Autism Baptism

I'm not a religious person. As a child, my Presbyterian parents took me and my sisters to church every Sunday. As a child, I enjoyed the structure. As a teenager, I became wary of people telling me what I should an shouldn't think.  The organization of the church began to creep me out, so I stopped going.  Side note: I was never baptized.

Fast forward to after marrying my husband. When he was born, his Greek Mother had him baptized in the Greek Orthodox Church. According to my husband, it's very important to the Greeks that they are baptized. After that, their connection to the church is totally up to them. They can go to church, not go to church, whatever.  Greek Orthodox God is totally cool with you.  You will never see a Greek showing up at your door telling you how to worship.  They'll give you unsolicited advice on EVERYTHING else, but God is a given (remember, my only source on this is my husband). So my husband wasn't a church-goer either.

Anyway, A few years ago, our life got OMG CRAZY.  My husband's education and career became this downward spiral of betrayal, hostility, loss, and debt. Our marriage suffered. We had a new baby.  He experienced a literal crisis of faith.  He took this opportunity to reconnect to the Greek Orthodox Church. Ultimately, the effect of that connection has been very positive for him, and by association, me.  So when he came to me and said he's like to have our 2-yo son baptized, I consented.  It's only a few minutes right?  Wrong.

I met with Father M. He's probably one of the sweetest people I've ever met.  He explained to me what would be involved in this rather lengthy ritual. It would be about an hour from beginning to end. So I explained to him that Stefan is autistic and nonverbal.  He will only understand a little of what's happening, and he won't be able to use any words to tell us what he needs.  There will be some screaming, wriggling, and probably a LOT of running around the church. So the bargaining began.  We came up with these ground rules:

-The ceremony will be on a Saturday, not a Sunday
-There will be no parishioners.
-Attendees will be: my father and stepmother, my husband's parents, my brother-in-law (we need him to be the godfather because he's the only other person we know who's a baptized in the church, and the godfather is the one who answers for the baby during the ritual because babies can't talk), his wife and son.  And the priest.  That's it. (There was a subsequent fight with my Mother-in-law who wanted to invite the WORLD.) 
-We will take as many breaks as my son needs.  If he melts down, we will retire to another room, regroup and try again.
-There will be no dunking in the font. Just pour a little water over his head.
-The anointing with oil has be fast fast fast.
-Same with the hair-clipping.
-The Eucharist will consist of a crumb of bread and a drop of wine - no promises on where this lands.
-Our son will not be traumatized by this in any way.

Father M. was more than happy to meet our requirements, but he was also really pushing for more passages read, icons blessed, etc. I guess the more ritual you have, the more baptized you are. 

When the actual baptism day rolled around, I had some anxiety.  While Father M.'s goal was to protect my son's afterlife, my goal was to protect his today.  The whole ceremony went about as I expected:  Father M. read his lengthy passages with great alacrity.  While we stood in our appointed positions, facing this way and that, according to the ritual,  my son squirmed in my arms, trying to get away.  My husband read something. My brother in law read something. Father M. read more things. While all the reading was happening, I let my son walk around the church, while I followed, exercising maternal damage control. Luckily, he stopped at the pew where my Dad sat, and crawled up into his lap to sit there for a while (this made my Dad's whole day).

Then he got anointed.  Off went the shirt, pants and shoes (diaper stayed on). I held him while Father M. applied olive oil to forehead, hands, feet, ears, and chest THREE TIMES.  I tried my best not to giggle because my kid was laughing.  That laughing stopped when I had to lean him over the font and Father M. quickly doused his noggin with warm water.  I'll hand it to my kid.  He wasn't that upset.  He was more taken aback.  He likes water, as rule.  I also had to hand it to Father M. He was reciting scripture this whole time. Nice multi-tasking. Especially for a young priest.  After that, he sent us back to the room to dry off (with his baptismal towel - I bought it at Target, but I guess it's all special and holy now) and regroup.  Father M. would stay with the others and (you guessed it) recite more passages. 

My boy had the most fun in the back room playing with his cousin.  His cousin, who's still 1-yo, couldn't handle the church at all, so he stayed back there with his mom for most of the baptism. After a rousing game of beach ball toss with his cousin, we were called back to the church where we (mother/son/godfather) had to walk 3 times around the font while Father M. shook an incense burner.  Did I mention Greek Orthodox is really big on 3rd time's the charm? 

