sueeeus

I think often of my own wild boys.  They’ve had a rough road to walk too.  It hasn’t been easy for them.  I worry about them.  In a way, I’ve mothered some of them, and now that I’m older I wish that I had mothered them more, or done a better job.  I wish I’d had my eyes more open to what they were going through, and what they needed, rather than just trying to keep myself afloat.  I wish I could have figured things out sooner, found my own way sooner, so that I could be there for them and not contribute to their own growing pains.  I wish I could take back any pain that I may have caused them, any sorrow, any misunderstanding.  But it was survival, in those days.  Growing up and finding your way is survival when you don’t have good parenting and guidance.  How I wish that life were easier for them now.  How I wish that they didn’t have to struggle with themselves and how they fit in, in this crazy world.  Fitting in.   Finding your way.  Sometimes it’s so hard.  I want my wild boys to be strong, confident men who hold their heads high, laugh, love, and joy in the mere essence of being.  I want them to be free, unencumbered by guilt, sorrow, regret, stereotype, and discrimination.  I want them to be happy.  I want them to be successful in the ways that are meaningful to them.  I want much for my wild boys.  But it’s so much harder for them, now, now that one is gone.  My heart breaks for my wild boys.

I love to see the big, beautiful, strapping men that the wild boys have become.  I remember my teens, my twenties, even my thirtees — I may have seen them as boys.  Older boys.  Big boys.  Now, in their forties, I see them, and they are men.  M.E.N.  They are rugged.  Their arms, their shoulders, their hands – all big and strong.  Lines are chiseled in their faces.  They are fathers.  They are dads.  They are grandfathers.  They are husbands.  They are lovers.  They are friends.  They are men of men.  M.E.N.  I love who they have become.

Those boys were rough and rowdy boys.  They had a tough time growing up.  They walked a rough road.  It wasn’t easy for them.  I never met the oldest.  He was grown and off on his own, doing well.  He died young — a tragic accident took him.  It was very difficult for them to come to terms with his loss.  Their first born.  Gone.  He was making his way well, in life.  Double the shame.  Next was No. 2.  I didn’t really know him.  He was graduated and married to a Native American woman named J.  They had two gorgeous girls and I used to play with them.  Then there was No. 3.  I liked him.  We used to visit.  His mom and my friend would take me along when they visited him.  It was nice to get out and away.  He had a daughter A, who used to call me Oosh.  It was the cutest thing.  No. 4 and No 5 I remember best.  They were the wild boys on the back of the bus.  Sometimes hung over.  Sometimes glassy eyed.  Often rowdy.  Always scary.  No. 4 was volatile.  He kissed me once, just to freak me out.  It worked.  It upset me.  I don’t think I’d been properly kissed before, so he was my first.  Wet, warm, soft, taunting.  I felt violated and I was upset with him for a long time.  It was just a joke for him.  He had such a devious twinkle in his eye, and he was good looking in a paradoxical clean and unkempt way.  Dangerous.  Crazy.  He was fearless and reckless.  Explosive.  I liked him.  He had verve.  No. 5.  The youngest boy.  Ruggedly good looking. 

They used to get high in the basement, 4, 5, and my brother 1/9. Our moms were upstairs playing Scrabble and drinking coffee.  They never knew.  But they must have.  How could they not   They must have turned a blind eye.  Those boys would always try to get me to join them, but I wouldn’t do it.  I was such a goody two shoes.  If we’d met earlier, while I was still impressionable, between 10 and 13, maybe I’d have gone for it.  I don’t remember exactly when I became a goody two shoes, but it was some time before I turned 13.  The summer of ’77, I guess, is when I decided it was up to me to choose the kind of person I wanted to be.  Before that, it didn’t occur to me.  I was very daft.  Naive. 

No. 5 joined the army.  I was in high school when he came back.  On leave, or for good, I don’t remember. It must have been on leave.  I was visiting and we were alone together in their living room.  I don’t know where his mom or my friend were, or how we ended up alone.  There must have been raging testosterone and pheromones at work in that room.  It was palpable and I could have lost my virtue to him, had I not been so staunchly vigilant with my goody two shoes lifestyle decision.  Never in my life have I experienced such a sensation of chemistry.  Perhaps that will be something to regreat another time.  Had I acted on it, no doubt I would have had a child at 16, and I would have been the first teen mother in my class, instead of my friend, his sister. 

