What I call: My truth about Christmas

The problem I have with Christmas isn't really one problem, but all of them stem from one thing; and that is that the point of Christmas is completely missed today. I will start with the most personal problems and move out to more "global" issues.

This Christmas, as the 13 before it, I have not had a job. There was one in 2003, where I did have a job over the Christmas season, but it brings up so many other horrible memories that I have chosen to block that particular year out of all my conscious thought. Well, I know the thought is that there are a lot of people out of work, but that isn't the problem here. Because I don't work outside the home, I deal with self-doubt and a sense of uselessness every day of my life. My husband is a good man and has never made our family suffer needlessly for lack of a steady paycheck, so I've never "needed" to work. But what that means to me personally is that since I don't work, not only do I not have the right to any money, I don't want to have to rely on him for every cent I want to spend on him. For example, I asked him for some money to buy him a gift, which of course, makes me feel more useless and pathetic than ever. But he said no. He said he didn't want anything. But his birthday is next week, and he's got a list a mile long that he spouted off to his mom when she asked what he wanted for his birthday. And worse, I can't buy anything for my children either. I have to justify every $0.50 expenditure, and I don't like reporting to anyone that I bought a "secret" gift for one of the kids. It kinda defeats the purpose of buying things secretly. That is problem number one.

Problem number two is closely related to number one. EVERYONE expects something for Christmas. The in-laws expect a gift, and a long time ago, the three kids said they would each spend $50 towards gifts for their parents. Welp, once again, we didn't partake of this little tradition, even though the other two did. I wanted to, and I reminded him that we needed to set aside a couple hundred dollars to get things for the extended family. We had the money, we just didn't do it. So Christmas Eve rolled around this year and we are in Show Low exchanging gifts, and nobody had anything from our family. Oh, each one of us recieved something. But my brother- and sister-in-law and their three little kids didn't recieve anything. The grandparents were going to their house for Christmas morning, so they saved the gifts for then, but we were supposed to participate in this exchange. But again, because he controls every cent of money, which is his right since he earns every cent of the money, I had no say, and it isn't really the thought that counts. Nobody knows how horrible I feel that their little kids had nothing to open for Christmas Eve. Nobody knows how I am still scheming in my mind how to buy them gifts when I get my financial aid money next week, and maybe lie and say that we just forgot them over here. I freaking hate this feeling, and I feel like if I was doing my part, and bringing in some funds that I had control over, this would not be happening and I would not feel like crap. In a nutshell, that is problem number 2.

Problem number 3, again, is related to money and my lack of ability to provide or control any. My mom is without a job this year, and for the first time since I remember, she really doesn't have any steady income. Yet, somehow, she managed to pick up books for my daughter, along with some homemade hot cocoa mix, that I know she put lots of love into. For me, she made an amazing scrapbook of pictures and stories about the Medley side of our family. She gave my oldest son money, because of problem number 4. And for my baby, she made a Sacrament Meeting activity book, which is awesome. He'll be able to use it all year and think of her every time we pull it out. She went out of her way to make awesome, heartfelt gifts for my family, and once again, because I don't have any money control, she got nothing for us. Oh, I take that back. I made her a gingerbread house. It turned out really cool, but it is nothing compared to the work she put into our gifts.

Problem number 4, as alluded to above, is the attitude my children have. Child #1 hates clothes. He swears it should be against the law for anyone to give any child clothes as a gift, for any reason. So while I was making pajamas and hats and scarves and ponchos for my other two kids, I didn't make him anything. At first, I thought, "that will show him. While the other kids get nice warm pajamas and stuff, he'll be wishing he had them." But looking at it from how I would have been thinking about it when I was 13, he probably thinks I don't love him as much as the othr two, since I obviously didn't make him anything. And, of course, that also meant he didn't get anything from me, since I have no control of money to buy things for him. The other two children aren't as hung up on clothes as #1 is, but they still think they are "owed" everything they get, and more. So if they don't get everything they wanted, we have failed as parents. And the worst part of the whole thing is...

Problem number 5! It isn't just my kids! I am not the only one that feels the pressure. When my children go back to school, for the second Christmas in a row, they will not be telling their friends that they got a Wii or a Blu-Ray player or a big-screen for their bedroom. Shoot, the boys don't even HAVE their own rooms. But because the story will be that once again, the Hitchcock's can't keep up with the (fill in a name here)'s, and their kids are big nerds because they STILL don't have their own electronics and game playing systems. But even if the money was there, I refuse to submit to the pressure of people whose children are spoiled and lazy and just figure everyone owes them everything...