After that? The Eucharist! I grew up calling it "communion." When I was a little girl in the Presbyterian church, the Elders would hand out pieces of white bread dipped in grape juice from plates. This was not like that.  This church is super-serious about their bread and wine. This is the part I was afraid of.  My son has a sensory processing disorder and it's centered around food. He doesn't chew. He's really skeptical about food entering his mouth.  It wouldn't be a big deal, except in this religion, if even a crumb gets spilled, the priest MUST eat it. There's a holy hand-towel that catches the crumbs so that they don't fall on the floor.  So.  My husband held the hand-towel. Father M. held the tiny spoon.  I held the squirming, 45-pound autistic boy.  This was not going to work.  I turned around, and said out loud, "Dad? I need you."  My Dad came running up.  I handed him the boy, then held both his hands (so he wouldn't knock the spoon away), made a crazy face, and while my son mimicked me, I said, "Now!" Father M. popped in the spoon, and my kid ate the blood and body of Christ. 

Phew.  Achievement UNLOCKED.

Geocaching

On an impulse, I revived my old Geocaching account.  That may have been a mistake. I'm really not good at it.  I've found 16 caches. Total. My whole life.  It's gotten a little embarrassing having to log a DNF (did not find) 3 times in a row.

My decision to start caching again happened because I changed jobs.  Instead of working in a business complex in Watsonville which has no caches near it, I work in an industrial complex in Santa Cruz with a bunch of caches surrounding the building I'm in.  Strangely enough, I work in the same building I worked in  16 years ago when it was owned by a different company. It's walking distance from no fewer than 8 caches.

But I have a limited time to find these caches.  In a month and a half, my employer is picking us all up and moving to yet another building in Scotts Valley.  This gives me about 4 weeks to find the 5 caches I really want to find.  I don't think I'll find them. And I probably won't be able to return on the weekends because motherhood, chores, responsibilities, etc. Basically, because I have a family, I don't get to have hobbies for x number of years.

Anyway. I poked around Natural Bridges for two of them.  I saw some monarch butterflies (yay!) and some used condoms (ew).  I tried to find one over by Antonelli's Pond, but there were two ladies playing with their 3 dogs, and I really couldn't look for it while they were hovering (muggle interference -- the struggle is real). I even trudged past the construction zone to find the ones around the Seymour Center.  No joy.

I just really suck at this.

Throwback Thursday - October 27th 2016

Halloween - 2007 Night Elf Priest

This was probably one of the best Halloween costumes I've ever put together myself.  The cape and armbands were knitted (by me).  The dress was my old bridesmaid dress from Jen's wedding.  The necklace was a souvenir, given to me by my grandmother when she visited China.  The ears and contacts were ordered from the internet.   

In retrospect, I should have been posting old costumes every week this months, but I'm a terrible blogger, if you hadn't already figured that out.

The Best-Laid Plans

During our latest attempt at cleaning the house, my husband held up a plastic bag and said, "Garbage?" in that hopeful tone we both use when we're asking each other if we can get rid of their stuff.  I paused.  "Wait. No. I want to keep these for a little while."  Here is the contents of that bag.

If you don't recognize what this mass of plastic is, it is a bunch of Dr. Brown's bottles and accessories, all of which I used to feed my baby when he was an infant.  I will explain to you why I have mixed feelings about this bag and what it represents.

I fought to be able to breast-feed my son.  For the first five weeks of his life, the little guy just didn't want to latch.   I could have made things a lot easier on myself by feeding him formula.  Instead, I went to the lactation center, and with the help of some wonderful people, I pumped out my milk, fed it to him in a bottle, and JUST KEPT TRYING.  Eventually, he latched.  That wasn't the end of my struggle, though.  Like I said, formula is a great alternative.  There is no shame in in formula-feeding, and maybe, if I had to do it over, I might have chosen that route, if just to save myself a lot of pain.

