It’s been busy.

Windsong had a really fun concert on Mother’s Day. We hosted the The North Coast Men’s Chorus and did a combined couple of numbers with them and it was so much FUN! I love being part of this chorus.

The next day we packed up and went on a mini vacation to Hocking Hills, Ohio. No Internet. Cabin in the woods. We celebrated HT’s 47th b-day.

And did lots of hiking.

More soon.

All is well.

Love.

So while it has been nerve wracking and awful at times, trying to figure out what to feed everyone (Todd doesn’t like coconut, Seth doesn’t like anything), I have to admit it is quite gratifying to see my children gobbling up lentil soup for breakfast. Reaching for apples rather than cereal bars for snacks. Seth is eating so much more than he ever would before, now that his options are narrowed and sugar and grains aren’t in the picture.

And I am working hard! But I’m finding my way. In another month it will be easier, once I’ve got my system down.

This week I was reading through some of Riley’s writing for a class she’s taking and she was asked to list some of our family traditions. One of them was Thanksgiving and it went like this:

“We watch the parade, and then go over to someone’s house to eat.”

“Someone’s” house. Certainly not our house!

Isn’t that hilarious? At 43 I have never hosted a big holiday meal. I get hives just thinking about it. I’m not a natural in the kitchen. Timing is hard for me. Getting everything to be done at the same time. I am a mess, sweating. Harried. I can hardly handle just the four of us, sitting down to a typical evening meal.

It’d be a lot more fun and sexy if I were paid for all this cooking. Then again, this morning, my sweet Riley took a bite of a Paleo bread I made. It was just out of the oven, slathered in butter. She sighed, and kissed me on the cheek and said, “You are a great cook Mom!”

This girl never kissed me ’til she was seven or eight.

There ain’t money enough for that.

*Thanks to Melinda who not only had us over for Thanksgiving last year, but also gave me the recipe for the kiss-provoking bread. xo

Betty White’s Off Their Rockers.

It’s old people “punking” young people. It’s hilarious. One of the things I love about it is how nice the young people are. How graciously they let the old people get away with so much!

I hope you watch it and I hope you enjoy it.

You’re welcome.

It’s been hard, trying to implement this new way of eating, working like crazy in the kitchen, all while not feeling well, and also dealing with the emotions of my children who are having to get used to new food and let go of some old food favorites.

Plus, let’s not forget I too am detoxing from my sugar addiction, and I am an emotional eater and I can’t turn to the foods I love during this stressful time.

Yesterday, I was a total grouch. My kids were driving me crazy. Seth didn’t like anything I busted my butt to prepare for him. I burned my hand in the kitchen. We were going to a party, and I made sure to bring stuff my family could eat, but the whole thing filled Riley with so much anxiety. Anxiety about feeling “deprived” of what everyone else was having. Anxiety about being different. I was getting sick of hearing about it. On the way there we talked about all the kids she knows and I rattled off all of their food issues (there are plenty) and talked about how it isn’t a big deal and everyone had something they’re dealing with, and it was in one ear and out the other, her anxiety ramping up up up. I wasn’t the most patient. I  wasn’t talking it through, or validating her feelings, I was basically rolling my eyes, telling her “no one cares” if you are different, and “if you keep this up, we’re turning around and going home.”

She navigated the party quite well, with a lot of navigating on my part at the beginning, better after she got food, and with some whining at the end as we were leaving… over a box of canolis that showed up. She’s never had a cannoli, and she certainly felt like she was missing out. I convinced her that cannolis are filled with an almost cottage cheese filling and not even all that yummy. Todd mentioned how disgusting the pastry part is, practically made of lard. And for us, it is true, we’ve never really been cannoli people (Cheesecake? Now you’re talking). She felt a little better. Hey…you do what you gotta do.

We took a moonlit walk last night, after I heard the moon would be the  brightest we’d ever see in our lifetime. It was awesome, sitting there on a park bench, looking up at that beautiful moon with my husband and my sweet little kiddos.