Christmas is about Jesus Christ, hence the "Christ" in "Christmas". No, he wasn't born in December, we all know that. We all know that historically, it would be much more accurate to celebrate his birth around Easter, but we already have the resurrection for that time of year. Christmas is a celebration of a miracle, and whether you believe it happened or not, THAT is what it is about. You can choose not to celebrate Christmas and nobody will care, but the celebration is about Christ, and if you can't stomach that, you need to not celebrate. Santa isn't real, never has been. He was actually "created" to give a less didactic view of Christmas to people, but he still represents Jesus Christ. Bet you didn't know that! Yep, its true! Santa brings gifts to symbolize not only the gifts the Three Kings (or wise men, or priests, or whatever you want to call them) brought to the toddler Christ, but also the gift Jesus was to give us of the atonement. My biggest problem is that people don't seem to know that anymore. People buy and buy, and spend money and buy more, and bad-mouth other people when they can't afford to buy more and they completely forgive that really, WE don't deserve to recieve gifts at all. It is CHRISTmas, not GENAmas, or LOUISmas. It isn't about me getting anything, it is about the celebration of Christ's birth. It should be simple, and gifts should be HANDMADE WITH LOVE, if exchanged at all. People should be spending their time doing what He would be doing, if He was here: helping the homeless or downtrodden, writing letters or making phone calls to the people we love, feeding the hungry, singing to lift the hearts of others. Christ would be worshipping His Father, not worshiping Sears or JC Penney. HE would be sitting around a table, breaking bread and spending time with those he loved, not running up credit card bills and treating other shoppers like they are slime under rocks.
I'm just sick of it. All of it. The whole Christmas experience. I love the time with the family or friends, but I'm tired of how the world has turned it into a commercial fiasco meant only to bring businesses the big bucks.

Not feeling so well about welfare

I know I shouldn't be a hater, but dang it, I can't help it.
I got an email from Senator Allen today and she tells me she needs all good Republicans to help push AHCCCS reform because the state's budget can't be amended until some serious changes have been made, and by the end of next month, teachers, DPS officers, and other state employees will not be actually getting paychecks, but bank drafts. IOUs, if you will, because the state is taking out another $90 million loan (on top of the $70 million they got in November) just to pay state employees through the Christmas season, and there is no money in the budget. Halfway through the fiscal year, and the budget account is dry. I told her, as I told her a couple weeks ago when we last talked, that the whole welfare system needs reform. People are making more on welfare and unemployment than they can working an honest job, and that is a bunch of shit, pardon my French. I swear to gosh, my mom said this very thing to me just this past weekend. "There are just no jobs out there." I said, "Oh that's a bunch of crap. When I drive to Show Low, there isn't a fast food restaurant in town that isn't hiring, and I know KMart and WalMart both hire between October and February just to get through the holidays, so don't tell me you can't find work." "Yeah," she says to me, "they're hiring, but I make more on unemployement than I would there, so that is kinda dumb." And you know what, I totally agree. It is no freakin wonder people are refusing to work. It is no wonder the state of Arizona and its businesses didn't really get into the black by Black Friday. It is no wonder that a full 34% of Arizonans are drawing welfare right now. But I have a solution. It has holes, but it is a jumping-off place, nothing more.

Here is my proposal.

• If you are not found medically unable to work, you do not get benefits of any kind (food stamps, AHCCCS, utility assistance, cash assistance) unless you or someone in your household is not working a full-time job or combination of part-time jobs to be considered full-time. (40 hours a week) Food stamps can be offered on a part-time basis, and benefits will expire after 6 months, regardless of your station. This "work" doesn't necessarily have to be paid employment, and can be community service (volunteering in schools, nursing homes, libraries, collecting litter from the streets, mowing the grass at the park, etc.), as long as an employment supervisor will initial that you are doing said work, and it can be verified.
• You must be a legal resident of the United States, on a work visa that has not expired, or on a student visa that has not expired, in order to even apply for any type of benefits.
• Each person considered for benefits MUST pass a drug test. A failed drug test renders you ineligible for any state benefits for the period of 6 months. At that time, if you can pass the test and the other stipulations apply, you can resume your benefits for whatever duration you had remaining on your original benefit period. In other words, if you had 2 weeks left when your test came back dirty, you only have two weeks left when you resume recieving benefits. If you refuse a drug test, it is the same as having a dirty one.
• Unemployment is paid by the employers who severed you, not the state, and the state does not subsidize it in any way.
• AHCCCS is for children, pregnant women, and people over 65 only. All children under 18 qualify for AHCCCS, regardless of their family's income, unless they are covered by their family's health care provider.
• NO CHILD IS DENIED HEALTH CARE COVERAGE FOR ANY REASON.
• No welfare benefits can be used for alcohol, tobacco, or other controlled substances.

It all boils down to this. You do your part, the state will help make up the rest. You don't do your part, and the state is really sorry, but there is nothing that they can do.

Many people would see such a proposal as more government, but it really isn't that at all. I don't really believe in government in a society where people are capable of taking care of themselves. But in the society in which we now live, people think its okay to do just about anything, and don't believe accountability for their actions is anything short of tyranny. People do not know how to govern themselves, or take care of themselves. It was estimated last year that if electricity were to suddenly go away, 20% of the country would die within 6 months because they've lost the skills of cooking food without either an electric range or a microwave. And I ask you, can you cook on open flame? What if we lost gas? Natural gas, propane, butane, is what I mean? Probably close to another 15% would perish because they don't know how to build fires to keep warm or to cook, and don't have means to do that even if they knew how. And how many people have warm clothing, blankets, and bedding in their homes to keep themselves warm if the government weren't providing heat? I know it's winter now, but how many people would die of heat stroke in the summer if they suddenly had no air conditioning, swamp coolers, or ceiling fans? What if they had no running water? What if we couldn't go to the store because either we didn't have access to gasoline, or the stores couldn't store food due to no electricity?