Growing up was hard for them.  All of them.  There was drunkenness.  Debauchery.  They were raging.  Reaching out, trying to find their fit in this world.  It was hard for them.  They had struggles.  Heart breaks.  Traumas. Losses.  Misunderstandings.  Altercations.  They’re all grown up now. Big, strapping, manly men.  Deep raspy voices, like their dad.  Mischievous twinkle in their eyes.  Like their dad.  Manly men.  Like their dad.  Sunday they gathered to say farewell to the man they loved, and probably sometimes hated.  I know he wasn’t the best dad or husband.  He had a rough road too. A tough time making his way. He wrestled his own demons, and in time he conquered them.  I had the privilege of knowing him for only the best of who he was. The man with a twinkle in his eye.  I loved him.  I see him living on in his sons.  Sons who are making their way.  I don’t know any of them.  It’s been over 20 years.  I re-introduce myself, and see the recognition.  I see them looking at me, with some curiousity.  I’m not one of Them anymore.  I’m a stranger from a strange land.  I’m from another world.  A white collar world. Not a yuppie, but a muppie.  A middle aged urgan professional.  I see them looking at me.  I see them wondering.  But I don’t know their thoughts.

If this were a film, pan to the clip of the gorgeous long legged model, and the obvious — who is that breathtakingly gorgeous girl

But it’s not the movies, and I’m no long legged model…

I want to speak with them.  Ask them how they are.  How they are making their way in this world.  But instead, I just look at them and marvel at how beautiful they are to me, these complete strangers, the wild boys whose lives mingled with mine many many years ago.  They are men now.  Real men.  Manly men.  I hope they are all well.  I hope they are all happy.  I hope they have all found their place in this world. I hope they remember their dad with love and no regrets.  I hope their sorrow is fleeting.  But how can it be   They have just lost their dad.

In a small town, the difference between Us and Them is very clear.’ How I wanted to be one of Us.’ Not one of Them.’ We teetered on the brink of the dividing line, and toppled over to join Them.’ Even so, I did’nt want to accept it.’ Or believe it. So I went out and made my own way.’ And I did okay.’ I am the Empress.’ And I’m wearing new clothes.

A tired, dilapidated old town.’ Depressed and weary.’ Shanties and shacks.’ How different it is to look through grown up eyes.’ How near sighted I was as a youth.’ I only saw that we were the poor people; the ragged band of barbarians that we were.’ No running water.’ Filth.’ I was so ashamed of so many things.’ I didn’t notice that we weren’t the only ones.’ (We probably were the only ones without water.)’ We were not the only shack dwellers.’ We were not alone in poverty.’

I have alot to say about Us and Them.’ Most of the time I’m not one of Them anymore.’ Sometimes when I’m melancholy, I find myself back on the other side of the tracks.’ I have to remind myself that it’s my choice, who I am, in my heart of hearts.’ I can be who I want to be.’ I can be who I choose to be. I am who I choose to be.’ I need to choose to be cheerful and bright, light and kind, gracious and loving.’ Those are all daily choices, moment by moment.’

Time spans the distance between Us and Them.’ Sometimes the Usses become Thems and the Thems become Usses.’ It mystifies me, when an Us become a Them.’ I wonder how they could let it happen, when it looked like they were the ones with the easy path.

Walls
Behind walls
Dark and terrible things happen
Secrets
Whispers
Threats
Crimes
Injuries
Tears
Wars
Bargains
Betrayals

Walls
Behind walls
Bright and glorious things happen
Friendships
Smiles
Discoveries
Embraces
Triumphs
Pacts
Laughter
Victories
Love

Walls
Behind walls
We grow up
And when the time comes
We leave
Move on
Escape
Venture forth
Break free
Break away

We find places with new walls
Walls of our own choosing
Where the ghosts of those first walls
Come with us
If we so allow
The memories ebb and flow
Fade and grow
Like fish tales
Sometimes they nourish us
Sometimes they break us

Oh to have the wisdom
To sort the wheat from the chaff
To magnify the good
Forgive and forget the bad
Cling to the best of the best
And let the bright and glorious moments
Be those that shape our heart of hearts

Walls
Behind walls
We live

Suse and Kim both did lists of tens today.  I want to make an attempt.