Only, that exhausting postpartum story wasn't the end of my breast-feeding saga. When the boy was just three months old, I had to go back to work. There wasn't another option open. I had to work to support my family.  I was so angry.  I was so angry because I had to go back to work at a job I didn't like. I was so angry that I couldn't have what I wanted: to be a nursing, happy, stay-at-home mom.   Working, leaving your baby in daycare, pumping your milk out however many times during the day, plus the endless packing, cleaning, gathering, assembling, travelling that gets added into the day is INSANE.  But, you know what? Fuck you, world. So, I fought stubbornly for my right to breast-feed.  I forced myself into painful pumping prison so that I could at least be in control of something that I'd envisioned for my son and for myself.  I did that until Stef was 10 months old, and then my milk supply tanked in spite of my best efforts to keep it going with lactation teas and herbs.  The doctor said is was stress. GO FIGURE.  I was defeated by my own body and I switched to formula.

These bottles remind me of everything I went through two years ago.  They remind me of what I was feeling: anger, powerlessness, and jealousy.  They make me wonder if I made my decision to breastfeed more about me than about my kid.  That's where I get a little confused.  While no one can say my decision was bad for my baby, I certainly wasn't acting selflessly.  I don't know.

In a week or so, I'll have processed these feelings, let them go, and  I will give my husband my consent to throw them away.  But for now, I want to remind myself of that time and what I went though.  There may be some value in taking stock.

Baby Weight

I would post a picture, but I don't have a selfie-stick (I probably wouldn't be able to use it very well, if I had one).  I've officially lost every pound of weight I gained while gestating my son. Well, maybe it's better that I don't have a picture.  The results are really not that impressive.  I am, however, fairly proud of myself. 

It took two years to do it, and a number of crossfit classes.  My diet is still pretty awful (I'm like a goat eating garbage most of the time).  But, let me relate a conversation I had with my doctor at my most recent physical.

Doc: "How much weight did you gain with your pregnancy?"
Me: "About forty pounds."
Doc: "And how much have you lost?"
Me: "All but five."
Doc: "Good for you!  Well done."
Me: "Thank you."
Doc: "You know that you're still overweight."

*beat*

Me: "I don't care."
Doc: "Okay, let's move on."
Me: "That would be best."

Throwback Thursday - July 21st 2016

Morris Dancing!

Picture taken...maybe 2001?  2002?  Not totally sure.

I used to do this thing called Morris Dancing. It's English in origin.  It's done in sets of six (or eight). You wear bells on your legs and smash sticks together.  There are different traditions named after towns in England.  I danced with Seabright Morris, a group in Santa Cruz.  We would practice on Wednesday nights, and on May 1st, we'd dress up and dance all over the town.  I did this for about 3 years before I quit for personal reasons. I didn't keep in touch with any of the other dancers.  I assume some of the older folks are dead, and those who had kids have seen them off to college.  Yeah, it was that long ago.  My favorite memory of Morris Dancing was attending the Midwest Morris Ale in Wisconsin.

I've done a rubbishy job of explaining Morris Dancing here, but if you're really interested, go use a search engine. I'm not hot-linking for ANYBODY. 

 

Throwback Thursday June 23rd 2016 - Our twenties

This is from either 2001 or 2002.

 

 

The fact that my sisters and I are all looking in different directions really brings home how we were in completely different places, but none of us knew what we were doing. 

I've Spent All My Confidence.

I think I'm in confidence-debt, but I can't really afford to stop spending it now.

For those of you who don't know, my two-year-old son is autistic.  He was diagnosed in February when he was 20 months old.  He's been receiving ABA since then.  I have to say, my whole family really snapped into action when I told them.  My husband's parents came out of retirement from Hawaii, flew back here, and set up their house with a bunch of toys. It looks like a daycare.  This benefits not only us, but my in-laws. I have a neuro-typical (non-autistic) nephew who is eight months younger than my son, and my parents-in-law are just as happy to spend time with him too.  They've taken some of the burden of my son's therapy schedule, so I don't have to miss work all the time and subsequently, make up those hours on the weekends. 