This welfare proposal puts the responsibility for getting help back into the hands of the people with the outstretched arms. You want something from the government? Fine, that is what they are there for. But you have to meet them halfway. Better than halfway, actually. Because I do believe in help, I always have. There have been times, miserable, horrible times, when I have had to ask for help. I am a proud person, I will admit, and I hate to ask for help from anyone, but I have had to, just to survive, and I would again. But I will work my ever-loving butt off to do everything I can before I even think about asking for help. I always thought THAT was the American Spirit. My ancestors came to this country 200 years ago with the Irish attitude that we're just as good as everyone else, and if we have to work our fingers to the bone to prove it, we dang sure will. There is no shame in working hard and earning things by the sweat of the brow and the ache of the back. There is great pride in that, actually. I take a lot of pride in knowing that God alone has been helping me to get everything I have. I've never lived in my mother's house or my father's shadow. I've never relied on my father or my brother or my uncle to get me a job over 100 other people applying, just because he had power to do it. I've never relied on my family name or anything else to get what I've got. It's not much, but it is mine. Mine and God's. I thought that kind of pride was what it meant to BE an American. That is what the welfare proposal is all about. Getting people back into the mindframe that it is shameful to freeload and is something to be proud of to work hard. Really, once people start thinking that way again, there won't be any need for the government to provide welfare because the people will do it for each other. When you really remember what it is like to be down and out, to need help, you are so much more willing to reach out an lend a helping hand to others.

It's late, and I'm tired.

