Month: March 2016

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Seeing is believing

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”–Henry David Thoreau

We received a note from the school nurse last week, letting us know our boy was having trouble seeing in the classroom. Both my husband and I were waiting for this to happen. I was 6 years old when I got my first pair of glasses, whereas my husband was in high school. Nearly every adult family member has glasses or had eye surgery, yet apparently our boy was still hoping he was immune.

When I made the appointment to see his optometrist, I warned my son that he would probably have to start wearing glasses. I wanted him to prepare himself if that was indeed the outcome. The kid flat out refused to even think about it. He told me to “Stop saying that!” in a freaked out and “oh my god the world is ending” kind of tone. So I didn’t mention it again.

I picked him up today for his appointment and he was in a great mood. It’s always nice to be picked up early from school, even if it is for a doctor’s appointment. We got to the doctor’s office, waited for less than two minutes and then the various testing began. My boy was polite, funny, and just all around wonderful. I was with him when the doc had him read some of the eye chart, and since he could only read the 2nd line without help, I knew what was coming.

The doctor told my boy that yes, he needed glasses. His vision was not horrible by any means, but with glasses, everything would be that much clearer. He let my son know that he didn’t have to wear glasses when playing sports, but at some point he might find that it could improve his performance. We thanked the doctor, but as soon as he left the room, my boy’s face fell. He was absolutely devastated. He quickly became angry and I just hugged him to me and told him it was ok.

He disagreed. Vehemently.

We walked to a different part of the building to pick up some paperwork and I hugged my boy again. He was fuming but let me hug him. “Honey, this doesn’t change anything. You’re fine. You’re still you.” But between tight lips he spat, “This. Changes. Everything.”

I sighed, but didn’t argue. For just a second I put myself in his place and tried to remember what it was like to put on glasses for the first time. To know that this would be part of my life forever, and everyone would be able to see the change. It wasn’t something you could hide from. “You’re right, Bri. You’re right. This does change things, but it doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing and it’s not a big deal. Honest.”

He didn’t talk to me again until we got into the car. He always sits just behind me and as I started the car, I looked in my review mirror. His head was down so I couldn’t see his face. As I started to turn around in my seat, I could hear my boy gasping for breath as he sobbed. I rubbed his leg and started to cry, too. I asked him if I could get out and give him a hug and he agreed. I got out, opened his car door, and crushed him to me as he cried and cried into my shoulder. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that I loved him.

After we left the optometrist’s office, I stopped to get gas while my boy ran across the street to get a donut. (I don’t care what anyone says. Anytime we have a doctor’s appointment, we treat ourselves afterwards. Not always to food, but sometimes that’s the easiest and cheapest thing to do. It seemed appropriate today.) As I was pumping gas, I had an “A-ha” moment. Although getting glasses is a little scary and new, my son’s reaction still surprised me. He was really, really upset. And had been since the first mention of glasses last week. It’s not like he doesn’t know anyone who has glasses, but he knows very few kids that do. There are a few, though, including a girl in his class who he’s friends with. BUT, my “a-ha” moment was when I really put myself in my boy’s shoes. My kid–who has tics, who is over five feet tall at the age of eight, who wears shoes bigger than some adults–will now have one more thing to make him different, one more thing to make him stand out in a crowd, one more target on his back for the asshole on the bus to shoot at. THAT was why my kid was crying in the back seat of my car, and I don’t blame him.

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This was taken two years ago when he liked wearing fake glasses.

Being a kid is so damned hard. Do you remember? You want to grow up so fast so you can feel like you have control, feel like you have some power in your life. Of course, once you get there you realize that you really don’t have as much control or power as you thought you would, but we don’t want to hear about that part. I want my boy to feel good about being different, about being unique, and that it’s ok, damn it! I don’t want him to feel like the “special snowflake,” as in feeling entitled. That shit just pisses me off. But I want him to feel good about being who he is. Or what he is. Currently he’s a Star Wars-loving giant who blows on his hands when he’s anxious, is a video game-playing rock star, and will soon be wearing glasses.

I know in another year or two (hopefully sooner), my boy won’t think twice about putting on his glasses. It’ll be just another part of him. It really won’t be a big deal. Until then, I’m hoping he’ll find his way to acceptance without too much anxiety. I want to guide him on this journey by showing him how awesome I know he is and how being exceptional can be wonderful. But I don’t want to beat him over the head with it, you know? I need to be patient and just let him find his way. I know he’ll be ok. I just need to sit back and watch it happen.

And that’s the hardest thing to do.

 

 

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The Road to Hell is Paved with Hashtags

I think it’s time I came clean. I’ve tried to be ok with this. I tried to assimilate. But damn it, the Borg can’t have me. So let me be clear…

I hate hashtags.

I do. I hate them. They irritate me to no end.

First, # was not always called a hashtag. You do realize it’s the number symbol or the pound sign, right? And technically, # is not a hashtag. You need both the symbol and a word after it to be a hashtag.

So what would you call this creature?

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Apparently we can name things whatever the hell we want, so I’m calling him the Easter bunny, damn it.

Look, if you’re using Twitter, then I get it. Fine. Hashtags, as the world now calls them, have been used on Twitter for nearly 9 years now as a way to show groups, or to be used as a kind of unifying tool like #forthepeople or #imwithher.  Great. Fantastic.