After that, Riley was tired and very whiny getting ready for bed. Suddenly so tired she couldn’t wash her face. She started freaking about the garbage in the bathroom being full. She was teetering. Todd, who had worked at 6AM and then energizer bunnied all day, going to the store after work and then going to the party, well….he yelled at her.

It wasn’t a good loving supportive day for Riley. She is doing so well most of the time, we sometimes forget she still has autism. We forget it’s not as simple as saying, “Don’t worry about it.” If she could “not worry about it,” she certainly would. We never could have just blown off her feelings even a couple of years ago. We’d have had a major meltdown on our hands. Sometimes we forget how hard she is still working.

This morning, I snuck into her room and snuggled into her bed, wrapping my body around hers. She wiggled into me. I held her a while and then said, “Riley, I’m sorry I was so grumpy yesterday.”

Immediately she turned to me with her big beautiful eyes and said,

“I totally forgive you.”

When we first moved to Cleveland, we were on the Specific Carb Diet, (and had been on it for about 18 months, and wheat free before that) to help Riley with her digestive issues and hopefully her anxiety. It didn’t do much for her anxiety, but we were all so much healthier than we are right now. At the risk of TMI, I have two children who regularly clog the toilet with the size of their “deposits.” It isn’t normal to look at a little 55 pound kid, and think of him shitting a brick. And yet, he does. We plunge. We plunge much.

Riley’s intestines have always been off. Constipation is only kept in check with high doses of daily Magnesium. One missed dose and we have trouble.

We moved to Cleveland five years ago because the school system in Virginia SUCKED as far as autism understanding. Moving was stressful. The school we moved for didn’t work out and we pulled Riley out of it after two weeks when I picked her up to find every blood vessel in her eyes broken from crying so long and hard. We quickly found another school that seemed great, rushed to buy a house to live in the district, and the teacher Riley would have had, blew an abdominal aneurysm first week. During all this, an M.D. we began working with here convinced me that we didn’t really need the diet, she’d done some work with us to eliminate allergies, and those foods weren’t “allergies” for us, yada yada. I knew better, but I just wanted to be normal for a minute. I wanted to NOT have to make every morsel my family ate from scratch. Life was so stressful! We weren’t seeing many behavioral gains in Riley, which was really the big thing we were looking for. I didn’t have a freaking dishwasher. Or AC. And the oven has to be on all the time if you are eating this way. It was all too much. My arm did not need any twisting to toss it all out the window.

We kept up with eating healthier than probably 95% of America, but wheat and sugar quickly became addictions for all of us. I went into early menopause at 38 and quickly put on 15 pounds. Todd probably gained twenty. And Seth. Seth’s health issues began to show themselves in earnest.

So, we’re going back to this way of eating. I’ve been busy, clearing out my kitchen, starting over, researching recipes, cooking, cooking, cooking. Buying more chicken (and even some meat) than this former vegetarian can wrap her brain around. I’m making yogurt. Grinding nuts into flour.

I know it will become easier when I get into a groove. The hardest part is always social. So much revolves around food. Some people don’t understand. I don’t miss the raised eyebrows. The “is it a true allergy?” questions. The “can’t he have just one?” It’s hard enough to do the work of the diet, but to have to deal with other peoples’ skepticism….it just really blows.

Luckily I know other mothers here whose kids have food issues as well. It makes the kids feel less freaky.

Todd’s been hinting for a couple of years that he would like to go back to eating this way because he felt great on the SCD. He didn’t push though because he knows 90% of the work falls on me. Having spousal support for something like this is key. Knowing he’ll worship me keeps me focused. LOL.

We’ve talked with other families that have had success eliminating tics by changing diet. We want to leave no stone unturned. If this helps Seth, it will be worth it. If you want to know more about the diet or how a leaky gut can cause neuro symptoms and other health issues, there is a lot of free info on line. Start here for links and recipes. Or look at the GAPS diet, which is similar.

I’ll try not to be too self-righteous about it.

Pinky swear.

We’re going in.