It's beginning to look a lot like Prozac

I'm not a fan of drugs, really. I mean, I love morphine, I can't lie, but only because the only time I ever experienced its effects, I was in a lot of pain and it made it go away. Well, it didn't go away, I just didn't care about it anymore. It was like that when I had my third child and got to have drugs in labor. Demoral? Stadol? I don't know. I'm not entirely sure it isn't because of said drugs that he is the way he is, but I wouldn't have done it differently had I known then what I know now.
ANYWAY, let it be known that I am not a fan of serious narcotics. That should make what I am about to say a lot more... powerful.
I hate Christmas. I used to like it when I was little and living in Virginia. It was just me, my sister Mandie, my mom, and Granny. The first conscious memory I have of Christmas was in Virginia, and I had to be about 3 or 4. Granny bought Mandie and I some slippers, and we got to open them early. We ended up wearing them to some kind of Christmas party, which was probably at our church. But I remember sticking my slippers under the lamp shade for the light bulb to heat them up. And I remember waking up Christmas morning to a huge fire, presents under the tree, and Rum Butter lifesavers in our stocking, along with nuts, a big peppermint stick, and an orange. I can't remember any other gifts I got, and there may not have been any. But I know Granny was sitting in the rocking chair, looking all happy and glowing, watching Mandie and I play on the floor. It seems like maybe that was when I got my first Lite Brite. Could be.
Fast forward about 5 years. I'm probably 8 or 9. It's about two weeks before Christmas and I am awakened in the middle of the night (could have been 8 p.m.; who knows) by the voice of my birth father, singing, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose..." He used to sing that to us when we were little, and I hadn't seen him because he was in prison. But there he was. And he brought gifts, too. A Rainbow Brite horse... I think his name was Starlite. A horse and foal tapestry to hang on my wall. For Mandie, it was a white Sprite, also from Rainbow Brite, and a teddy bear radio. He spent about three days with us before he was gone again. I have no idea where he went, but I didn't hear from him again for about 14 years. But every time I hear that song, I remember that night. I still have that tapestry hanging on my wall, within reach of the very computer at which I now sit.
Another couple years go by and my mom remarried my step dad, who I will always refer to as my dad, even though I've always called him "Shane" to his face. The first Christmas I remember with him in our family, they had a fight. I have no idea what the fight was about, but he threw Mandie's scriptures out into the snow and my mom picked up Jessica, who was a tiny baby, and Mandie and I followed her out the door. We ended up walking right back in because we had no way to leave. But the screaming and fighting continued. Actually, for about 10 years...
About my 8th grade year or so, Christmas Eve rolls around. My brother, Jarod, then about 2 or so, was climbing on the TV stand while my parents were fighting, once again. He fell, hitting his chin on the open door of the stand, splitting his chin. He spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room and ended up with lots of internal and external stitches, as the wood cut him clean to the bone. He didn't cry, from what I was told. But it was a Christmas I will never forget.
Another Christmas happened probably the next year. My dad took his horse up on the mountain to cut a Christmas tree. He thought he was John Wayne. He is more authentic than John Wayne, in my opinion, but it was what it was. But he brought a tree down and we put it up. But my grandpa went out with a 5-gallon bucket to get sand to prop the tree up in. He couldn't carry the bucket by himself, and he was embarrassed. He'd lost his eyesight, and his strength was fading. It was just the two of us out at the sand pit, and I had to help him carry a bucket of sand for the Christmas tree. I went home and cried, and wished I could give him at least one of my eyes so he could see, and I vowed to God that I would let him take me away years earlier than I was supposed to go if only He would give Grandpa some of my strength. He didn't do that, and of course, I couldn't give Grandpa one of my eyes, but Christmas became a reminder of the mortality we all face.
My last Christmas at home was the least pleasant ever, I think. My mom and dad were fighting, yet again. Christmas for me was a bath gift set from my Aunt Alana and a "forgiveness" letter from my dad, who told me I didn't have to pay him for the car I wrecked. What makes it worse is that the little kids, then 8, 6, and 4, didn't really get much more than that. We ended up in the truck, my dad on the outside, reaching through the open window to try to take the truck keys from my mom, who was punching him and hitting him. Mandie climbed out the back seat, came over and hit him and told him not to hit my mom (he wasn't) and she went to get a gun to shoot him. But before she was halfway to the house, he ran over and stopped her and told her to get back in the truck. We went to town and I never set foot in that house again. I spent the night with my boyfriend's parents for a couple nights while Granny was out of town, but when she got home, I moved in with her. Mandie had been living there for a while, and had only gone out to the house to "celebrate" Christmas with our family.
For many reasons, more than I have time to write here, I hate, loathe, and despise Christmas. I guess it brings up bad memories of bitter holidays with my "family", but more than that, the holiday has lost its meaning entirely. Christmas used to be a holy day to celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. It used to be a homey time, where children smile a little brighter, parents laugh a little louder, people are happier and come together more fully. Parents wink at each other, sharing the secret of Santa, and hiding it from their little kids. They pray together and sing together, and act out the Nativity with sheets wrapped around them, and brooms for shepherd's staffs, and bath towels wrapped around their heads. Moms and dads would hold hands while the big sister would read the story of the birth of Christ, and a special spirit would fill the hearts of Christians the world over. Soup kitchens would have extra hands, and neighbors would treat their friends to the 12 days of Christmas goodies, and kids who just learned about "Santa" would get to place gifts on a random child's doorstep, knock on the door, and run around the corner and hide where they could see the Spirit of Christmas light up some stranger's face. That was when I was little, in Virginia, when a stick of candy and a handful of mixed nuts were all it took to make a child very, very happy.
Those days are gone. Now it is thousands of dollars worth of cheap plastic crap made in China. Blinking lights of dozens of colors, hooked up to blink to the sound of a non-Christian "Christmas" song like "Jingle Bells" or "Deck the Halls". We can't pray and give thanks to our Lord in public because it is offensive. We can't wish anyone "Merry Christmas" because what if they are Jewish? Buddhist? Muslim? We have to say "Happy Holidays" like there is something else going on that is anywhere near as important as Christ's birth! It's a Nintendo Wii, with games and controllers, that set parents back $400, and a dirtbike, and a new "Guitar Hero" game, and a computer, and whining kids who, despite the fact that they do NOTHING to contribute to a happy household, believe they DESERVE more! It's all the rich parents telling their children that whoever gets the most crap under the tree is who is loved more. It's poor children feeling depressed and forgotten and suicidal. It's people forgetting their elderlies in "homes" because the holidays are just too stressful to visit them. It's eating tons of sugary, fatty junk that makes you fat and makes you hate yourself when the holiday is over, just to feel better about all the inadequacies the holiday brings to mind. Today, Christmas is about making money, spending money, and trying not to offend non-Christians by only singing songs about "holidays". Christmas isn't Christmas anymore, it is a "non-denominational Winter Holiday" or "X-mas".
I'm no stranger to the Christmas blues. I hate the holiday, despite the fact that my 5-year old really gets it this year and is so excited he can hardly stand it. I hate the lights, the ringing bells, the constant pressure to buy, spend, and wrap. Take out another mortgage to make sure the kids get everything they could possibly want.
I completely get why so many people kill themselves this time of year. It is depressing as all hell. And it shouldn't be! It should be a happy, joyous, freakin time! People should feel comforted and happy, not like they should up their dose of Prozac.
As for me, I really think I need some Prozac. My family invented "depression", or so it seems, and I've fought and fought and fought with it, barely keeping it at bay for the last 20 years by just ignoring that I have had all the classic symptoms--and then some--for 2 decades. Now I find myself more and more often sitting by myself, either at the computer, or staring out the window, wishing I could find the strength to get myself up and do something--ANYTHING--constructive. And the frustration builds and builds to where I am breaking things I treasure, yelling at people I love, and crawling into bed at 7 at night, just to lie there, staring at the ceiling for hours, sometimes nearly the whole night. Listen to my husband snore, and I want to hit him with a brick stick because he doesn't even know, can't even tell that there is something wrong. Or worse, he just doesn't care. I want to choke people I know who act so rediculous and stupid because the manic side of my bipolar personality just can't stand stupidity. Knots have been in my neck and shoulders for months, to the point where I can't raise my hands over my head to put my hair in a pony tail.
I HATE Christmas and I will be so happy when it is over.

Or at least less depressed.

I hope.

Whining for Recognition

I applaud all our servicemen and women who have served our country, have dedicated their lives and their bodies to preserving our freedoms and teaching other nations about how we live and how they would benefit from our ways.
I applaud all the firemen and women who serve their cities, towns, and families by helping prevent fires and rescuing people, pets, and belongings in the cases of residential fires. Even more, I applaud all the wildland firefighters, smoke jumpers, hotshots, and retardant copter crews who help preserve our national forests and lands.
I applaud policmen and women, DPS officers, livestock officers, Tribal Police, Correctional Officers, and peace officers all over this country for the jobs they do, many times at the risk of their own lives or limbs.
Thank you to all of you. You are appreciated greatly. Surely you know that. Even if people don't say it all the time.

