772.jpg"></a></div><i>Bats won't mind if I take it for a ride....</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>And we saw some great cosplay:</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mpJIHUtKrpT1NTg9UhG1Dmn4TQOoEt88PQC6ilWusLzqaPHy_OavcCGV3YP90fTg1aSJK-P1h0dcHgikicy3g4wXRWEompHREwV-QgSihQlhcn-PyaM8sMdNUurklT04lFqYbuTCx2E/s640/blogger-image--706696387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mpJIHUtKrpT1NTg9UhG1Dmn4TQOoEt88PQC6ilWusLzqaPHy_OavcCGV3YP90fTg1aSJK-P1h0dcHgikicy3g4wXRWEompHREwV-QgSihQlhcn-PyaM8sMdNUurklT04lFqYbuTCx2E/s640/blogger-image--706696387.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>And we found some unique vendors with all of our favorite fandoms: Marvel, DC, Firefly, Game of Thrones, and more. But finding the celebrity we really wanted was tough.</div><div><br></div><div>And who did we want to see? Well, Friday wasn't a huge day for photo ops (Alex Kingston was there, but since the $65 fee only covered two people, we decided it just wasn't in our budget.) Before we left home, Happyboy and I had discussed the fact that Vic Mignogna, the guy who voiced his favorite anime character, was going to be there. This voice actor, amidst all the A and B-list celebrities, was at the top of our "must meet" list. (Ming-Na Wen was at the top of mine, but we could only afford to go on Friday, so I will have to pine away until next time.) </div><div><br></div><div>Happyboy spent hours--I mean, <i>hours, </i>trying to find a perfect souvenir. He passed by comic books (we can get those at home), action figures (nah), POP! figures (he was tempted by the imaginary friend from Inside Out, but he changed his mind), and even anime keychain figures. Happyboy has mastered the art of not settling. We haven't mastered the art of always being patient with that, and it was almost time to go. But ten minutes before we planned to leave, he found it. A Full Metal Alchemist watch that he could have Vic Mignogna sign.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, let me just say, he had the idea of Vic M signing it on his own, and we were happy to pay for an autograph. But when we got there, Vic's seat was empty. We stood there, disappointed, and a lovely lady in a Dr. Leslie Thompson cosplay asked who we were waiting to see.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV-qU8Lnvzd3LIhxsbX0P9P-Y4rUZ9jEw0I4QhsVV9m0Lwe8HcZlREzV9egP5sv5XqOfgr7r_3iK-tiaLUuU15j4nrmSesfG8lVaYjYXmtlZBzHao0znhitW7jiO0pqnTmoWhgKRmwus/s640/blogger-image--1727673940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV-qU8Lnvzd3LIhxsbX0P9P-Y4rUZ9jEw0I4QhsVV9m0Lwe8HcZlREzV9egP5sv5XqOfgr7r_3iK-tiaLUuU15j4nrmSesfG8lVaYjYXmtlZBzHao0znhitW7jiO0pqnTmoWhgKRmwus/s640/blogger-image--1727673940.jpg"></a></div><i>The lovely Dr. Leslie Thompson </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>This lady was <i>wicked awesome</i>, as we say in Boston. Vic M had just arrived, and wasn't planning on sitting to sign autographs tonight. He was checking out the floor as a guest, not a celebrity. The RICC person who seemed to be in charge of the autographing let us know that he was very sorry, but it wasn't happening tonight. As we left, understanding but disappointed for Happyboy, "Dr. Thompson" ran up to us and said "hold on! Where's the box, and a pen?"</div><div><br></div><div>She ran them over to Vic M, and we followed. As Mr Mignogna was starting to say "And tell the little guy I said--" she interrupted him to say, "Oh, they're right here!" </div><div><br></div><div>Vic Mignogna, as we found out that night, is also starring in the Star Trek series web series, <i>Star Trek Continues</i>, as Captain James T. Kirk--which is a pretty big deal. He could have felt put-upon, or just plain tired--he'd literally just arrived at the hotel. He apologized for being "all grubby" (he wasn't) and shook my son's and our hands, and told Happyboy, who was dressed in a Ciel from <i>ElSword</i> costume, to keep being awesome, keep doing what he was doing. Told him he loved his costume and his blue hair, and even let us take a picture:</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOEuyiBMVYZxLX7hXyHZV_InKtUumxHMV6gojmUkEqIpIuobPQxZ0pJC67zsx3EB2km6kBNXHvzpeMSoAdwvuPYYKVij8GQBekAi4p4FKf6z8nnRIq4o4XU6rIruG_h8ZGiPQgRxg3fE/s640/blogger-image--1546949261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOEuyiBMVYZxLX7hXyHZV_InKtUumxHMV6gojmUkEqIpIuobPQxZ0pJC67zsx3EB2km6kBNXHvzpeMSoAdwvuPYYKVij8GQBekAi4p4FKf6z8nnRIq4o4XU6rIruG_h8ZGiPQgRxg3fE/s640/blogger-image--1546949261.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Super big bonus? When he mistook Happyboy for a girl and we gently corrected him, he didn't bat an eyelash, just said "oh, sorry about that, I'm so glad I met <i>him." </i>He said a few more words that made Happyboy feel pretty special.<i> </i></div><div><br></div><div>It was the highlight of the day. He didn't even charge for the autograph or photo! As big Star Trek fans, we probably would have checked out <i>Star Trek Continues</i> anyway...but after meeting the voice of Edward Elric, we'll be tuning in with goodwill and good wishes for his continued success!