I held one and looked hopefully at Todd, not truly expecting a puppy that day, but we were newlyweds and he was in love and he was pretty wrapped. Then I handed her over to him, and she nuzzled his cheek and licked him. We walked out with a little white puff of a thing, I think she was two pounds. I named her Josie.

She was my baby. I loved her and I spoiled her.

Of course, Todd spoiled her too (her dark markings turned to pure white later).

When Riley was born, Josie lost some of her charm. Because I had spoiled her, she was very demanding. She didn’t give a rip that a baby had come on the scene. She didn’t bark, she screeched. REEEEEEEEET! REEEEEEEET! She’d look at you and sneeze her displeasure….all day long. She was a brat. But it was my fault, and I loved her, and life went on.

We moved to the Chicago area. Then we moved to Maryland. And she kept up her screeching.

And then Riley started having a really hard time.

And then we had a new baby.

Riley was screaming. Josie was screeching. The baby required what newborns require.

That dog. Every time I looked at her, she reminded me of how much of a failure I was. I could not keep all the balls in the air. Our family was in crises. I could not give everyone what they needed, least of all a 7 pound Peek-a-poo. There were some days she barely got a pat on the head. But she was part of the family. I couldn’t just give her away.

And then Todd’s dad told us about a woman he worked with, who was about to retire. She was looking for a little lap dog to spoil. And I could not not do it. We gave her away. We gave her to Roseanne.

I cried in the car on the way to her house. I cried in the car on the way home. I felt like a failure. A loser. A person who didn’t deserve a dog. But I knew I did the right thing. I knew she would have a good life. I doubted we’d ever have a dog again.

She was seven when we gave her to Roseanne. She made her transition to doggie heaven on Saturday, a few months shy of her 15th birthday.

I am so grateful to Roseanne and her family. My heart could rest easy all these years, knowing Josie was continuing what she came to this earth to do, be spoiled, and be loved.

Rest in peace Josephine, Dustmop, Peek-a-knees, Reeeeta.

We really did love you.

Thank you for allowing me to walk with a girl who is so sweet, she absolutely cannot see bad in anyone. Even people who have been mean to her. Thank you for allowing me to bear witness to this beautiful heart of hers. A girl who after being excluded wonders what she can do to help the person who did it. Because obviously they are in so much pain.

Dear PANDAS,

Thank you for allowing me precious time with my boy, to know him more, and to ease my own heart, making up for time that wasn’t spent “on him” when he was tiny. Thank you for providing me more opportunities to be kind when he is scared. Patient when he takes a long time to get his words out, accepting and supportive when he tics.

Thank both of you, Asperger’s, PANDAS, for all the learning. All the heart opening. All the extra love you have ignited in me and so many others.

I appreciate you.

Love,

MO’N

Seth was supposed to visit a private school this week. He’s been doing quite well with his PANDAS, and hadn’t been sick in months. His tics were becoming less severe. Hardly noticeable if you didn’t know him. On Saturday they flared up again. On Sunday night, he complained of a sore throat. By Monday it was severe. We had to postpone his visit.

It’s a great school, but I’m left wondering if this is the right thing to even consider? Will being in school just keep exposing him to more strep? Will he constantly be sick? Will it be a never ending battle? Is it worth it? Neither kid is entirely thrilled at the possibility of going to school. They are perfectly content being home. It’s me having a hard time with it. But why? Is it really that bad?

I’ve figured some things out over the past few days. I have a friend whom I love dearly, and I’m in daily e-mail contact with her. She runs a thriving business. She can’t imagine doing what I am doing, homeschooling. It is her worst nightmare. So, whenever I have a bad time…I find a great ear in her. I can commiserate and she can be all, “Girl, you have to get out of that house! You have to get their butts in school!” It feels like she actually kind of pities me being at home.

And she means well. And I’m not blaming her. I’ve certainly been asking for it. But it’s not what I need.

When she has bad days or weeks at the office, I never say, “Girl! That job sucks. You should quit immediately. I don’t know how you stand it! Close down the business!”

I tell her, “You are smart. You can do it. You are good at it. You know what you are doing.” Because she is smart. She is good at it. She does know what she’s doing.