But we haven't been supported in every arena.  The Regional Agency we've been using fights us on every request.  I understand why.  They're overloaded with cases, and the less they do for my son, the older he gets, and the closer he is to aging out of the Early Start Program.  In addition to ABA, I'm sure that my son needs Occupation Therapy and Speech Therapy.  I was denied the OT by my caseworker.  So I've had to fight. I started by sending adamant emails. I then stepped up my game by attending the agency's board meetings, meeting the board members, and my caseworker's boss.  That seemed to work. I have a meeting scheduled to talk about the OT again, and am preparing for it by gathering the notes from my pediatrician, and from the head therapist who has been working with my son. 

I have a big binder with tabs.  I am organized AF. 

But I'm also SO exhausted.  I realized how lonely I am when I listened to my daycare provider complain (in a rather racist way) about people on welfare and how they exploit the system.  Sadly, she's a person who complains about a system she doesn't understand, and lumps all people into one category.  This made me sad. And lonely. I miss my friends.  My friends are critical thinkers who can hold rational dialogues without resorting to logical fallacies. 

So. very. lonely.

Night-time commentary

Between putting the toddler to bed, and then myself to bed, I curl up in the corner of the couch, in the dark, with my nightcap, and watch Star Trek.  In an effort to make this activity a little less lonely, I include the internet.

StarTrek episode "Journey to Babel:" May I introduce to you Ambassador Sarek, his wife Amanda, and her hair." #OMGTHEHAIR #StarTrek

— Beccajoojoo (@beccajoojoo) June 6, 2016

Star Trek episode"The Deadly Years:" Taking away Kirk's keys to the Enterprise. Chekhov is saved because he's scared of corpses. #StarTrek

— Beccajoojoo (@beccajoojoo) June 6, 2016

Star Trek episode "Friday's Child:" How many muppets had to die to make costumes for the Capellans? #StarTrek #Somuchfakefur

— Beccajoojoo (@beccajoojoo) June 5, 2016

The Capellan in charge has the shiniest hat and the most tassels. The Klingon looks Amish in comparison. #StarTrek #Moretassels

— Beccajoojoo (@beccajoojoo) June 5, 2016

Star Trek episode "Metamorphosis:" When dying diplomat turns love-sick space cloud and Kirk can totally "find another woman to end the war."

— Beccajoojoo (@beccajoojoo) June 5, 2016

My Accomplishments May Not Impress You

Wow, I'm terrible at updating this thing. 

My last post was a picture Odyssey of my friendship with Ken.  He's doing quite well, by the way. He's got a spanking new pacemaker and an extended lease on his life. I'm thrilled about that, and I'm sure his family is too, seeing as how his son just turned nine. 

Anyway, I thought I'd take a moment to list some of my latest accomplishments. These may not seem extraordinary. I haven't tromped up Kilimanjaro.  But I do work 40 hours a week, and I manage to get my son his 15 hours of behavioral therapy a week for his autism.

I've been working quite closely with my budget in order to afford a couple of Crossfit classes a week.  It appears to be working because it's been nearly two years since I had my kid, and I'm only five pounds away from my pre-baby weight. This is exciting to me. Also, I did a hand-stand for the first time in years.  I forgot how much fun they are.  I want to do them more, now, but there is really a lack of wall-space where I live right now.

Also, after I put the boy to bed, I have about an hour of time to myself. I should be paying bills or doing something responsible, I'm sure, but instead, I've been watching episodes of Star Trek (The Original Series), from the beginning, in order.  I'm having a LOT of fun with that.  Something about old science-fiction plots mixed with sixty year old socio-cultural norms cracks me up. I've also been posting my impressions to twitter. 

Here are some examples:

Star Trek "TheApple:" The cast of Jersey Shore beta-tests an early Hunger Games environment. #StarTrek

— Beccajoojoo(@beccajoojoo) May 31, 2016

Star Trek episode "I, Mudd:" We learn that the best way to destroy an android is with Theatre of the Absurd. #StarTrek #Theatremajors

— Beccajoojoo(@beccajoojoo) June 3, 2016

Star Trek episode "Catspaw:" *spoiler* THEY WERE MANTIS SHRIMP THE WHOLE TIME. Also, did a 5-yo do costume-design? Also, cute cat. #StarTrek

— Beccajoojoo(@beccajoojoo) June 2, 2016

Star Trek "TheDoomsday Machine:" Avoiding Sauron's butthole, and Decker, you so crazy! #StarTrek

— Beccajoojoo(@beccajoojoo) May 31, 2016


And now, I'm learning that embedding Tweets into my blog isn't working, and I don't know as much about HTML as I thought I did.