</div><div><br></div><div>Some final notes: I have two entire other posts about meeting Chris Claremont, writer of (among many other things) my favorite XMen story lines, and cosplaying. For now, let me share these:</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BEz_OqBG0W-jNnSHxSbAgTIRG2ZUJS3-o9yanjGQDLzcWM-4X5kLwyYFbg2jiKiU8yGhDNhEjxO0b4hZyht6uq0QbR_rODtAbDCxpnjkxcqWV2i92XQwV7WQ47fnFrDtQBsHR9FFC1I/s640/blogger-image--1728371535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BEz_OqBG0W-jNnSHxSbAgTIRG2ZUJS3-o9yanjGQDLzcWM-4X5kLwyYFbg2jiKiU8yGhDNhEjxO0b4hZyht6uq0QbR_rODtAbDCxpnjkxcqWV2i92XQwV7WQ47fnFrDtQBsHR9FFC1I/s640/blogger-image--1728371535.jpg"></a></div><i>Chris Claremont signed my DOFP tshirt.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYsEhtgoFAcdGni6TotXanX7Da_CmkAfPvjVXW8Y8KTQpKMC6qjN18W3NWZcFFZhkuAv1Ete8PTj0w8gs3aXPD7jn9moNIeB3LcUmJHTkm_eyZGvYtmnC1E7hhGljIvFnm_4RfPnr9Gg/s640/blogger-image--1901878628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYsEhtgoFAcdGni6TotXanX7Da_CmkAfPvjVXW8Y8KTQpKMC6qjN18W3NWZcFFZhkuAv1Ete8PTj0w8gs3aXPD7jn9moNIeB3LcUmJHTkm_eyZGvYtmnC1E7hhGljIvFnm_4RfPnr9Gg/s640/blogger-image--1901878628.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Robin is smart to be wary of the Joker....</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpQqi8z7cfTZoqZ2uEtwKTr9MCifCrO7YfPc8krkNmLX_Ffll9QJfWW7NOncgSFgEEIHcxaJj69UK3j9TtZfImnfwQT5MjZlwmo9lgIqU6UJRe62_fsoIyQe0gxIrSaBopZjm1Bpo_oo/s640/blogger-image-1322118314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdpQqi8z7cfTZoqZ2uEtwKTr9MCifCrO7YfPc8krkNmLX_Ffll9QJfWW7NOncgSFgEEIHcxaJj69UK3j9TtZfImnfwQT5MjZlwmo9lgIqU6UJRe62_fsoIyQe0gxIrSaBopZjm1Bpo_oo/s640/blogger-image-1322118314.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>BayMax!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZl8nK3a12j8KG75-doeGTFlI740LejZVc8tbjx6WdzyFpshS9_Ch_po2Cj6BkkakN1GpWks9ksCDfsNM0qDasgxYHztww23O_dWEWIiVlSm6-2ybaqeSC6hdOkFfk1UROApDPMLE1bk0/s640/blogger-image--31916839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZl8nK3a12j8KG75-doeGTFlI740LejZVc8tbjx6WdzyFpshS9_Ch_po2Cj6BkkakN1GpWks9ksCDfsNM0qDasgxYHztww23O_dWEWIiVlSm6-2ybaqeSC6hdOkFfk1UROApDPMLE1bk0/s640/blogger-image--31916839.jpg"></a></div><i>Punkgirl's Steampunk Penguin Cosplay</i></div><br></div><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-68271657548794853912015-10-09T13:57:00.001-04:002015-10-09T13:57:39.591-04:00TV for the Woman Who Hates TVI used to never watch tv, but in the past few years there have been so many comic-related shows, SF/Fantasy related dramas, and even a few shows that really featured strong females that I've been spending far too much time in front of the tube (I know, it's not a tube anymore, right?) Anyway, this year in particular had me very excited, with Dr Who coming back with the fabulous Peter Capaldi and my new favorite villain Missy (I loved the Master, but Michelle Gomez has given new life to the frenemy relationship that the Doctor & the Master/Missy enjoy. <div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb312bgqup4N-2isTiZbn8iOO_nKhhiPaliqwBb2dKaexmb7kHyy9E6j7_Of0dOU2iJieQnOIp64oISYeq3c-ozdZDy_dW2a-H_PoXG-C0sGqqLd8mTdLhsLb96HgfnkAyMKzGbYrWcg/s640/blogger-image-331841148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXb312bgqup4N-2isTiZbn8iOO_nKhhiPaliqwBb2dKaexmb7kHyy9E6j7_Of0dOU2iJieQnOIp64oISYeq3c-ozdZDy_dW2a-H_PoXG-C0sGqqLd8mTdLhsLb96HgfnkAyMKzGbYrWcg/s640/blogger-image-331841148.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Michelle Gomez as Missy on Doctor Who. Image credit: BBC</i></div><br></div><div> Arrow's premiere showed us that a much lighter Ollie is the way to go, that Felicity could go back to being herself and make the show infinitely better, and that there are surprises in store for us this year. Agents of SHIELD's premiere focusied on plot developments and character development alike, with Chloe Bennett's Daisy/Skye becoming a leader, Clark Gregg's Coulson getting back to being the guy we know and love, and Ming-Na Wen's Agent May showing her more human side. One or two big surprises in the episode, I won't spoil it for you. Finally, the Flash gave us a glimpse into future without yet getting into Flashpoint, and gave us a starting point for this season given the big events that happened at the end of last season.<div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWyK3SKJEMQKbUXk6M-OONBC4E06-A8Kuatb_tTg9rUau9xXSTpR0vU8k7TLiJGOkn3CdD89oNt6avT_CZOwwUAUUhDMEhDm9LgG_2MkE0OOUBz4YB6xa7Hxr6uUQVnU7D4R6kzwCr1M/s640/blogger-image--1953833728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWyK3SKJEMQKbUXk6M-OONBC4E06-A8Kuatb_tTg9rUau9xXSTpR0vU8k7TLiJGOkn3CdD89oNt6avT_CZOwwUAUUhDMEhDm9LgG_2MkE0OOUBz4YB6xa7Hxr6uUQVnU7D4R6kzwCr1M/s640/blogger-image--1953833728.jpg"></a></div><i>Blindspot image credit: NBC</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>I loved the premieres so much that it prompted me to extend my time in front of the tv by checking out two new shows, Blindspot and Quantico, both of which promised a strong female lead. Blindspot in particular had so much potential, with