I need someone to tell me that. I need to ask for that.

My kids just might be homeschooled for the duration. If that is the case, rather than running to someone to validate why I hate it, (and btw, I only hate some parts of it, just as she only hates some parts of her job) I need a different kind of support.

Homeschooling is such a radical departure from mainstream society. There is little validation for it. Even in the homeschooling community, families are going about it in so many different ways. I never quite feel like I’m doing it right. I always feel lacking. I always feel worried about the future. Their futures.

Settling into bed the other night, I said to Todd, “If I knew we were all going to die in an accident in fifteen years, I wouldn’t change anything about what we’re doing right now.”

He replied, “Unfortunately, we can’t guarantee that.”

And we laughed! 

I hate feeling unsettled. I hate not knowing what is going to happen. It’s so unnerving.

I feel like it’s time to shut out the opinions of everyone else in the world, and listen to my own heart. Trust my own instincts about what’s best for them, and what’s best for me.

Today in the shower I put a hot washcloth over my eyes and pressed down until little sparkles appeared behind my lids. I felt a calm come over me and a sense of gratitude.

Thank You.

Thank You for this.

Thank You for the not knowing.

Thank You for this moment which will lead to the next beautiful part of our lives. It’s okay not to know. It leaves the door wide open to possibilities.

Previewing this post I click to enlarge the photo I chose and notice Seth, our angel baby, ahead of us on the path, both feet off the ground.

Now, I’m just going to let the fact that her kids go to public school fly. That she gets to send them off everyday without a thought. Instead I’ll be offering a public service announcement on how to afford camp.

1) Drive old cars. We bought one used, the other new. Both are over a decade old. We have not had a car payment in years.

2) Live close to where you work. Todd’s commute is short. Very little gas required.

2) Never go out. We spend very little on restaurants, and virtually nothing on fast food, due to special needs and special diets. Our booze bill consists of about $10.00-15.00 a month, my contribution to “porch night” with the girls. I drink about 1.5 glasses of wine a week with them. Two if I’m feeling wild. Hot Toddy drinks nothing. Ever. Neither of us smokes.

3) Trade babysitting services with a friend rather than paying for them on those rare occasions when you do get to go out with your spouse.

4) Have kids who are naturally unathletic.  We pay nothing for soccer, tennis, lacrosse, you get the idea. 

5) Don’t do your hair. I have high lights right now (which I got before my 25th high school reunion last summer and have had touched up once since then). Prior to that I got my hair cut maybe twice a year and did my own color at home.

6) Use the library.

7) Don’t go on big family vacations. We’ve taken two family vacations in the last ten years. One was paid for by my friend who died and left us the money for it. I would rather send my kids to day camp for four weeks than “vacation” because vacations with kids are rarely “vacations” for moms, and I need a break. Did I mention we homeschool?

8)Rarely buy clothes or new make-up.

9) Don’t ever buy soft drinks. Home or out.

10) Get your produce from a co-op. We spend $25.00 a week and get a huge basket full of organic produce which would cost three times as much if we bought it in a store.

11) Bring rather than buy. Todd packs a lunch every single day. He doesn’t spend a dime on cafeteria food or take out for lunch at work. Ever.

I know times are tough for many people. I understand that for some, camp is out of reach no matter how frugal a family is. For others, it is a matter of priorities. If Dad can buy a new motorcycle, there is money for camp. If Mom spends money each week getting her nails done at a salon, there is money for camp. For the most part, except in dire circumstances, we find money for what is important to us. I don’t begrudge anyone their motorcycle, their hair, their nails. Their junk food. Their new car every couple of years. I really don’t.

But spare me the “must be nice” about camp.

Chihuahua.

The perfect hot water bottle.

8 hot dog buns in a pack.

30 people coming to the party.

Normal BUN range is 8-30.

BUN monitors a patient’s kidney function.

That kind of thing.

Thank you Mark Klimek.