I read an article this morning, women once again, complaining that they aren't being treated like the men when they do the same job. Not only did it make me think these women are who make it really difficult for those of us who have chosen to stay and raise our children to ever get recognition for anything we do, but are also causing the same stereotyping that they are trying to allay by working alongside men in "manly" jobs. Whining, whining, whining. But then I realized something else. It isn't just women doing the whining! I got caught up in the same stereotyped thoughts...

Men and women (or if you prefer, women and men) of the abovementioned branches of service: You get paid for what you do. You get health, dental, vision, and often life insurances that people who often work much more strenuous jobs never recieve. You get a retirement that millions of Americans never recieve, even if they put in well over your 20 years at their jobs. Military in particular: you are able to purchase discount food, furniture, clothing, and other of life's necessities at a commissary for the rest of your life, not just while you serve your military. You disappear for months at a time, seeing the world, albeit just bits and pieces and sometimes very, very ugly bits and pieces. You get to learn about cultures, religions, lifestyles people here never even imagined. And yet many of you still complain that you don't get enough recognition. Country singers sing about your heroic acts. People make Powerpoint Presentations and circulate them around the net, just for you. They take pictures of you and print T-shirts, bumper stickers, window decals, coffee mugs, key chains. They write books about you. I'm not sure how that isn't enough recognition.
I know your job is hard. I've worked law enforcement and fire fighting, and some days are so strenuous and you come home (or to your bedroll or whatever) so exhausted that you literally can't sleep. Sometimes the things you've seen give you nightmares for years, decades even. Yes, that is deserving of respect and recognition, that I don't deny. You do deserve it.

But nobody owes you anything. If you wanted a job where your face was going to be plastered all over the tabloids and newspapers, where you could stand up and address crowds with your self-important drivel, you should have been a politician. Because of our modern media and conveniences, there are no secrets about the military or law enforcement. You should KNOW that it is dangerous to jump into a raging inferno of pine trees, and you could get burnt, even lose your sight, hearing, or limbs. You know going into the military, even in peace times, that you could be shot at, poisoned, subjected to nerve gases, and various other nasties. If you don't know that, you are an idiot. But if you do know that, and you go into that line of work anyway, realize that everyone else knows that, too, so anything that happens to you is very sad, but not terribly surprising. These jobs are not about glory, and never have been. If you are serving the people of this country for the glory of it, and are going to complain when you don't get that glory, shame on you. If you don't serve quietly, maybe you should think about another line of work. People who really serve, don't want recognition. Being modest about service is what service is about.
Otherwise, it isn't service at all, it's just a photo opportunity.

Power struggle

I cried when my oldest went to preschool...and kept being very weepy all day until he finally got home and was so happy, it allayed all my fears. It was a repeat when little Dakota followed Louis to the busstop just three years later, because I thought my last baby was growing up and leaving me. But then...there came Houstan, and it turned out she wasn't the baby after all!

All summer I've been wrestling that kid to stop pulling Dakota's hair, stop hitting Louis, stop crawling in bed with me. And this morning when the big kids got on the bus and it was just us two again, part of my heart just ripped to shreds. Partly because I know he goes next year, and I don't want to let him go yet. But part of it is because I REALLY wanted him to go today!

Everyone who knows me, knows my baby. He's 4, going on 40. He thinks he can do anything the older kids and the parents can do, but when things don't go his way, he says, "Mom, you don't want to hurt your baby." Somehow, every time, those words with his little puppy eyes and pooched-out bottom lip keep me from giving him the discipline he really needs-usually a swat on the rump!

And he cries so softly and broken-heartedly when I tell him at night that he can't sleep with me, that more often than not, he ends up in my bed with his father and I end up on the couch. The baby hates to sleep alone and I can't sleep at all with him in the bed, so he wins.

Now let me just say, I've always gotten a kick out of those supernanny and Nanny 9-1-1 shows. I think the families on them are completely incompetent to have children and most of them should have been steralized before they were ever able to procreate and further the stain on society that their bloodlines leaves everywhere it rambles. However, I have recently found myself at my wit's end, to coin a phrase, with my youngest monster...er, child. He's defiant and disobedient, but often as sweet as sugar. He's mean as heck when he doesn't get his way and impatient with anyone would doesn't move as fast as the Flash. But then he will launch into songs that usually start out with, "I love mommy, she loves me. We are best friends and she is my mommy..." It doesn't rhyme, of course, and doesn't even really sound like music, but out of the clear blue, those kind words are like a symphony to rival all the greats. He has a temper similar to that of a hurricane, but without a National Weather Service to warn the people of impending disaster. His frightful fits drop out of the sky with no more provocation than someone looking at him in such a way that he wasn't fond of. He'll throw things, scream, attack a person with his fingers and feet and teeth, often drawing blood with too-long finger nails or leaving bruises with his pitbull-like jaws. He breaks things by throwing them at people's heads and has more than once broken skulls with rocks, golf clubs, or other heavy metal objects. I can be sitting right beside him, and he will pick up a bowl and throw it across the room, through a window screen and hit a sibling without my even knowing he is angry, and certainly too fast for me to get my arms around him to prevent his mischief. And, sad to say, I am actually afraid of him...