Jaime Alexander (SIf in the Marvel Universe) playing the main character, Jane Doe. Sadly, the three episodes I watched did not live up to their potential. I love JA as Sif...but watching her explore her sad doe-eyed look for three hours straight was more than I could bear. While she seemed to come out of that for a few moments in the middle of the episode, back she went by the end of the story. Her co-lead Sullivan Stapleton, who plays the tough guy with a heart FBI Agent Weller, delivers his lines with intensity, which kind of tells me that he knows how bad the script is and is trying to compensate. Again...the premise is so good...but the writing just isn't. The show would benefit from not only better writing, but a consultant with some kind of FBI or military background (if they already have one, they're doing a very poor job. There's a scene with an explosive where Weller can't take the blasting caps--which are right there, in plain view, off because of some unexplained trick of the guy he just caught with it, but he can tear off bits of the plastique to make a smaller blast. Picture my skeptical face here.)</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssuIATFqFLtChcpaOPc1IzBUL121axoq_SO7O_C0ObnxhQPkzaaGKydFEU7QZ3-2XossNC6dvmD7Ylm_rTdV7exRgov0p5_t9hEu1ocqdTn9oEy1uArtZ1hrEVKqZ1g-np0cskf9fc-0/s640/blogger-image-1916062237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssuIATFqFLtChcpaOPc1IzBUL121axoq_SO7O_C0ObnxhQPkzaaGKydFEU7QZ3-2XossNC6dvmD7Ylm_rTdV7exRgov0p5_t9hEu1ocqdTn9oEy1uArtZ1hrEVKqZ1g-np0cskf9fc-0/s640/blogger-image-1916062237.jpg"></a></div><i>Quantico star Priyanka Chopra. Image credit: NY Times</i></div><div>As disappointed as I was in Blindspot, I'm giving it another shot--one more episode to iron out "the kinks." In contrast to my disappointment with Blindspot, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed Quantico. Given that there are definitely a few spots where believability has to be suspended, I liked it much more than I thought I would. Priyanka Chopra is oddly compelling to watch, and the twists and turns in just two episodes have been enough to keep me guessing. By the end of episode two the show is very reminiscent of "The Fugitive", where the main character can trust no one and every step forward sends her two steps back. I do wonder if the show wil remain that way, in which case I wonder how long it can live up to its prpmise, but for now it's definitely on my very selective watch list.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsz7Xmpe2x9gSqrcfadLzXq6U4UoKAaDLWjOAyLTIipWM2bIa6vGW5SrEm6bBUhR0eEnSZ2J0wR2lhboiJ-53NotK3U6tlsDS-WjGbq8nQgTW423_QI38XF5MYPVEQJmFWsNF8nMlirZs/s640/blogger-image--1744823433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsz7Xmpe2x9gSqrcfadLzXq6U4UoKAaDLWjOAyLTIipWM2bIa6vGW5SrEm6bBUhR0eEnSZ2J0wR2lhboiJ-53NotK3U6tlsDS-WjGbq8nQgTW423_QI38XF5MYPVEQJmFWsNF8nMlirZs/s640/blogger-image--1744823433.jpg"></a></div><i>Kristen Ritter as Jessica Jones. Image credit: IMDB</i></div><div><br></div><div>Coming up: I can't wait for Jessica Jones on Netflix. Given the character's very dramatic and adult-themed issues and her relationship with Luke Cage/Power Man, I am looking forward to binge-watching the season when it comes up in November. </div><div><br></div></div></div></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-5064292904906057512015-09-28T09:38:00.001-04:002015-09-28T15:56:12.086-04:00King Richard's Faire, Magic, and Memories By now you know that I'm a sucker for any kind of cosplay. That desire started with a little place in Carver, MA known as King Richard's Faire. When I was seventeen or so, my friend Tracey asked me if I wanted to go to this renaissance festival that was really cool and you could dress up in olden times clothing, you could get this awesome jewelry that you couldn't get anywhere else...she had me at "dress up." I immediately began to sew together a costume out of tapestries and odd materials, creating a character to go with the clothes.<div><br></div><div> That was ahermferumpaderm years ago. I've gone off and on to King Richard's for years, but lately it has become a tradition with my kids. This year was truly special; my brother Bill took us, along with my brother Charlie's teenage girls. The dynamic that exists between the four teenage children is something magical in itself--while my kids love the Faire, and participate to an extent, when the four of them are together there's a bit of extra courage for each of them, as if the parts are made stronger by the whole. I like to think it's the streak of the wild child in my brother's children tempered by the quiet creativity in my own. Together they stretch the boundaries and made what would have been a fun time...well, as I said, magical.</div><div><br></div><div> I knew it would be special the instant they started dancing when the drummers played. Without care for who was watching, they twirled and dipped, arms flying about their heads. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVkiddM3mF8gYNwoFCkiUJLk1oei69XvI4kmGXvbuzxcJHddYNBVjJs1j2S0M_BW26xR0g2YYIwH5dXFLgDO8_Nkt0mvqP1nZ94SGvxqqInFgSrl5I809aF5jgiRYgY37zDD-tHTbHVg/s640/blogger-image-532004549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVkiddM3mF8gYNwoFCkiUJLk1oei69XvI4kmGXvbuzxcJHddYNBVjJs1j2S0M_BW26xR0g2YYIwH5dXFLgDO8_Nkt0mvqP1nZ94SGvxqqInFgSrl5I809aF5jgiRYgY37zDD-tHTbHVg/s640/blogger-image-532004549.jpg"></a></div><i>My nieces with Punkgirl and Happyboy dancing to the music.</i></div><div><br></div><div> Off they went. A small part of me wishes I could just follow them, and watch with glee the mischief they could indulge in. </div><div><br></div><div> But then I would have missed this:</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86d2VyDKpn5g1BrXpaau3QSs2ShaltaY5VEMmLg2YnABVWqH3-AiD3Q67R0XGnm6gh1oRAs052fA_3Cd4Ef2a8upP525CdEr__UwcRQjJm8Qb_pf2AEz2mTie1LOyLbAiWIhdpOeJrf0/s640/blogger-image--1658590182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86d2VyDKpn5g1BrXpaau3QSs2ShaltaY5VEMmLg2YnABVWqH3-AiD3Q67R0XGnm6gh1oRAs052fA_3Cd4Ef2a8upP525CdEr__UwcRQjJm8Qb_pf2AEz2mTie1LOyLbAiWIhdpOeJrf0/s640/blogger-image--1658590182.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhYdNwvMosrPfrGjxC8VwVGZ2eTiVEhdjWFis7uNZLE6Kv08BJwiSOU7HEq-2fySKJLEIgCf4PPlqV5uANUhzPROxh8m84PZzIGrBEoJ63n7NoizCP5_WCVqngkiXPrZpE0zIcELiJWE/s640/blogger-image--1095572809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhYdNwvMosrPfrGjxC8VwVGZ2eTiVEhdjWFis7uNZLE6Kv08BJwiSOU7HEq-2fySKJLEIgCf4PPlqV5uANUhzPROxh8m84PZzIGrBEoJ63n7NoizCP5_WCVqngkiXPrZpE0zIcELiJWE/s640/blogger-image--1095572809.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And even this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOapdck1Cdvj8gHNvdkBfA7ZRneT1uLx74uPro4NrHWkE0zRXuIYFfexM6UMU_ikGRA1ohbsE1kZKkYkel-JosnOJU6lo_zkkDbq81hUGpEEzzzVwyX2gnNjUuI5bRuJ0vqIOJO_vG9J4/s640/blogger-image-1645625032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOapdck1Cdvj8gHNvdkBfA7ZRneT1uLx74uPro4NrHWkE0zRXuIYFfexM6UMU_ikGRA1ohbsE1kZKkYkel-JosnOJU6lo_zkkDbq81hUGpEEzzzVwyX2gnNjUuI5bRuJ0vqIOJO_vG9J4/s640/blogger-image-1645625032.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> Still...I did miss the children conspire with Queen Anne. Yes, the four teens stalked the Queen, and when the Queen insisted they dance with her, they asked her if it would be easier if the King were...missing. Now, I'm not going to go into details, but let's just say they wanted to take some of the weight off the King's shoulders...in the Queen's defense, she made sure that the King wasn't to be <i>harmed</i>, only perhaps...indisposed for a bit. It was almost too incredible to believe that the Queen played along, until an hour later, when she came back, and I heard the exchange with my own ears. All in all, it was a fairly magical piece of the day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjbpWXESWPS8hSXlVmgMRkHSuuRsq2HCAZp3c6gfZAd2DG79EIP7oXdgdPDCAIO7d3_GoMaYhTxtx-uEfFn6SVjTNjDzL3tDyC6Q92WW1Ll_22sJhb4l_oFcTYrr6hpatOdCiCZSIsI0/s640/blogger-image--2082008920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjbpWXESWPS8hSXlVmgMRkHSuuRsq2HCAZp3c6gfZAd2DG79EIP7oXdgdPDCAIO7d3_GoMaYhTxtx-uEfFn6SVjTNjDzL3tDyC6Q92WW1Ll_22sJhb4l_oFcTYrr6hpatOdCiCZSIsI0/s640/blogger-image--2082008920.jpg"></a></div><i>The Queen indulges the young lady with some Harry Potter "expelliarmus" action</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-kQI4DsQF0tOqlxlBCb_lqobEcLIjS_SuVHvP_rWmm3a0qP_nr0SfLa1N4Y4NABo-IBuFrx-xp_HuTZNYL4xA-WPXVZnQZ2iRRYYv9Xie7dvzcuxn3lkR2yiAdzDG1cRnSl8AVwtURU/s640/blogger-image-1008002983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-kQI4DsQF0tOqlxlBCb_lqobEcLIjS_SuVHvP_rWmm3a0qP_nr0SfLa1N4Y4NABo-IBuFrx-xp_HuTZNYL4xA-WPXVZnQZ2iRRYYv9Xie7dvzcuxn3lkR2yiAdzDG1cRnSl8AVwtURU/s640/blogger-image-1008002983.jpg"></a></div><i>The young misadventurers in the Queen's court</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">While waiting to address the King, we caught the Misadventurers on the King's Stage...it was another highlight of the day, as the Missdventurers called for young children to participate, to become Misadventurers themselves. My two nieces (let's just call them Wild Wench and Lady Who) and Happyboy readily jumped up to participate, but to my surprise, so did Rose. Up the ramp to the stage she went, and as the show went on stopped periodically to yell, "Mom, Dad, Billy--I'm on stage!" over and over. She's a bit of a ham.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjJGzlBgcuap1y6k-Gwwlot98MZJ37PYKEyFgccXTCLOCrbKAPK_dck7jQ-b1dwTNXsxNvHKWtzb5UVCRTw_pTlji4j0Ly7Q3XdeocpoqcaEDyEVKDUP2bWoOEiycdKyWu1amFEKiZrg/s640/blogger-image--1620988308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjJGzlBgcuap1y6k-Gwwlot98MZJ37PYKEyFgccXTCLOCrbKAPK_dck7jQ-b1dwTNXsxNvHKWtzb5UVCRTw_pTlji4j0Ly7Q3XdeocpoqcaEDyEVKDUP2bWoOEiycdKyWu1amFEKiZrg/s640/blogger-image--1620988308.jpg"></a></div><i>Happyboy, Wild Wench and Rose on stage at The Misadventurers</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> Again, it was a huge highlight of the day. There were also the Washing Wenches, the Whip Show, an aerial silks show, and the Jousting events, all free of charge, as well as a tiger show that we didn't stop to watch. These