Then, somehow I slept ’til 8:30 this morning. I will never take sleep for granted. Then, a book I pre ordered, just miraculously landed in my Kindle without me doing a blessed thing to put it there(other than ordering it months ago). And the book is one that is a spirits raising, good feeling, ah….that’s the reason for the whole blessed Universe, thanks for clearing that up kind of thing. It’s the third in a series and I knew it would be good, and it is. It’s old, but I’d never read the third and I guess it is new on Kindle, thus the wait. Anyway, you’d be hard pressed to read it and not feel good. Did you know we’re all angels in human suits? You did? Well…did you know that when we breathe, there is this infinitesimal space between breaths (  breathe   ) in which we go back to Source, dipping into that Creative space a zillion times a day, so fast we don’t even know it is happening. We’re not consciously aware of it but we’re not really here half the time because we’re pulsing in and out back to Source, back to Source, back to Source. I love it when that happens. If that doesn’t make you want to take a deep breath, I don’t know what will? According to my Kindle, I’m only 10% into the book and look how much I’ve learned already!

Then, Carrie and I had an email discussion of Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild, which I just finished two days ago and LOVED. So much to chew on with this book. SO MUCH!

And I’ve been studying for my nursing boards today. I’d been procrastinating, because I feel studying for my nursing boards should be totally awful. But here’s the thing… I actually kind of like it. I am firing off neurons in another part of the ole noggin’ which have not been fired in a while, and it feels good. I like to study. Sue me.

HT just wrote to say he’d be late, claiming he has a meeting, and I took the opportunity to lambaste him, for the alleged affair he surely is having, and asked for names, and threatened to kill her, and signed off

-Vivian

It’s 5:30. I don’t have a plan for dinner but that’s okay because we just ate copious amounts of cheese popcorn. I buy boxed mac & cheese and then steal the cheese packet for the popcorn, man. To hell with the macaroni. It’s what I do.

Five or six more hours before bed. I can’t even imagine the fun that’s still in store.

And no, I’ve not been drinking.

The library is one of my favorite places and always has been, as a child, and as an adult. No matter where I’ve lived. It’s been a place of respite. It was where I hung out in college, reading while waiting for my boyfriend to meet me behind the stacks. It’s where I would go to study and then get distracted by all the other things to read which I found far more interesting than my assignments.

I’ve been reading to my babies since before they were born and both kids have spent many, many hours at the library. We’ve rarely gone a week without a visit. I’ve never forced them to read. No timer setting to make sure they get it in. I learned early with Riley that being coy was the way. While at the library, they’d play with puppets and I would fill up my big bag with books I thought might be of interest to them. Then, when we’d get home, I’d set that huge pile of books on the living room floor and walk away, acting like I couldn’t care less if they read them or if they didn’t.  It worked like a charm.

Our library system here in Cleveland is so good! You can get your hands on anything you want. If they don’t have it, they get it. We live just a friendly little mile from our library, and we love, love, love it.

Riley recently, in an effort to break my heart,(not really, she’s not manipulative) informed me she’s not really a reader. “I’m not a chapter book girl,” is what she said.

I’m not buying it.

She’s into graphic novels these days. That counts. She also can’t get enough of the Smart Girl’s Guide to……. (pick a subject) kind of books.

She’s a reader damn it.

Anyway…it’s National Library Week. Shout out to *M*elissa and all the other awesome, helpful, friendly, smart librarians who make our lives easier and keep our libraries functioning.

You are a blessing to your communities.

Thanks to The Daily Good  for alerting me to the fact that it was National Library Week. You might want to sign up for their newsletter. It’s, well, “good.”

It was crowded. I found what I needed and got in line. A long line. A line in which I was fortunate enough to be in because you see, Kristi was in a cart in front of me. Kristi was four years old. Brown skin. Huge eyes. Braids. Round cheeks. Pink frayed tutu over her sweat pants. She batted her long lashes at me for five seconds and then decided I was a friend and after that she never stopped talking. I was in line for at least 20 minutes.