Never mind. It isn't as though more than 3 people read this anyway. 

Throwback Thursday April 28th 2016 - Because Ken

This is my friend Kenichi Hillis.  We went to college together. 

He had open-heart surgery today, so I'm thinking a lot about our friendship and the time we spent together. 

 



We majored in theatre and both suffered for it. However, we had a lot of amazing times and some hilarious memories to show for it.

 

He's got more charm, charisma, and creative energy than most people I know. And that's saying a lot.

 

I regret many decisions I made in my youth and during my college years, but being friends with Ken was never one of them.

 

Hang in there, Ken.  I love you, and I love your family.  You are forever the brother I never had.

 

 

 Update: Ken made it through and is recovering with his family!

Walking on the Elkhorn Slough

I used to go to Cross-fit twice a week, but circumstances surrounding my son's therapy schedule has made it difficult to attend.  To compensate for my lack of exercise, I've been using my breaks to walk a loop around the Elkhorn Slough. 

It's pretty picturesque.

Don't You Wish You Worked With My Sister?

So, I know some of you read my earlier post about my sister. 

http://creepycompound.blogspot.com/2016/03/trader-joes-anecdote-or-buffalo-wings.html

Awesome, right?  Well, my Dad texted me further proof of her awesomeness.  My sister, a faithful employee of Trader Joe's in Costa Mesa, leaves her artwork around for her coworkers to enjoy:

This inspires me to think of tax-related haikus to entertain my coworkers. On second thought, that might not go over very well.  While I'm thinking about that, look at this:

 

It's a little hard to read, so I'll translate: "We're ever so grateful for all that you do, and for coffee that helps us all do it!  So let's clean up behind any coffee we grind, every splash when we drink, or we brew it!" I do enjoy a clever limerick, but by the evidence of the coffee puddle, it might not be as effective as one might hope.

Sad Anniversary

On April 1st 1999 my mom died.  Her kidneys hadn't been working for a few years, but she was getting along okay on dialysis. However, something went septic in the catheter, and the resulting infection took her down within a week. 

The day I found out she died was probably one of the worst days of my life. I could say it was "the worst," but I've had some zingers, so I'm going to put it firmly in the top three.  It also happened on April 1st, thereby making April Fool's Day the most awkward day of the year for me.  Every freaking year.

Even though she's been gone for seventeen years (that's the age of a surly teenager on the verge of adulthood), I miss her constantly. Especially these days, now that my own son is a special needs toddler, and my Mother In Law is unstable, should be on medication, and is causing me all kinds of problems.  Yeah, I've got challenges and I need my mom to talk to.  I need her yesterday. 

Anyway, I miss you mom. 

Throwback Thursday March 24th 2016 - Photoshopped. Full Disclosure

I found this picture in a box of really old ones. I'm guessing the year is 1980 or 1981. 

It's accurate. Mostly. Yeah, I totally photo-shopped the nightgowns.  They weren't nearly that cute and lacy. 

Throwback Thursday March 17th 2016 + Happy Everybody's Irish Day

Merry Christmas 1997.  It's Bird o'clock.

In other news, Happy St. Patrick's Day. I don't have a St. Patrick's Day picture from any in my past, otherwise, I'd post that.  Today, I am neither getting drunk, nor wearing anything green.  I did, however, remember to send my son off to daycare in a green shirt.  My kid is NOT getting pinched.  EFF THAT.

Also, I'm thinking of a story from my childhood.  Being raised by a Scotch-Presbyterian mother who was fairly well-educated, she felt it her cultural duty to provide me and my sisters with shamrock pins she made herself.  They were green and orange poster-board shamrocks, decorated with green and orange ribbons.  The orange, of course, was to reflect our Protestant heritage.  I didn't understand, or care, really.  I wore whatever the heck my mom told me to (I wasn't very popular). But I remember my sister grumbling, as we climbed into the mini-van, "If we lived on the east coast, we'd get the crap beaten out of us for wearing these."   

Trader Joe's Anecdote or Buffalo Wings

This is my sister. She works at the Trader Joe's in Costa Mesa. Isn't she pretty?