1. Wow man, looking back at that intro and glancing those two names in close succession makes me do a doubletake and reminds me of someone I used to know…
2. There are so many things I think about or am briefly inspired about that I want to blog about, but I struggle with not having the time.  How I struggle with the time issue.
3. How could I not have noticed the huge bruise on my baby’s head   I cut his hair extremely short this morning, and expected to see if there were any mishaps on his scalp, but didn’t notice any.  When he got home, he had a big red spot on his head.  Did this happen at daycare   Why didn’t anybody mention it   Of course, it was Mr. Gadget who did the pickup this afternoon, and he usually doesn’t chat or ask how the day went.  Tomorrow we will find out.  I’m almost certain it wasn’t there when I dropped him off.
4. I’m going to drive many hundreds of miles this weekend to attend a memorial for my friend.  I’m thinking of driving by my old house to see what it looks like these days, now that we’re all gone and others have remodeled it.  It will probably be a wistful weekend.
5. It’s after midnight and my husband thinks I should go to bed. 
6. I only lost 1/2 lb last week.
7. I wonder if my tooth will heal up well.  It seems to be a bit better, and now only one front tooth is still loose and sore.  I should have probably gone to the dentist, especially because of the headache, but I’m an expert at thinking that everything’s fine with me.
8. Yesterday at work someone made the comment about not wanting to be the one to tell the emperor he has no clothes.  It was an excellent analogy for the situation.  Later, another coworker and I were talking about it and I told him I wouldn’t have a problem (telling the emperor…)  Because at work I have no fear.  I’m all about speaking out for the greater good.  I hold my own very well in my male-centric workplace.  But in my personal life   Not in a million years.  I’ve way non-confrontational when it comes to things personal.
9. I want a cup of tea, but it’s now 12:30 and I probably shouldn’t.
10. I read on Glamorouse that the famous Amalah quit her job, and I have weird mixed emotions after reading this.  She’s got a freelance writing project on the horizon that she will unveil before too long, and I feel a bit torn and guilty, maybe, because I could probably quit my job and we could probably manage, but I don’t want to teeter on a financial precipice and have to scrape so tightly as I have all my life when I’ve finally reached that time and place in my so-called-career where it makes a very decent wage and comes with full medical and dental insurance, a company matching 401k, pension, paid vacation and a degree of schedule flexibility.  None of which Mr. Gadget’s livelihood, bless his hard working heart, provides.  Being a SAHD is not an option for  him.  He says he’d go crazy. 
11. I don’t know how I could possibly work at home with my child at home as well.  He wants to be interacting constantly, and he needs to be interacting.  I don’t know how I could work.  If I’m at the computer, he’s there too, helping me type.  Caps lock, ctrl, alt, anything that can be reached on the left half of the keyboard is fair game to him while he’s helping.  I gave him his own keyboard, but mine is better.  Of course.  Besides, I would want to play with him, and if I tried to work and get him to occupy himself, I’d feel even more guilty.  I go through this every weekend when I scurry to catch up on housework.  I do the mad dash when he takes his naps.  When he’s awake, we play, and I try to get little spurts of things done in between.  At daycare he learns to interact with other children.  He plays happily all day.  I’m very thankful for daycare.   And for this I feel guilty.
12. I’m having some tea anyway.  Tetley British blend with milk and honey.  Given the time, I will likely pay the price tomorrow today.

It’s a good morning when you have two hours to get ready.  Oh, the things that can be done in two hours!  Let’s see.  A haircut, a shower.  Get dressed.  Eat some Cheerios while waiting for the oatmeal to cool down.  Eat the oatmeal.  Play.  Take some pictures to show and tell today’s outfit.  Upload the pics, pack the lunch bags, load the car, and hit the road…   …and all is well and it’s all smiles until the part where he gets four shots, two in each thigh.  Oh, the tears.  Oh, the betrayal.  Luckily, a 15-month old doesn’t have a very long term memory, and the smiles returned in, oh, about 45 seconds.

Today’s outfit is a onesie style white turtleneck, stretched to its limit on this long torsoed model.  He wears Genuine Kids overalls (from Target, most likely).  White socks, again from Target.  Light up shoes with The Incredibles caricatures.  Diaper, size 4, Kirkland (Costco) brand.  (Was show and tell supposed to be my outfit   Any outfit   Today’s outfit )  His is so much cuter and more interesting.  Mine is just blue jeans, also from Target, a navy blue mock turtleneck boxy cut tunic with 1/2 length sleeves from the Avenue clearance rack ($5), cotton socks and black Redback slip-on boots.

Caught red handed.  Here he is this morning, post-haircut, pre-shots, playing with his favorite thing. 

It’s a picture of his cousins.  Aren’t they gorgeous   He loves to play with this picture, for some reason.  This, and the Tiffany lamp.

Doubleknot tagged me with a meme.  It’s so exciting!  Pick me!  Pick me!  This is the Six Weird Things meme.  It’s somewhat like the 5 idiosyncrasies meme, but I’m sure I can come up with plenty of material.  Here goes…