Kristi, showed me her new glow ring. She introduced her brother, who was five. She grabbed a battery operated hand sized fan, (which also had candy in it) off the impulse buy check out rack and fanned herself, then fanned me, and asked, “How do you like it?”

She looked at the gender specific toys in my hand. “You got a girl and a boy?” she asked. I told her I did.

“Just like us,” she said, nodding at her brother.

“The Easter bunny be coming to my house tonight,” she said, wiggling with joy in her seat, eyebrows lifted in anticipation.

Her brother pulled some spicy potato chips off a rack and asked if she wanted some. She said, and I quote, “I don’t want no spicy chips. If I did want spicy chips, I’d say it. But I’m not saying it, because I don’t want spicy chips. If I did want spicy chips, I’d be having some spicy chips. I don’t like spice.”

Her lips were covered in glitter, and I told her I liked her glittery lipstick.

She looked at me incredulously, “Girl, please. I am not old enough to wear lipstick. It is lip balm. And I got it for Christmas from Santa.”

Then earnestly, she lowered her eyes and said, “I just wish Santa had given you some. I really do.”

She fanned herself, held the fan out to her brother, and when he tried to reach it she pulled it back. She looked at me slyly and grinned. Her harried mother kept pushing the cart forward, herding the brother back into line.

During lulls in the conversation she sang, “God is goooood. God is goooood.” Sounds like God is Guuuuhd.

At the check out, Kristi took advantage of the opportunity where her mother was distracted and began to bargain about how many TV shows they could watch before bed when they got home. Mom said one. Kristi said two.

I’m betting they got two.

I’m betting Kristi is having a happy Easter. She seems to take the happy with her.

May she always.

On the drive home I felt it. My wrist started to throb. By night time it was evident it was not just “exercise” sore, but injured. Pain woke me up several times during the night, making my heart heavy. I’m loving yoga! I do not want to be injured! I don’t want to stop!

The wrists take a lot during yoga. Studying mine, I see that they are small. Very small body parts to be holding up the rest of my weight. I wrapped it in an ace bandage for a couple of days (it felt really good to stabilize it like that) and stayed off it for a week.

No yoga.

So I worked with a yoga teacher this week, to make sure my alignment is just right. She helped a lot. Little tweaks in alignment make all the difference.

She mentioned that in the hot classes, we are fooled into thinking we are warmed up when in fact we aren’t. We might be hot, but our muscles have not gradually warmed, and so the deep parts of them aren’t truly stretched even though we are sweating. It can cause us to push it further than we would have if the room wasn’t heated. Further than we should. This mindset can cause injury.

In addition to working on proper alignment, she gave me some modifications of poses to help protect me, and some exercises targeted toward areas that are problematic for my particular body.

It’s sobering, getting an injury. My nature is to want to dive right in. I have a history of getting injured while exercising. I love to run, but in my enthusiasm I’ve tended to go too far too soon. I always get hurt and have pretty much given up on running.

I want the hard, hot classes, but I have not built up the strength or proper technique to maintain good alignment in them. I thought yoga would be safer, but I’m running into myself again.

So I am pulling back. Working on building from the ground up.

Building.

My wrist is much better already. It wasn’t a serious injury. Just enough. Just my loyal body, telling me what I needed to hear. And it applies to all areas of life, not just yoga. Slow down. Take your time. Get your footing.

And that’s the thing about getting older and wiser.

This time, I’m listening.

*(image from Women on Writing).

I’ve had the honor of being featured at Women on Writing today.

I have not been writing about Daughter of the Drunk at the Bar much, because I’d been grappling with a lot of emotions around it since my first reading. I guess I still had some guilt about publishing it, seeing my father as having an illness. I had some angst about forgiveness. Was I a bad person for writing it? Was I trying to punish him? Every time I think I’ve put those questions to rest they circle around again.

Enter Bill Macy as Frank Gallagher in Showtime’s Shameless series.

Watching the series has been helpful for me. Frank is over the top, to be sure. He’s very different from my father in some ways (my dad held a job and did very hard physical labor, Frank is a “disability” junkie, looking for any way to scam the system) but there is enough of my father in him.  The part of every active addict that cares more about the substance, than about anyone he loves. The part where people are only useful for you if they feed your addiction or your ego. If not, to hell with them. Even your own children.