I've silently called my youngest child "devil-baby" because he has this face that reminds me of something my mind conjured up when reading a Dean Koontz novel about Satan. He has absolutely no concept of personal space, or pain, and will literally come and jump on a person who is lying on the floor, just because he wants their pillow. When I say jump on someone, I do not mean jump off to the side and tackle someone somewhat gently. I mean he will jump straight up in the air and land on someone's face, chest, stomach, or other body part with both feet or his knees. Or, to get more altitude, he will climb on the table, computer desk, or couch and launch himself at someone's prone body, usualy hitting their stomach with his head and kicking their head with his knees or feet. I've tried reasoning with him. "Son, how do you think it feels to have your teeth broken out by someone's feet?" "It hurts." "Then why did you do that to your brother?" "Because I hate him and we don't need a brother and I want to kill him."

I've tried time-outs. He gets up and leaves. The point of a time-out is to allow him time alone to think about his misdeeds, as well as not get the attention he's seeking, so if a parent stays with him to keep him there, the bad behavior is being reinforced, so that didn't work.

He's not nearly as scared of me as I am of him. I threatened him once with a spanking if he didn't stop hitting people, so he could see what it felt like, and he said he didn't care. So he continuted his behavior, I spanked him, he cried, went to his room, and he got mad at Dakota for making me spank him, so he pulled her hair out with his teech the next time she came close enough to her to grab it. I can't see wailing on his butt all the time, either, if it's just going to perpetuate his natural violence.

Negative reinforcement, positive reinforcement, negative punishments, and positive punishments all turn out the same exact thing with this kid-he does whatever he wants with no fear of any consequences.

What the heck do you do with a kid like this?

I washed his mouth out with soap once for saying a bad word, and that worked really well. He's never said it again. But now he likes to chew on soap.

Dog Days of summer

I was complaining two weeks ago that it wasn't warm enough to make my squash grow... This week, squash bugs are killing the plants off and it is too dang hot to go out and pick the bugs off the plants except at 4:00 a.m. I don't usually like to get up that early, but I do it anyway... I've lost two plants to the devils so far.

I don't have anything to write, which is kinda sad, but my life is very... calm. No drama, which I am thankful for, but no...excitement, either. The baby is in swimming lessons. Or was the last two weeks, and will be again next week. Family reunion coming up. Not that I'm all that thrilled about that. It seems just when I feel I am making headway with parts of my husband's family, they slap me in the face and remind me that I will never be one of them.

We celebrated our 13th anniversary last month. And by "celebrated," I mean we got a babysitter for the kids for about 45 minutes and went to dinner at a fast food restaurant. But that's more than we've done for the last 12, so...

I'm writing a killer research paper for an English class I will never get an "A" in. It's killing me, getting "Bs" and "Cs" on my writing. No, literally, KILLING ME! Like to the point I feel I should be institutionalized before I lose my mind. I'm hoping my paper will be good enough to pull my grade up. It's worth about 70% of my grade, so it will make or break me this semester. I'm not sure if I am happy or miserable about that.

My sister, the inmate, got a job recently, cleaning motel rooms. She complains about it. She "only" makes $8 an hour. Yet, she has no high school diploma, no GED, and a felony record. She's currently still a ward of the state living in a sort of halfway house in Idaho and has the balls to complain about "only" $8 an hour. I'm hoping by my tone that any reader out there can get the point of how I feel about this without my launching into very ugly, hateful things.

I really don't have anything else to write, so this is all for now.

It seems like it's been a million years since I last posted, but I think it's really only been a week or two.

I don't know why I have a blog. I live a life that nobody envies. People I went to school with pity me. I get up, go for a walk, feed kids, drive kids around, pick kids up, feed kids and bathe kids. That's my life. Throw in a little church, a LOT of community service, several days of school each week, and it would leave mose people feeling extremely unfulfilled and bored, and probably quite cranky.

I am quite cranky most of the time, but it isn't because I don't like my life. It is because nobody else seems to think it is worth anything. I don't know if it really is or not. It is to me, but then, what difference could that possibly make?

I'm really bored right now, don't want to write at all. I've got a thousand things still left to do before tomorrow, and I keep worrying that I will forget the graduation tickets for my family can get in the door on Saturday. Yeah, it's two days away and thoughts of forgetting keep me awake at night. And chances are that three of the four people who are coming won't make it back from their father and sons campout on time anyway!

I can't do this right now. I've been sitting in front of this computer for two hours working on various things and I need to get up and do something else. Maybe pop some popcorn and take a break... ha ha ha

Sucker!

So I finally succumbed to playing mafia wars. Oh my gosh. I don't know why, but I did it. After literally years of people on myspace inviting me, I get on facebook and sign up. What a nerd I am. Other than that, I really don't have anything to say.

Well...how about joining my mafia??

Hell

No, I'm not a fire and brimstone preacher here to call everyone to repentance. Fact is, nobody needs that more than me. Preaching to the choir? Something like that.