were all of the events that were included in the cost of admission, and you can, with older children, get away without paying for anything else but food or souvenirs. However, we had Rose, so we ended up shelling out cash for the maze/slide, the rocking ship, and the pony ride:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBX8Nvo1v_k__nWOWmBzeT-a0R8LkkVJQ4E35ZrdTRsBHzR3dPaba9jcH_Q-VR-ywGrGzFjKCzPuiHyBVnV5uVbwSTEH4Ibpu_bQgpSL7iK1URzVkrq1ZJpofmeVX4UAPEHAufqa9JzUU/s640/blogger-image-1689526299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBX8Nvo1v_k__nWOWmBzeT-a0R8LkkVJQ4E35ZrdTRsBHzR3dPaba9jcH_Q-VR-ywGrGzFjKCzPuiHyBVnV5uVbwSTEH4Ibpu_bQgpSL7iK1URzVkrq1ZJpofmeVX4UAPEHAufqa9JzUU/s640/blogger-image-1689526299.jpg"></a></div><i>Rose and Jessie, a friendly little gal who nuzzled my hand and consented to a pat on the neck.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> Now here comes my one complaint. King Richard's Faire doesn't allow any food brought in, and doesn't allow you to leave and return. What this means is that for people like Punkgirl & me, who have celiac disease, there really isn't an option to eat there. The food service helpers are woefully untrained about allergies--they told my husband that the chicken nuggets and fries were gluten free. My daughter ate them, and for the remainder of the day I watched for headaches, rashes, and stress. Before I purchased my own food (because I couldn't believe they were really gluten free) I asked again. I was told no, they were not. I stood in two separate lines, because on the website both the sausage pepper onion and the chili bowl are listed as gluten free, but as I watched them dip the ladle into the bread each time and then back into the bowl, I knew there was no chance that my food wouldn't be cross-contaminated. I get incredibly ill if I even get a drop of wheat in my system, and since I didn't want to spend the rest of the day in the bathroom or lying down on the ground, I chose to stick to water and chance the kettle corn. Because KRF has a food ticket system, this meant I now had $15 worth of tickets (yes, it's $5 for a Coke and between $8 and $10 for a meal--and you have to buy tickets in denominations of 5) that I couldn't use. This was the worst part of the day, but I did pull myself through--I've been dealing with celiac since before they had gf options anywhere, so I am no stranger to just sucking it up and being hungry at big events.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> The food hiccup aside, we had a really good time. It was expensive, because we were feeding 4 people (5 counting me--but I used my tickets to buy my mom some fudge and Rose some ice cream) and we were buying souvenirs--but for $26 I got each of the kids and myself one of these little leather notebooks in varying colors and this uber-cool pencil:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ut2ISJ6erMSimg4mjvf9QuiZRiBNpDpNgV3mfutiTEpnBq88VuaMo-4th0rlI4jCuSeI4t5XIlMMy5_7gJAoYyAhrvC1sUgUQcvolFHdtRRVn6YJgGdywowfQdPPd2SEkWFvy9wMe-E/s640/blogger-image--562530417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ut2ISJ6erMSimg4mjvf9QuiZRiBNpDpNgV3mfutiTEpnBq88VuaMo-4th0rlI4jCuSeI4t5XIlMMy5_7gJAoYyAhrvC1sUgUQcvolFHdtRRVn6YJgGdywowfQdPPd2SEkWFvy9wMe-E/s640/blogger-image--562530417.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But even with those costs, the free things I got were worth far more in value to me: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9spWj12B4QwtG0U8a_IH37os1CYB5cgd-i26EmKu6heuTWuvPeJt9aAdjHj1ggCch_eNSbHJ3Ta2lu0zbe9wJVA5vMEfeeG2aMpBkDzBvhYhYDZTZLk4cB-thJgJgySkSIM5hUo2QTMc/s640/blogger-image-2135024820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9spWj12B4QwtG0U8a_IH37os1CYB5cgd-i26EmKu6heuTWuvPeJt9aAdjHj1ggCch_eNSbHJ3Ta2lu0zbe9wJVA5vMEfeeG2aMpBkDzBvhYhYDZTZLk4cB-thJgJgySkSIM5hUo2QTMc/s640/blogger-image-2135024820.jpg"></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Slay At Home Mom and her little Misadventurers</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="font-style: italic; clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWnXFSR6D8Q24nU72beai6Npb_F3W-xbN625nARhQaffxBrtolEPHW_mdjM4GeRIzU0NY_U2B_v0YuxiT1GGq5TXXWHhBT6pd_50BQfsfaYFObViHxRKxYuH-SsB9Ls0EwJzlMnkHtUE/s640/blogger-image-853423032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWnXFSR6D8Q24nU72beai6Npb_F3W-xbN625nARhQaffxBrtolEPHW_mdjM4GeRIzU0NY_U2B_v0YuxiT1GGq5TXXWHhBT6pd_50BQfsfaYFObViHxRKxYuH-SsB9Ls0EwJzlMnkHtUE/s640/blogger-image-853423032.jpg"></a></div><i>The Princesses and the little misadventurers</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQd9MpP_79SLFVWpJOe6hQDNtFtgrbP3pGSBB-aJl2MoxuVs50H9-R309oYw6cGD2kXhDzLjm0WGsqCMgbhNnWR9zbuvZBTO_gMsWWT1ug_litsriga1nyFih2IlUkkQOQjWFI1b4SUs/s640/blogger-image--1886962807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQd9MpP_79SLFVWpJOe6hQDNtFtgrbP3pGSBB-aJl2MoxuVs50H9-R309oYw6cGD2kXhDzLjm0WGsqCMgbhNnWR9zbuvZBTO_gMsWWT1ug_litsriga1nyFih2IlUkkQOQjWFI1b4SUs/s640/blogger-image--1886962807.jpg"></a></div><i>Happyboy being adventurous </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RoAZ7su_7EwnKdsp-yFRPQj2MRdm8UeW2hRJ7bsKIRfFieCjpspBCJDjr0yfB-tRsV9OB6WASaS-KHHGAHnChHw30m42A5PFJZgOyrmv3iLY5IYuH-P_nHFXfPrwXQnMjY5ew8e2I2I/s640/blogger-image-185287760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RoAZ7su_7EwnKdsp-yFRPQj2MRdm8UeW2hRJ7bsKIRfFieCjpspBCJDjr0yfB-tRsV9OB6WASaS-KHHGAHnChHw30m42A5PFJZgOyrmv3iLY5IYuH-P_nHFXfPrwXQnMjY5ew8e2I2I/s640/blogger-image-185287760.jpg"></a></div></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Rose hanging out in a Sky Chair--literally.