She tells me the best stories.  It may just be because I'm her sister and know her really well, but I find her stories incredibly interesting.  Or maybe her stories really are incredibly interesting.  A few years ago, she was dating a bona fide celebrity and would tell me stories about going to actual Hollywood parties. Some of her other stories are less glamorous, but definitely hilarious.  Like this one:

My sister, as I said, works at the Costa Mesa Trader Joe's.  One of the things she does is cook the free samples.  One day, as she was manning the free sample booth, a woman comes up to her, and reads the sign out loud, "Meatless Buffalo Wings."  She then looks squarely at my sister and says, "Buffalos are not meatless."  Silence.  My sister is not sure how to answer this statement.  Clearly, this woman doesn't understand that Buffalo Wings are not made of buffalos. They're chicken. Except this ones aren't chicken because they're meatless.  So explaining the several steps this woman took to be wrong about this particular free sample seems like a bad idea, because you aren't supposed to argue with customers, even if they're crazy.  So my sister's perfect response is, "No. But their WINGS are."

Throwback Thursday March 3rd, 2016

Hey, here's another cute picture from a long time ago. 

This one was taken in 2000.  My sisters and I went to Texas to attend our cousin's wedding. It was my first and only time in the state of Texas. 

Here are the things I remember about my visit to Friendswood, Texas. 

1. NASA.
2. Went to Cajun Jack's with my cousins and ate fried alligator and frog. Was hugged by Cajun Jack.
3. Crazy outdoor humidity/indoor air conditioning.
4. Super-creepy billboard for a laywer saying, "Why settle for half?"
5. Y'ALL.

A Mug Full of Goldfish

What a bummer.  I dropped and cracked my favorite tea cup. I got it from my sister and nieces I don't know how many years ago.  It's one of those fun hand-painted things with my name on it and on the inside it says Auntie Sister Friend.  This was before I added "Mom" to the resume.  I used it almost exclusively for work, drinking tea out of it every morning.  But now that it's cracked, I'm afraid the tea would leak.

So instead of a tea cup, it is now a goldfish cup.

Throwback Thursday February 25th 2016

 

 

 

This is a picture my Dad took of me and my sisters at my graduation from Humboldt State University in 1999.  I graduated literally a month after our mom died.  Even though my sisters and I were more or less estranged at that time (our teen years were VERY tumultuous), they came to see me graduate from college, my greatest accomplishment at that point.  From that time onward, we were a bit closer and kinder to each other.     

 

 

Side notes about this picture: My hair was growing out the black dye I'd been using all through college (oh so goth).  Sister on the right is severely asthmatic and was taking buckets of prednisone which made her puffy and not super-willing to pose for photos in general, so this one is special. Sister on the left's shirt was how I was able to find my family in the audience.  I told her it was like playing Where's Waldo.  The shirt was not premeditated, but coincidental.

My Kingdom For A Stylist

My kid has a lot of hair.  He had a lot of hair when he was born.  He wasn't the hairiest kid ever, but I'd say in the 90th percentile for hair growth for a kid his age.  And this should surprise no one, given the fact that my husband and I have more hair than the average couple.  How much?  I have to snip the hairballs out of the beater bar of our vacuum cleaner every month.  In spite of a hair catch in our shower, we have to snake the drain every six months.  Gross?  A little.  But it's our lot in life until we go bald.

I didn't actually start writing this with the intention of mentioning my hairy drains. I was thinking of my little boy's mop and how I'm completely unqualified to cut his hair.  I started cutting it when it looked like this.

He is about 10 months old in this picture.  I loved his long hair and resisted cutting it as long as I could. I tried barrettes (they wouldn't stay in).  I tried sweeping it to the side, but it wouldn't stay. I finally cut his bangs because they were hanging in his face and he would use his little fists to scrub it out of his eyes.  It seemed to really bother him.

I started with his bangs. After I cut the first few locks, I cried and gave up. Not that he noticed.

Short in front, long on the sides, party in the back.  *sigh* But I didn't give him.  Sometimes he'd sit still for a few minutes and I'd trim a few more locks.  I'd get the sides, the back, it was ALWAYS uneven, but I maintained it over the course of a year.  If I could keep it looking more like this, I'd be happy.