Thinking about my previous post on Project Forgive, I had a revelation. The man whose family was killed by a drunk driver? The one who forgave the guy who did it? He was never asked to act like it didn’t happen. He was never asked to sweep the violation under the rug. No one questions his true “forgiveness.”

I can hold deep compassion and forgiveness for my father AND I can talk about my own experience and write about it. One does not cancel out the other.

Some statistics report that one in every 12 adults in the U.S. is an alcoholic. Others show that one in three girls is sexually abused and one in 5-7 boys is sexually abused.

And you know why it continues?

Because it’s taboo. Because people are too ashamed to talk about it. Because society makes people like me feel guilty for even mentioning it.

But you know what? I am a good person. I am a loving person. I am a compassionate person. I am a forgiving person.

I am also the Daughter of the Drunk at the Bar.

And there are millions of me.

Because I believe forgiveness is the most important thing we can do on this planet. When we look at another who bothers us and know without a doubt, that if we’d lived their life experiences, we might act the same way they are acting right now, or worse. That’s forgiveness.

It isn’t a pious act. It’s not, “Let me forgive you, lesser person, beneath me. Let me be so magnanimous.”

NO.

Forgiveness does not mean we have to hang out with someone who hurts us or continues to hurt us. It does not mean we have to trust them. It means knowing we aren’t “better” than them.

It isn’t about accepting apologies. Those are nice, but often they don’t come.

For me, sometimes the most petty of so called offenses are the hardest to forgive.

Like, the chick at yoga who was picking her toes and leaving skin on the floor? I’m having a really hard time with her. Somehow, the big ones seem more important, because so much is at stake if you hold on to that big hurt, the big hate. But the little ones will nip you to death.

Forgiveness is a muscle. You have to keep at it. There have been times when I have felt complete forgiveness, and then a new memory will arise, and emotions come up and I have to work on it again. It’s an ongoing process. It’s part of being human. Sometimes I have to forgive myself for not feeling forgiveness.

What would you do if someone dear to you lost their most precious loved ones as a result of a drunk driver? What would you do if you then found out the drunk driver was also someone dear to you? If you are film director Shawne Duperon, and you experienced the above scenario, you make a film about forgiveness.

I think this movie is going to change the world.

Ann and I were roomies in college. We grew up near each other but didn’t know each other prior to being roommates. She is nice, and she has red hair, and she married a nice guy and he has red hair, and they have three nice beautiful children with green hair. Kidding. The children actually have red hair too.

Anyway, Ann’s dad decided it would be great fun to jump out of an airplane when he turned 85 last summer.

Ann is one of four siblings and after their sweet mom died several years back, the question was where should he live? It was a tough decision, because everyone wanted him at their house. Ann got him. He lives with the red heads.

It occurs to me I have absolutely no idea what Ann’s dad’s profession was/is? I do know he has lived a good life. His family loves him. I know he’s a success.

On Facebook the other day, Ann posted this quote from her dad:

“Don’t try to be a perfectionist. Even Mary and Joseph lost the kid for three days.”

I love it. And I’ll try to keep that in mind. Thanks Mr. O’Rourke.

I simply couldn’t conceive of how devastating it would be not to be able to hear my childrens’ voices. Not to be able to communicate with one’s children, to hear them learn, grow, and express themselves verbally.

– Kate Winslet

When Simon & Schuster contacted me to ask if I would review The Golden Hat, I said yes, immediately. The book is Kate Winslet’s baby. The profits will go to support those with autism. I love Kate Winslet. I think she is one of the finest actors of our time. She does not have a child affected with autism, but became close to one while doing the voice over for a documentary called, A Mother’s Courage, aka The Sunshine Boy. As her friendship with Margaret, (the mother of a child with autism and the woman who made the film) progressed, an amazing thing happened. Margaret’s ten year old son Keli, who was non-verbal and profoundly affected by autism began to speak on an augmentative communication device. His first words,

I am real.