</i></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9tSIvidd2pfOgDQBCkRTWFDhj_KDryEiTPem7oodfklKn_P1xSOxHWTmy0PtcEP7GQlcjX-0UHS-EPP3mD_tC3XoIp5oLUBToMa2-vr8sSUaIs-sC0Tt2oDq0GAE90PFp0ZXXQmfP1k/s640/blogger-image--274243694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9tSIvidd2pfOgDQBCkRTWFDhj_KDryEiTPem7oodfklKn_P1xSOxHWTmy0PtcEP7GQlcjX-0UHS-EPP3mD_tC3XoIp5oLUBToMa2-vr8sSUaIs-sC0Tt2oDq0GAE90PFp0ZXXQmfP1k/s640/blogger-image--274243694.jpg"></a></div><i>A Sun Sprite who spent some time interacting with the young misadventurers</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51RPdcJKDlMeEUsPmXhVGXgBK90LhJqQtnC2tLrLsPWPn-eey40CA0m9KktYTCJquTRRJm_hvgOCymQHDsH8umSsdyq9rtd9vVAbGupYZadk54f6JkufkoVW-SdEyFd_-z6yYXlaqBR8/s640/blogger-image--2113396326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51RPdcJKDlMeEUsPmXhVGXgBK90LhJqQtnC2tLrLsPWPn-eey40CA0m9KktYTCJquTRRJm_hvgOCymQHDsH8umSsdyq9rtd9vVAbGupYZadk54f6JkufkoVW-SdEyFd_-z6yYXlaqBR8/s640/blogger-image--2113396326.jpg"></a></div>A fun day at the Faire for all.</i></div><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-43257978328501432972015-09-14T08:33:00.001-04:002015-09-14T08:33:25.745-04:00Future Punkgirl and Other Lunch ShenanigansOkay, I'm not the first person to write about making from-home lunches fun, and I'm sure I'm not the most creative, but I am the one most likely to <i>never </i>tell you to cut your kid's sandwich into a replica of the Mona Lisa. If you, like me, have no aptitude for making works of art out of food, then this is the post for you.<div><br></div><div>Punkgirl was diagnosed with celiac disease five years ago, and the biggest change for her (and me) was the inability for her to order lunch at school. We eat a gluten free meal for dinner (because I, too, have celiac disease, and I refuse to cook two meals), but up until that point I let the kids get their fill of gluten-filled foods during breakfast and lunch. Punkgirl was pretty devastated to find that she could no longer participate in eating the chicken nuggets, pizza Friday, or any of the other kid-friendly (read:gross) foods at school. And until recently, these things weren't readily available in gluten-free varieties. </div><div><br></div><div>So I became pretty good at slapping two pieces of gluten-free bread together, but more importantly, I became great at making the kid laugh at lunchtime. It's not fun when you're eating a lunch brought from home that tastes like cardboard in tinfoil and everyone else is eating warm chicken enchiladas, or hamburgers, or even sloppy joes. Thus began Future Punkgirl and Other Shenanigans.</div><div><br></div><div>I write notes--not every day, because then it's too routine, but say, once every few weeks or so, though I have gone as long as a month--to Punkgirl, from Future Punkgirl (in case you haven't guessed it yet, Punkgirl is my eldest daughter, Shaelin.) </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfew7E4anNRZyCdzuFA0OPadzGluxgWjU_I47XekD7SJWHaGnChg2jBY1n2Ef22W9IvmNfjKIf1G45nbKfCGW_y_1E5gsJv-gfe7P9n3ZGy8gcpk-3uCOYfnIiZb3qJ9T8EuICUBcqNF8/s640/blogger-image-1236905612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfew7E4anNRZyCdzuFA0OPadzGluxgWjU_I47XekD7SJWHaGnChg2jBY1n2Ef22W9IvmNfjKIf1G45nbKfCGW_y_1E5gsJv-gfe7P9n3ZGy8gcpk-3uCOYfnIiZb3qJ9T8EuICUBcqNF8/s640/blogger-image-1236905612.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Punkgirl was a middle-schooler when I started, and middle-schoolers are for some odd reason obsessed with gross. So the grosser, the better. They also love drama, which is why I like this one:</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYbRMa6mVsKUgykb7udFaMe-WitoX3FqedsZfTiQBXyIbmoyCH9_Wihkp1f-jPhj6EDw45H9DtktuyovHmQFeZTQJIxSWhkKUxTgUIB_aC1h0d2n62eiDkMVZkFqeuGCuAVW3zSoq9cQ/s640/blogger-image-660858426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYbRMa6mVsKUgykb7udFaMe-WitoX3FqedsZfTiQBXyIbmoyCH9_Wihkp1f-jPhj6EDw45H9DtktuyovHmQFeZTQJIxSWhkKUxTgUIB_aC1h0d2n62eiDkMVZkFqeuGCuAVW3zSoq9cQ/s640/blogger-image-660858426.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Today, for the first time in high school, I sent her one that said "Shaelin, something momentous is going to happen today. Be ready for it....*PS, if you don't believe me, your friend S is sitting to the right of you today. PPS If S isn't sitting to the right of you, you've accidentally changed the future by coming back to the past to warn me--you! ~F.S.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Punkgirl ruined the surprise today by accidentally going into her lunch bag in the morning, but the hysterical giggling coming from her lips tells me she still enjoys the adventures of Future Punkgirl.