But I can't.  It's starting to get long and shaggy again.  As his toddlery motor skills increase, he becomes more agile and likely to duck my scissors.  Not that I have actual hair-cutting scissors. That's my other problem. I'm using cheap, dull scissors for this.  Shame on me.  At this point I have two choices: keep going and continue to subject my son to terrible haircuts until I improve, or bite the bullet and take him to a real stylist at the risk of him not liking it at all and having a public melt-down (introvert-mommy's worst nightmare).  In the meantime, I still think he looks like a gorgeous baby-model, no matter what his hair looks like.  Check out his Blue Steel look.

Yup. Really, really, ridiculously good-looking.

That Happened. For Real.

I took a couple days off work to be a volunteer for Mythbusters. Best use of PTO ever. I'm not sure the numbering sequence is right. Wikipedia lists the episode as 242, but we can call it 2016 episode six, The Volunteer Special.

Recognize me?  I'm the one in the black shirt with the long hair.

I really can't spot myself anywhere else in the episode.  To be fair, there were about a hundred of us. You can see my friend Amber all over the place. She's highly visible.  Here she is.

Clearly, she knows what she's doing when it comes to make-up.

Anyway.  I had a great time not going to work, dressing up as grossly as I could, and making the growliest noises I could summon from my larynx.

Oh, I was also a non-zombie shopper. Again, I couldn't find myself in the episode, so I'll post a selfie during one of our many hurry-up-and-wait breaks in the store itself.

It's a SHELFIE. Get it?  Yeah. Sorry.

Yelp. An Exquisite Torture.

Like many consumers, when I have a bad customer service experience, often my only real solace lies in knowing I can Yelp them back to the stone age. 

This opportunity does not arise much anymore since I had my son. It isn't that I'm afraid to take the boy into public places. He's generally easy-going and I usually have all the tools to prevent him from getting too dirty, hungry, tired, or bored, in short, everything I need to ward off a tantrum. 

No, I am unable to eat at restaurants because I am broke.  That's it. I have no money. I don't even remember the last time we went to a restaurant. Wait, I do. It was the IHOP on Thanksgiving Day. We went to Sacramento to visit the relatives, and had to eat on the road. We spent somewhere around $30 including tip.  In general, we simply don't have that kind of discretionary income to spend on pancakes.

Now, I read Yelp reviews like it's food porn. My god, if I just had $100.00 to spare, I could eat like a king at Mobo Sushi.  While I cry into my fried rice.  By the way, I fried it myself.   The tears made it extra salty.

So Long, Showboaters.

I'm going on a much-needed Facebook break.  I'm not going to do anything to my account, I'm simply not going to check it or use it for a while. 

Here is my list of reasons:

1. I'm so sick of the show-boaters posting pictures of their lives with things like, "My hubby is so wonderful!" and "Our vacation to Italy!" I know it's a jealously thing. My life is crumbling in so many ways, and I watch all these other people with all this money and free time.  It isn't as though I'm incapable of being happy for others, but I'm going through a really hard time, and watching other people's dreams come true is not necessarily inspiring to me. I have the right and the ability to point the proverbial remote control, and turn them off.

2. Simply, I waste entirely too much time clicking around, looking at pictures, memes, and articles. I've really got to stop procrastinating, and get to work.  I have so many other things I have to do in addition to my job. For example: Take my car in for maintenance, schedule speech therapy for my kid, pay more attention to the cats, clean the kitchen, plan meals, do the laundry, get my teeth cleaned, buy valentine's cards for my kid's daycare, bake scones, learn Portuguese, file my taxes, organize paperwork, shred old documents, update this blog...so many things.

3. I've actually limited the number of people who can see my FB posts to about 30 people. That's 30 out of the 200 "friends" I've accumulated over the last 10 years. I've filtered out co-workers, and filtered out relatives, and filtered out friends who have political views that make my skin crawl. I haven't unfriended anyone because I'm tragically passive-aggressive. I hunker down and hope they just unfriend me eventually.