No, this song, "Hope it give you hell" makes me think all the time. There was this guy I knew in High School. Matt. He had beautiful eyes and this smile that made me go totally weak in the knees. It was kinda that shy yet seductive smile that could do that to anyone. I thought he was beautiful. His mom was a good friend of mine and warned me against him. Now, if a woman warns you away from her son, saying he isn't good enough for you, you better listen.

He was abusive, selfish, and hateful. He still is. Fact is, I've seen his name in the newspaper for domestic violence so many times I've stopped counting. I've lost track of him completely, but I looked in my yearbook tonight just for fun, to try to remember what I ever saw in him. There it was, large as life. I totally know why all those girls and women put up with being beaten half to death by that man. Not that I would, but I can see why they do/did.

Not to appear to be too random, but whenever I am asked the question, "what is your greatest fear?" I have had the same answer all my life. No, not being raped. No, not losing my children, my husband, or my legs. All those things terrify me, don't get me wrong. But my greatest fear is falling in love with something I can't have. It's happened to me a couple times, and getting up every morning with the knowledge that what I want more than anything in the world will always be out of my reach is pure hell. I hate it. I think I'd rather live without legs than have to live with the constant hell of knowing that.

The two thoughts are completely unrelated, which is kinda funny, but not completely random, either. Thinking of Matt reminds me of high school, which reminds me of the man I married 14 years ago. He's gone now, and I fell so deeply in love with him that nothing can ever replace that feeling. Oh, Garry's still here, but he is not the same man he was in 1996. I married THAT man, and I was in love with THAT man. I love him still, but being so in love with who he was has blinded me to who he is...and who I am, I guess.

I don't know. Maybe I'm tired. Yeah, I'm tired.

Spring

I've had a love-hate relationship with spring most of my adult life. In high school, I hated spring because of spring fever. I would go crazy all winter being cooped up in the house with nothing to do. Then for whatever reason, spring would come and I couldn't stay in the house, or in school for anything. I got into a lot of trouble, ditching school. In one spring, my Senior year, I went from 5th in my class with a 4.1 (honors) GPA to being 28th with a 3.7 GPA.

When I had my oldest son 12 winters ago, I developed a very annoying allergy to everything that might produce pollen in the spring. So I hated spring.

Then 9 winters ago, I moved to St. Johns and developed a deep despise of spring. Why? Wind. Oh, on the news it says to expect winds up to 30 mph with gusts to 45. Last night, they were sustained at 45 with gusts over 60. Today is more of the same. In a single day, the wind blew 5 inches of sand and dirt up against the back of the shed we finished last night. Last year, in a single day, it filled my 6-foot diameter pond completely in ...6 hours. It was 8 inches deep.

Where's the love part, you ask? Well, I'm still looking for it. I know there was a reason... it has to be here. Oh, I remember. Growing stuff. Unfortunately, as stuff starts to grow around here, the wind and dust beats the hell out of it until it is nothing more than a dried-out stick of nothing with shreds of dried leaves desperately clinging to it.

I hate the wind. And the worst part about it is that I can't do a danged thing about it. AARRGG!!

A Sad Truth

I got my tickets and announcements for my graduation from college today. I got ten announcements and 8 tickets.

Even with all the family that I have that would give a crap about my accomplishments, I have 5 leftover announcements.

And even with my own husband and kids using 4 of my tickets, I have one leftover.

Isn't it sad that people who work their butts off to accomplish the things that are most important to them, still have nobody to share it with? I've been working on this degree for 15 years now, when I can afford to go to school, when I don't have broken bones (not that it stopped me) and when I am not pregnant with children.

And I can't think of 8 people who would come to celebrate this with me.

It's sad to me.

The Truth? You Can't Handle the Truth!

All my life, I've heard that line and I have no idea what movie it is from. My dad used to say it, so I assume it is either one of those mobster guy movies like The Godfather, or some western with John Wayne. I have no clue. Now that I see myself writing that, I feel like a moron. I could google it and know in a moment and not look like an idiot for not knowing the source of a great American "line". But I don't care.

I know I can't handle the truth. I suspect the truth is awful. I suspect someone somewhere knows how horrible the truth is, and just doesn't think I can handle it. That's part of the truth.

My personal truth is that I struggle every day with addictions. I'm sure people I know from church will eventually find my blog, as everyone is on here nowadays, and will realize I am not entirely what I appear. A bit about me...

My past is ugly. I've been involved with alcohol, tobacco, and sex. I've been addicted to alcohol from my first taste when I was about 7. I drank heavily all through Jr. High and High School and often found myself in the company of people who probably would have taken advantage of the situation had I ever let myself be alone with them. Fortunately for me, there was only one person who I ever let my guard down with, and now I'm married to him. Because of my addiction and so many other issues I just can't even begin to address here, I hated myself. I still do. I struggle every day with the idea that the past has somehow defined me and that no matter what I do, I can never fully repent of all the things I have done in the past that were awful. In short, I believe God can save, and He DOES save, he just won't save me. I'm not worth it.