He was in there. He was aware. He was listening to everything. A physician had told the family to assume he had the cognition of a toddler. That doctor was dead wrong.

At ten years old, this mother finally “met” her child.

It also turned out that many other things they assumed about Keli were wrong. His preferences, his interests. All wrong. And guess what? He’s a poet. One of his poems is titled The Golden Hat, thus the title of the book and the foundation they have formed to help secure communities for those with autism to live in when they mature into adulthood. Any parent with a child on the spectrum has that nagging fear…what will become of my child after I am gone? The Golden Hat Foundation is working on that.

Kate Winslet schmoozed a whole bunch of celebrities into taking self-portraits with her own fedora in the shot. And that hat got around! Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Daniel Radcliff, Angelina Jolie, Julianne Moore, Don Cheadle, Leonardo DiCaprio (of course), Rosie, Christina Aguilera, Matt Damon, George Clooney, Gwenyth Paltrow, Michael Caine, Hugh Jackman….this list is seriously just skimming the surface. There are so many celebrities in this book. She even got Steven Spielberg to take a shot of himself in the hat!  What’s great about the photos is they are not fancied up. They are taken with Kate’s digital camera. Accompanying the photos are quotes from the celebrities. They were asked to think about being trapped inside a body, unable to speak, what would they be wanting to say?

Some of the celebs clearly didn’t understand the assignment, their quotes don’t make sense. A couple didn’t offer a quote (Angelina), but most of them did. Many of the celebs used the hat to hide behind. I thought that was interesting.

When the book came in the mail it felt like a present, which I guess it was. I didn’t have to pay for it. It’s a gorgeous coffee table type book.  I sat out on the deck with a nice glass of lemon water. There was a balmy breeze as it’s been an unseasonably warm March. I let my own kids play on their iPods and spent the afternoon pouring over the stories and the photos and Keli’s poems and I couldn’t help but think of my mama friends whose kids are non-verbal. Betsy, Kathi, Jeneil, Kim, and so many others. All with different takes on autism. All with different ways of coping. All with so much love for their kids.

I closed my eyes and just sat there, holding all parents who are on this road in my heart.

Real familes. Real mothers. Real children, just like Keli.

They are real. 

I am Intelligent from Amothers courage on Vimeo.

*Proceeds from the book support The Golden Hat Foundation. I was not paid to write this review but as noted in my post, I did receive a free copy of the book.

My friend Cindy Washabaugh is part of a poetry group here in Cleveland. They call themselves Take Nine. They have been together for over a dozen years. There are nine members, thus the name. All of them are seriously talented.

When I go to one of their readings, I feel filled up. Inspired. More. Glad to live where I do. There is such a creative wellspring here in Cleveland. It’s the same feeling I get following an afternoon at an art museum (without kids). It’s the same feeling I get when I see Sweet Honey in the Rock, live. Something sacred is going on there. Women gathering, sharing, honing their gifts and generously delivering them back to the world.

Beauty in joy. Beauty in sorrow. They get it all in.

Cindy read a gorgeous poem (which had me in tears),  about a poignant moment she had during a phone conversation with her aging father. She somehow kept it together reading it. It’s about love, and memory and slowing down to appreciate him.

Here she is reading another poem, on aging:

Another amazing poet in Take Nine is Katie Daley. In the following poem, she speaks of finding love, finally.

The other seven are every bit as talented, but I didn’t get permission to record them so you won’t see them here. I met Cindy and Katie at a writing workshop I hosted here a few years back. Cindy’s life was very full. Almost too full. She didn’t need any more friends at the time, but she couldn’t resist me, so she kept me. LOL.

I’m so glad she did.

Have you read poetry lately? Gone to any readings? Where do you get inspiration?

*Take Nine members include Gail Bellamy, Meredith Holmes, Bonnie Jacobson, Cindy Washabaugh, Kathleen Cerveney, Darlene Montonaro, Linda Robiner, Rita Grabowski, & Katie Daley