4. When I think about it, I don't have to use FB to contact my friends.  One of my favorite things on FB is a page run by my cousin and her cohorts called Frock Flicks. I managed to get through my post-partum ugly-crying milk-pumping sessions at work by listening to their podcasts.  It's one of the main reasons I log in in the morning. Well, you know, they have their OWN SITE (http://www.frockflicks.com/).  I don't actually have to use FB if I don't want to. 

5. Hey, I still have Twitter. There's something comforting about the fact that most of my followers on Twitter don't know who I am. We've never met. We will never meet. That's okay. The majority of my friends and relatives don't even know I have a Twitter account, and the ones that do? I don't think they really even see it. Twitter is a fun release for me. I can send my aggression and disappointment out into the ether 143 characters at a time. 

So, goodbye for now, FB. I don't know for how long. I'm sure there will be withdrawals for the first week, but I'll have Twitter and Instagram as patches. 

This Guy

Of course, I'm completely biased because he's my kid. But I can't help thinking he's the most photogenic person I've ever met.

Here we are in line at Trader Joe's in Santa Cruz.

He is so great about going to grocery stores. He sits in the cart, hums to himself, and watches the endless supply of weird, loud, Santa Cruz citizens. 

That's my laid-back, go-with-the-flow boy.

4 a.m. Party At My House!

At some point during the night, my one-year-old wakes up and begins to cry. I make my way down the ladder of our loft bed to his crib. I retrieve him, soothe him, maybe change a diaper, and try to get him back to sleep and into his crib.  That last part only happens if I'm not totally dead-to-the-world tired. More often than not, after the diaper-change, I cuddle up with him on the couch, and we spend the remainder of the night there.

Last night was just such a night.  2 a.m. wake-up call, cuddling on the couch, and back to sleep.  4 a.m. I feel his little toddler hands banging against my back.  Wham wham wham. He's sitting up and pushing me. I roll over and see his happy little face, eyes wide and smiling. What. The. Hell.  He starts wriggling around on the couch, looking out the window. Of course the neighbors have their back porch light on, and he's staring at it.

I do the only thing I can think of (as my brain is not especially active at this point), gather him into my arms and start rocking him and humming the alphabet (song lyrics are beyond my ability at 4 a.m.). He's not fighting me, but he's not gong back to sleep either. Crap. More rocking. More humming. Eventually 5 a.m. rolls around and he drops off again. I've got one more hour before I need to get up and get ready for work. 

At least he can stay crashed out on the couch while I shower and get everything ready for the day. I've become a pro at changing his clothes while he sleeps and he can sleep in the car on the 45 minute drive to daycare.  It's like lugging a cute sack of potatoes around.

I, however, am a zombie.

I'm not ignoring you. I'm ignoring life.

I stopped posting because some things in my life went all sideways.  I really didn't want to talk about them in an open forum (I still don't), and I couldn't think about anything ELSE, so I simply abandoned the blog. 

I don't mean to be cryptic. I just believe that I have the right to keep some things to myself until a time when I'm ready to discuss them.

That said, I guess I feel an obligation not to shut down completely, and to try to take joy in the aspects in my life that I can still rely on. 

One thing that makes me smile twice a day is when I drop off and pick up my boy from daycare.  He is currently in the care of a wonderful lady, "Maria," who runs a small licensed daycare out of her home. She and her husband are from Portugal. She plays with the kids, feeds them her own home-cooked food, and is playful, but at the same time, doesn't suffer fools.  She's the boss.  I adore her.  Occasionally, I hear her speaking in Portuguese to her husband or one of her sons.  I thought it sounded pretty, so I went out and bought:

Have you ever listened to these?  They're kind of hilarious.  Side note: When I first tried to buy this from Amazon, they sent me the wrong discs. I didn't know it because the packaging was correct, the discs were even labeled correctly, but when I popped them into the player in my car?  RUSSIAN.  They were clearly speaking Russian.  It took me a full five minutes of doubting my own ears to realize it.  Anyway, returned them, got the right ones a few days later.  No foul.

So, on my long commute to and from work, the boy and I have been listening to conversational, touristy Portuguese. My pronunciation is atrocious. Maria LOVES that I'm learning it and quizzes me every time I come over.  I think she favors me because S is one of her only full-time charges.  Also, I bring her avocados.  Hey, I'll take any favoritism I can get, and build goodwill whenever I can.