Bathrooms Aren't The Only Problem

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.

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.

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."

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.  

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.)

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.  

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.

"But my child goes to school to get an education." 

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. 

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? 

      Some of Happyboy's art

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 all of our children can go to just get an education.

Birthdays and Balloons. Or: Ode To My Comic Book Brother

How do I tell you about my comic book brother?

Today's his birthday, the 46th from birth and the 15th from death.

15 seems like an eon, "get over it already!", 

But you can't get over missing a limb, or an organ, or your heart.

Sunday driving isn't the same without car dancing

Comic book movies fill me with love and sorrow on your behalf 

(Where are Nick Fury and Thor? Two of the baddest badasses

And why are Inhumans masquerading as mutants?)

Nobody shares the same stories that we did

Nobody shares my birthday, I thought I'd love that

But birthday candles and cake can't compare to the wishes I make

They always involve some kind of dream reunion

You and Dad and Charlie, Lily says you're up in the stars

Because I can't believe that Heaven isn't too far away

You would've loved all these nieces and nephew, Godchildren who would have blessed you

If only life hadn't had so many other plans.

I frequent our place in Quincy, the kids think it's "their" store now, too

I can't walk in the door without seeing your face, even the guy is the same... 

It took me 30 years to ask his name, but you know, the one with the ponytail and glasses

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.

Sigh. It's your birthday. We'll send up balloons.  Balloons used to soothe me so.

Now every balloon is a minute, and there are too many balloons behind us, and too many balloons to go.

Because I fucking miss you.  I had to say fucking.  Nothing else was strong enough.

I have too many things and people here to want to go, to die any time soon...

But that just makes me ache a little more, because I know, I KNOW what it means:

Balloons, and longing, and missing you, and wishing you'd visit my dreams.

PS: Thanks a lot for making our last dance together YMCA. I look great bawling to the Village People.

PPS:  Happy birthday, Jay.  I love you. I miss you.  Come visit my dreams.

A Weekend of Memories

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.)

So.  Here are my (mostly) happy thoughts... 

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.

Is it any wonder I said yes? He wore those jeans in the summer.  

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 not have a mad-love of the flute. 

All the whackadoodles together.

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 still 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!)

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.]

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?

How to Grow Old Ungracefully

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 have to now) to hide white/gray hair.  

I'm noticing the wrinkles around my eyes--which are getting a little deeper each year.  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.) 

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. 

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.) 

Getting older is still, I'm sure, going to be hard for me--I may be 29 at heart, but after three kids my 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.

Crinkles and all.

20 Things I Never Said Before You Left

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.  

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.

20 Things I Didn't Say Or Do Before You Died

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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. 

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.)

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.

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.

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.

14.  Stop smoking.  Stop smoking years ago.

15.  I love you.  I know I've said it before, but there's just no way I could've ever said it enough.

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.

17.  I always thought you were 6 feet tall, even though you were only a couple of inches taller than me.

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.

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.)

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.

AHSOKA TANO IS READING MY BOOK!

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!

Read more here:

http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/211549-xela/#comment-2284756

The Voice of Edward Elric

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.  

We saw the Batmobile:

Bats won't mind if I take it for a ride....

And we saw some great cosplay:

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.

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.) 

Happyboy spent hours--I mean, hours, 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.

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.

The lovely Dr. Leslie Thompson 

This lady was wicked awesome, 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?"

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!"  

Vic Mignogna, as we found out that night, is also starring in the Star Trek series web series, Star Trek Continues, 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 ElSword 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:

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 him." He said a few more words that made Happyboy feel pretty special. 

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 Star Trek Continues anyway...but after meeting the voice of Edward Elric, we'll be tuning in with goodwill and good wishes for his continued success!

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:

Chris Claremont signed my DOFP tshirt.

Robin is smart to be wary of the Joker....

BayMax!

Punkgirl's Steampunk Penguin Cosplay

TV for the Woman Who Hates TV

I 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. 

Michelle Gomez as Missy on Doctor Who.  Image credit: BBC

 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.

Blindspot image credit: NBC

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.)

Quantico star Priyanka Chopra. Image credit: NY Times

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.

Kristen Ritter as Jessica Jones. Image credit: IMDB

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.  

King 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.

     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.

     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. 

My nieces with Punkgirl and Happyboy dancing to the music.

     Off they went.  A small part of me wishes I could just follow them, and watch with glee the mischief they could indulge in.  

     But then I would have missed this:

And this:

And even this:

     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 harmed, 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.

The Queen indulges the young lady with some Harry Potter "expelliarmus" action

The young misadventurers in the Queen's court

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.

Happyboy, Wild Wench and Rose on stage at The Misadventurers

     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:

Rose and Jessie, a friendly little gal who nuzzled my hand and consented to a pat on the neck.

     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.

     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:

But even with those costs, the free things I got were worth far more in value to me: 

Slay At Home Mom and her little Misadventurers

The Princesses and the little misadventurers

Happyboy being adventurous 

Rose hanging out in a Sky Chair--literally.

A Sun Sprite who spent some time interacting with the young misadventurers

A fun day at the Faire for all.

Future Punkgirl and Other Lunch Shenanigans

Okay, 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 never 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.

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. 

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.

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.) 

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:

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.

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.

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.

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 possible 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.) 

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...

Something Serious: Suicide Prevention Week

Suicide 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.

     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.  

     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.  

     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.

     "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.

     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."

     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.  

     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.

     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.  

     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.  

     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.  

     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."  

     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.  

     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.  

     

     If you or anyone you know is suffering from depression, please reach out.  Help is available. Call The National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or visit afsp.org.

Women In Comics

I 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: http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/i-know-my-value-xela/

Boston Comic Con '15 Slays It!

Here's my review of Boston Comic Con 2015 on The Good Men Project: http://goodmenproject.com/all-things-geek/red-caps-coming-comicon-xela/

What's In A Name?

Every so often I think about the name of my blog--Suck At Home Mom.  I chose it purposely, because three years ago I was terrible at this stay at home thing.  I was incredibly hard on myself, and I was definitely lost without the constant interaction of the people I used to work with.

But over the last few months I've come to realize how much I'm thriving.  I'm able to write more than I had in years.  I'm working on a novel.  I've been published on The Good Men Project, The Huffington Post, and BlogHer.  I've been involved in writing communities, and I've gotten the hang of being at home with the kids and not needing to do something every minute.  Punkgirl remarked the other day--"You slay at this.  At being a mom at home."  I've shown my kids the workaholic mom--how could they not see it?  They were in the same school where I worked, and felt it keenly every time I chose to finish my work instead of seeing what they were doing.  

This isn't a working mom criticism--it's a working me criticism.  I give my all to any job--and that includes the one at home.  So in doing so, for me, it later came to hurt me.  Because just one comment from Punkgirl--"remember when you went out of the house to work, and you never had time to read our stuff or give us challenges or play games with us?"

That cut me to the quick.  She has begged me not to go back to work, and despite a desire to see other adults and have conversations that don't revolve around diapers or drama, I haven't.  And I failed at that at first...but now, I feel like I'm finally coming into my own.  Like I'm owning the s-a-h-m role.  Like I'm slaying it.  

So without further ado...over the next few months I will be changing my site from Suck At Home Mom's Cranky Blog...To Slay At Home Mom's Nerdy Blog.  I'm going to try to take the two things I love to do--activities with the kids, and all things  nerdy--into one blog.  Wish me luck, and I hope you'll love the new blog as much as the old!  (Feedback is always appreciated!)