But then hashtags started showing up EVERYWHERE. Not just other social media like Facebook, but in advertising, news reports, and my particular pet peeve–in conversations. Really?!? Why must you say, “hashtag idiot,” if you’re talking about someone and what to call them an idiot? JUST SAY “IDIOT!”  Or say “fucking idiot” if you want to add some real emphasis.

I realize people are trying to be clever in many of their hashtags or cutesy like #soinlove or #awesomesauce, and every blue moon a hashtag does make me chuckle. But mostly? Mostly they irritate me and give me an urge to hit people.

Admittedly,  many of my friends are hashtag happy. I still love them and think they’re amazing, but my urge to slap them has not waned.

I’m hoping that the hashtag fetish will dissipate in the next 10 years and I can find something else to irritate me. But until then, this is all I have to say, hashtag users.

#SuckIt

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Pierre wasn’t completely wrong

During the past month, I’ve found myself saying “I don’t care” quite a lot. Whether it’s to my husbanPierresyrupd when he tells me he doesn’t want to eat chicken for dinner or to my friend who complains about how much her husband spends on booze, the words “I don’t care” have started to flow freely from my mouth and I rather enjoy it.

I’m sure every single one of you have thought the same words in response to a variety of your family’s or friends’ dilemmas. Maybe it’s a lost toy your child is pining for (and you know it’s buried in their closet) or your co-worker is griping about being back to work after a long vacation, and all you want to do is yell, “I DON’T CARE!” But you don’t. Because you shouldn’t or because the time and effort it would take to smooth things over after a big blowout would be massive and you’d never be able to get that time back. So instead you bite your tongue and either give a bit of advice, “Sweetie, maybe try cleaning out your room,” or you nod and pretend empathy and say, “I know how you feel.”

But it’s those times when your loved ones tell you all that is going well for them, and you want so desperately to be happy for them, and yet all you feel is irritation and anger and envy. You want to scream, “I DON’T CARE!” You want to say, “Fuck your sex life, your love life, your vacations, your time off with your kid, your youth, and you. Just FUCK YOU!”

That’s when you take a deep breath and you don’t say any of those things. That’s when you don’t pretend to be happy for them, but you find real joy somewhere deep inside that part of you that really does want happiness for your beautiful friends and family. You dig that little bit of yourself out and shine it up and show those people how much you love them and are happy they’re not as miserable as you are. Misery may love company, but Misery is a real party pooper when Happiness is trying to have a good time. So you suck it up, put a genuine smile on your face, clap your hands (it always helps me be a little more cheerful) and hug your loved one. If you get a little teary, it’s ok. They won’t know if those tears are of joy or sadness, so it won’t matter.

The odd thing is that it’s very easy for me to feel happy for people I’ve never met. Those folks that win the lottery? Although I would have loved to win it myself, I am typically overjoyed for those that do win it. Think about it. How freakin’ extraordinary for something like that to happen! Or hell, when people win prizes on game shows I get excited for them, too. Maybe it’s because these things are like little happy endings only found in fiction, and since they’re strangers they seem more like characters in a book. I don’t know what happens to any of these people after the spotlight fades, nor do I want to know. They’d probably kill the image of the happy ending and I’d have to hate them for it.

But maybe it’s just when I’m feeling shitty about my own life that others’ lives look so great and I can’t help but whine and think, “Why can’t that be me?” Yet I know the grass is not necessarily greener. I know that sometimes that grass is really astroturf and although those Facebook photos make it look great, it’s really a bunch of chemicals that will probably give everyone in the neighborhood cancer.

I don’t want to be like this and I’m really not *always* this bitchy. But I am human. And sometimes it’s tough being a good person, especially when going through a difficult time. I do try to be happy for others and feel empathy for those that need it.  So if you tell me something wonderful or even something horrible that’s happened to you, I may give you a look that could be interpreted as my best Grumpy Cat imgrumpycatpression. Just give me a minute to find that little nugget of joy or compassion I know I have for you.

Unless I tell you that I don’t care.

Then I really don’t.

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Helpless

Do you ever feel like your skin is too tight or you just feel uncomfortable in your body? Do you wish your skin could stretch until you could climb out of it or expand just enough to make you feel “normal” again?

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If I gain a few pounds (or 8), typically this uncomfortable feeling is my cue to lose weight, just to feel somewhat good inside of this body. But for the past month, or possibly months, I’ve felt like this. I feel twitchy and itchy and tight and squishy. Yet the scale isn’t really yelling at me. There are still 4 pounds I’d like to lose, but I shouldn’t feel this out of whack for just four friggin’ pounds. I should feel annoyed and irritated, but not uneasy and anxious.

Intellectually, I know that I don’t feel well because my brother is ill and my mother is no longer my parent. I know that I am so fucking sad all of the time because my brother may not see his nephew grow up and my mother may not know who her grandson is. Thinking of the future without my brother in particular, shuts me down. A world without him is a world I don’t want to imagine living in. The possibility of my brother not being here to show me the world as he sees it, to laugh at the world as he does…how will I….why…FUCK!

This is why I want to crawl out of my skin and start anew. I want to feel like everything will be ok, to feel like I once did. To go back to some moment when all was good and happy and right.

Instead, I concentrate on those four pounds I still want to lose. I focus my energy on trying to control my weight by counting calories and reading diet books and finding healthy foods to eat and running and walking and lifting weights because I can’t control ANYTHING ELSE. And when I end up not losing weight because I either eat too little or too much or don’t exercise enough, then I readjust my formula and try something else or tweak this and that.

Because I can.

Because that’s all I can do.