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I know you're thinking "that's it? A couple of notes, that's all you've got for me?" The truth is, it could be--it's minimal effort and maximum return (because we never know when future Punkgirl will make an appearance), but for those of you over-achievers out there, I have a couple more suggestions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Be crazy. By "be crazy" I don't mean hide in the lunch room closet and spy on her to make sure she's eating okay (I mean, it will stay in her mind for the next several years when you pop out that one time and let her know that you'll keep checking to make sure she's actually eating...but you probably don't need to do that. Probably.) I mean be creative, and make her be creative. I've duck taped her dessert closed (though she wasn't as happy with that one because she put in all the effort of getting it open to find NOT CHOCOLATE inside.) I've cut a cupcake in half and placed it in one of those weird-shaped salad dressing holders, so the only <i>possible</i> way to get it out involved getting chocolate frosting on your fingers. And I've used milk and food coloring to paint toasted bread for her sandwich with bizarre or creepy pictures (though admittedly, that one was far more effort than I generally expend.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The idea is that Punkgirl gets a laugh, or a groan, with at least a few lunch meals per month. Her friends even get a laugh, as she opens her bag with care in case something some day pops out of there. Not that I've encouraged that concern...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-59430538934422388052015-09-10T07:59:00.001-04:002015-09-10T11:19:36.642-04:00Something Serious: Suicide Prevention WeekSuicide Prevention Week is coming up, and it has me in a serious mood, reminding me that as glorious as my life is right now, there was a time where I suffered from PostPartum Depression (PPD) and suicidal thoughts. Thankfully, I was able to get help, and if you have these kinds of experiences, I urge you to reach out if you're able.<div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzwzkGHKIG_ynH35NUX3yA9LsTgRZ-n88QkIRtj5aG6M83ZNcy8LWZ-8a17SU2Le1o-vv_Sst93if8peMKrWLPNIHJQZf82DjavOscKFoXHmpqH_-fRC4UzzDNSNuy55AgKj88olXQJc/s640/blogger-image--2092626137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzwzkGHKIG_ynH35NUX3yA9LsTgRZ-n88QkIRtj5aG6M83ZNcy8LWZ-8a17SU2Le1o-vv_Sst93if8peMKrWLPNIHJQZf82DjavOscKFoXHmpqH_-fRC4UzzDNSNuy55AgKj88olXQJc/s640/blogger-image--2092626137.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br><div><br></div><div><span style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> The first time I realized how bad it was I was driving home on I-93, with the baby in the car seat and tears streaming down my face. I had just left the Deerfield Fair, where my mother and relatives were enjoying the crisp fall air and the quaint offerings of the biggest pumpkin and best quilt contests. </span><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> I couldn't enjoy them, and had left my mother and her bewildered look behind, as I frantically took my five month old from her and hustled towards the car. A moment before I had been standing just past the fried dough stand, where I'd stopped to get a take-home piece for my husband. The breath had backed up in my lungs and a scream was waiting to burst from my lips as my gaze whipped from side to side. She had taken my baby. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> That was all I could think, that they always say that it's someone close to you who steals your baby. As she headed back in my direction, I ran towards her, kneeling down to hug Shaelin and look up at my mother like a deer caught in headlights. I was terrified, and she was confused.</div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> "Sam, what's wrong?" She was genuinely curious, because not two minutes ago she had told me she was going to wait down at the gate. She couldn't know that the demon in my mind, the post-partum depression that I hid masterfully from view so no one would laugh at me or think I was weak, had erased that part of the conversation as if it had never happened.</div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> It didn't get much better when I was home. My husband had gone out with his best friend, and they had run into the friend's old girlfriend. This immediately translated to "they planned to meet her, and they didn't want me along."</div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> I sent the friend, who is one of the nicest guys on the planet, a nasty email accusing him of plotting to do God knows what, and to involve my husband in it, too. Even the little voice in the back of my head that was often lucid didn't stop me from pressing "send", and the next day he showed up at my work, trying to set things straight with a person who could no longer keep the demon separate from the girl. I was embarrassed, even more so as he waited an hour for me to finish work to see me. I don't remember the conversation we had--the demon was talking too loud--but I do remember telling him that my brother's death two months before had just made me a little "crazy." I tried to fluff it off, even as he tried to help, and ultimately, the demon won and I just went home. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> Home, where I often envisioned running scissors down my arms until they reached my wrists, and the only thing that kept me from doing it was the little miracle baby who needed me as much as I needed her. She was less than six months old and was the only thing keeping me alive.</div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> The manic moments came more and more often. I accused my husband of anything I could accuse him of, and hid my demon as best I could from the doctor, my work, and the rest of my family. I would find myself poring through bills, trying to find something to fight about, because surely my husband didn't really want me. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> Finally, a lucid moment allowed me to call my doctor. She only had two patients left and worked part-time, so I got her machine, where I left a teary message telling her that I wasn't me, that I had thoughts of hurting myself that couldn't belong to me. While I didn't immediately get an answer, I was sure just letting it out had helped. I felt so much better. Later that day, when she called me at work, I let out an embarrassed laugh. "I was just over-whelmed for a minute. I'm fine, and I'm sorry I bothered you." It was Halloween Day, 2001, just a month and a half after two planes crashed into the twin towers. Everyone was ready for the world to get back to its routine, and I was no exception. Shaelin had her little piglet costume all ready for that night. The doctor ended the call with me, and did something that today would probably get her fired: she called my husband. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> He begged, pleaded, and finally demanded that we got to the mental health urgent care department immediately. I resisted, telling him that Shaelin wasn't going to miss her first Halloween; in my mind, the demon was telling me that my husband only wanted proof that I was crazy so that he could take the baby when he divorced me. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> I went into the waiting room with my arms crossed, my foot tapping, anger and fear at war with my lucidity. The big tattooed male nurse who talked to me made me feel "normal" for the first time in months. The therapist that came in to talk to me wanted me to admit myself to the hospital for a few days, and I explained in the only words that would pass my lips: "I will die without my baby. I'm better when I'm near her." </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> They made my husband promise to stay with me over the next few days as I set up appointments with therapists and psychologists. My mother came over when he couldn't be there. I wish I could say that I was immediately better; but the truth is that it took me a long time. It took medication to re-set the chemical imbalance in my brain, which had started with a miscarriage, worsened with pregnancy and delivery, and pushed me over the edge with the death of my brother. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> But it did get better. The demon receded and I could finally remember who I was, could find my lucidity and embrace it. Years later, it's even easy to laugh at how "crazy" I was. But I try not to--I try to remember that in that moment, it wasn't crazy, it was my existence. I want my daughters and son to know that depression--the demon--can rear its ugly head, and that it won't be funny, they won't be laughed at, and that it can get better if they can only find the courage for one moment to reach out. </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> </div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 21px; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"> If you or anyone you know is suffering from depression, please reach out. Help is available. Call The National Suicide Prevention Hotline <a href="tel:1-800-273-TALK" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="telephone" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0">1-800-273-TALK</a>(8255) or visit afsp.org.</div></div></div></div>Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7292805008251972030.post-9761652658364437632015-08-19T21:48:00.001-04:002015-08-19T21:53:02.835-04:00Women In ComicsI had the opportunity to talk to several wonderful female comic writers & artists at Boston Comic Con. It was an amazing experience that had me fangirling and completely geeking out...and it was featured this week on All Things Geek on The Good Men Project: <a href="http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/i-know-my-value-xela/" target="_blank">http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/i-know-my-value-xela</a>/Slay At Home Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07485031582869006831noreply@blogger.com0