1. When I think I need something, I embark on a Quest.  It’s not a matter of just buying a coffee maker, for example.  One has to consider so many things in order to find the perfect one.  As a result, I may end up with several versions of an item before I am satisfied.  For instance, I have six coffee makers at this moment, and I have recently gotten rid of at least three.  One is commercial for those big family gatherings where it’s important to keep the coffee flowing, fast and strong.  One is a French press, for camping or when the power goes out.  One is a 2-cup drip version with a thermal carafe, which I’ve settled with as my every day version (but if I ever find the perfect one, it’s history!).  One is a Senseo pod version, which I have a love hate relationship with.  The jury is still out on that one.  One is a generic 2-cup drip version that I haven’t remembered to donate yet.  One is a 12-cup generic drip version for when we have coffee drinking company and the 2-cup version just won’t do.  All of these, and I still don’t have the perfect one.  The quest is still on.  (There have been similar quests, mainly for kitchen and wardrobe items.)
2. I snore like a sailor.  Not intending any disrespect to sailors.  Two of my brothers were sailors.  It’s just a phrase.  And, not that snoring is so weird, but as a result, I have death breath in the morning, and to accompany that, a throat full of disgusting phlegm that I cough up and hack, every morning, like a withered old smoker.  It’s just gross.  I call it weird because I don’t know other women who hack like that.  Like I said, it’s just gross.  (I am actually scheduled to see a sleep specialist and an allergist regarding this.  It’s part of the mid-life maintenance flurry I’ve imposed upon myself.)
3. I can’t stand to have a ragged or torn fingernail.  It drives me nuts, to the point where I’d rather rip it off than leave it be.  Consequently, I nearly always carry nail clippers with me.
4. I sometimes think I’m on the verge of understanding foreign languages.  I hear someone speak and feel like I’m a click away from comprehension, as though I could concentrate just a bit harder and I’d get it.  Like tuning in to a radio station.  But I never actually get that far.  Still, in the back of my mind, I feel the comprehension lurking.  I feel it.  Yes, that is definitely weird.
5. I am super confident in my work life, and the polar opposite in my social life. 
6. I like odd numbers.  I don’t know why.  I just do.  If I’m bouncing a ball, I like to bounce it five times, or one, or three, but never two.  If I’m shuffling cards, I shuffle three or five times.   I used to think I wanted five kids, or three, but never two or four.  Now I have one, and I’m on the verge of being too old for more, but I’d like more, but doubt I could possibly have two more, so I may end up with two.  Only two!  What will I do !

While I like to be tagged, I’m not comfortable tagging.  Another sort of weird thing, but not so weird because I’ve come across several bloggers who like to be tagged but not to tag.  So this meme will have to be a self-tagging meme.  I’d love to know if anyone self-tags from here though.

I love this passionate phase in a young boy’s life.  He is fifteen months old and bursting with energy.  There are tantrums when he can’t understand why his mother won’t allow him to do, oh, dangerous things.  All he knows is that he’s not getting what he wants, so he must express his displeasure.  It’s so very dramatic.  I love it.  (To an extent.  I’m a very patient person, but I have my limits.)

There’s not as much snuggling and cuddling going on these days.  There are so many places to go, things to see.  So this is what I see of my little adventurer, most of the time.

Sometimes he takes my slippers and shoes hostage.  I find them all over the house.

My sweet little man still takes my breath away.  Literally.  I love that he has so many smiles in him.  Even after he bashes his head into my face so hard that I see stars and fear that I may lose my front teeth long before their time.  Especially when the teeth remain loose the next day, and the gums are sore and the head aches.  Even more amazing, is how it didn’t faze him a bit.  Not a peep, other than confusion as to why his mother was behaving so strangely, sobbing, reeling in pain, and all.  Not a peep, not a scratch.  How can he not be bruised or hurt with an impact of such magnitude   It escapes me. 

In addition to the bashed in face, I have a serious case of bedhead today.  Just like my beautiful Boo.  It’s so much cuter on him, though.  My beautiful Boo in blue.  He’s groggy this morning too, just like his mama.

This morning on my way to work I noticed some high school kids walking to school and had to do a double take because my brain had a little difficulty processing what I saw.   There were two of them, and they were wearing something knee-length and colorful.  I recognized the colorful knee-length togs were those nylon or polyester sports shorts that basketball players wear.  My mind jumped to the assumption that these two figures were boys.  However, I realized they were girls, at about the same time that I realized they were wearing sport shorts.  The synapses were sparking, trying to make sense of this fashion choice.  Aware that gauchos or culottes have made an unfortunate reappearance on the fashion scene, my mind tried to match the knee length colorful garb to gauchos when I recognized the forms to be girls.  But recognizing those bright colors to be sport shorts at nearly the same instant that I processed the gender as female caught me off guard.  Add to that the detail that these brightly colored sport shorts, worn by girls, were also worn over jeans.  Over jeans.  My mind was therefore forced to recall another unfortunate fashion trend of decades past in which the sporty cool athletic types (or couch potato counterpart wannabees) would wear their jogging shorts over their sweatpants.  At a loss to explain this fashion choice, I recalled that it was so it for girls to wear their boyfriend’s letterman’s jacket in days of yore.  Maybe these girls were aligned with varsity ball players, and this is the twenty first century way of parading said status.  I hope.  Because, come on!  Bright yellow baggy knee length polyester shorts over blue jeans