I tell my friends at church, or the extended family who cares to listen (thanks, Uncle Bill, I love you!!) how inadeguate I feel to teach spiritual things, or talk about spirituality or my knowledge of scripture or God or religion, and they chuckle at me as if everyone's little skeletons are like mine. Like they have been addicted to alcohol and sex and great looking men who somehow manage to make them forget who and what they are. Nah, they don't know. There ain't one of those people who have even the foggiest notions as to why I hide all I truly am from everyone who might delve into my past...

One of these days, I am going to decorate my profile and send the link to my blog to certain choice individuals whom I trust and believe in. There aren't many. In fact, right off hand, I can only think of three people in the whole world, myself and my mom included, who would not judge me by my past and condemn me to the same fate to which I have condemned myself. They are all men, and they are all people I've shared parts of my past with. They are all men, two of which I can have nothing to do with because they are part of my problem. And that is my truth, or at least part of it.

But I thought I would write a bit about my life. My kids, who number 3, are great. The littlest one, who is 4, is hell on two legs. He's a monster, and I don't exactly mean that in a loving, doting way. He's just plain horrible. He's the human version of Marley from the book "Marley and Me". The worst kid ever. He's loud and abnoxious and has this "Satan face" look that literally scares the hell out of me. And he's mean. He'll just walk by and pull your hair out by the roots and keep walking like he didn't even know he did anything. Or kick you or pinch and twist your skin off. Oh, and he doesn't realize after 4 years that some places you just have to sit down and shut up and not wrestle with people. He yells in church, "I hate freakin' prayers. This is stupid. Let me go, I want to get a drink," and then jerks your hair out and kicks you with his hard shoes and bites your hand when you try to cover his mouth. If I believed in demon possession, I would have him exorcised in a heartbeat because normal children do not behave this way. He's like Dennis the Menace, but mixed with Chucky and that scary little kid on Pet Cemetary. You can't spank him because he'll wait until you aren't looking and hit you in the back of the head with a golf club or tennis raquet. If you yell at him, he'll go in his room and cry loudly and say things to himself, loudly, like, "I really hate my mom. She's so mean because she always yells at me and I just wanted to break brother's finger because he won't let me tear his ear phones off of his i-pod and that just isn't fair. And my mom is mean hateful and I wish I could go live with Tisha. I really hate my mom because she always makes me put shoes on when I just want to throw them at Dakota because I never wanted to have a sister." Stop laughing. This actually happens on a daily basis.

But it is almost summer and my hope is that if I can shoo this evil child outside in the sunshine and fresh air, some of the hateful will rub off him and people can stand to be around him. Maybe if he plants some flowers or feeds the chickens some bugs, he'll develop more of his sweet side and people won't be afraid to be around him. And maybe if I am outside, I will develop more patience with him so that I don't feel like choking him as often. I don't know.

Again, you want the truth? You can't handle the truth.

The sham I call my life

All my life, I've heard depression this, and depression that, and the truth is, I don't even believe in "depression". Sure, I know people are sad. Look around this world! If you weren't sad, there would be something really wrong with you. But the whole notion of being sad as being a disease is insane. Or so I thought.
I'm 30, and have a great life. I'm in college full time, have three smart kids, a good husband, a home that is maybe a little small, and maybe not a house but a doublewide trailer, but it is in good shape and I have a nice yard. We have 3 cars that run, they are all paid for. My life is good.
But I can't get happy. I'm overweight, but not outrageously so. I have lots of interests, but I just don't want to do anything. I don't want to get up in the morning. I don't want to spend time with my kids. I certainly don't want to go to church. I don't want to cook food. I don't want to exercise. Heck, I don't even want to eat. I just want to have some serious quiet time, maybe a month or so, where I don't have to shower, get dressed, or even get out of bed if I want. I don't want to go visiting teaching, or go to enrichment activities, or do sharing time in primary, or listen to how the kids did in school or how Garry did at work. I don't want to clean anything, I don't want to wash a dish. I want to write and listen to music and talk to myself, out loud. I want to cry on someone's shoulder, but it has to be someone who actually cares, and I just don't feel like I have anyone like that in my life.
My friends at church and in my daily life don't have any idea of who and what I am inside me. None of them see the frustration I feel at all my failures. I've tried to tell some of them how insignificant I feel or how inadequate I am, and they laugh it off, saying, "oh, you do great with the kids," or "this is a fun activity you planned," or "oh please. You are so good at this." Like what I am feeling, or what I believe is just silly. It means nothing. I'm wrong about myself. I feel like screaming, "I CAN'T DO THIS! CAN'T YOU SEE??"
These people don't see how vulnerable I am, how weak I am. How self-conscious I am. They don't have a clue. I don't have any real friends who know that I wake up every day wishing I didn't have to do ANYTHING, including actually stay awake. There is not one person out there that knows I cry myself to sleep almost every single night. None of them see the disgust in my heart when I look at myself in the mirror or think of all the things I have totally screwed up.
My husband doesn't believe in medication for this type of thing, and so whether I am depressed or just a lazy loser, I am what I am without any help or reprieve.
I don't really want anyone to know because I already feel like people look down on me for all the things I am not. I don't need them to see all the bad things I am, on top of all the good things I'm not! So I suffer in silence, put on a happy face, and start each day as part of an ongoing sham I call my life.