Me and My Shadows

There is a certain presumption that you want to read the random collection of thoughts and words that jumble and bump around in my head.  By my own account I am an awkward blogger.  WP is kind enough to proffer suggestions about what to write but that seems to coy for me.  TODAY I shall blog heavy and tell you a bit about living with a child with mental issues.

I love my children.  I have two.  They are bright, beautiful boys.  My oldest son has issues.  As a result, I have issues I never expected I would have to deal with in my life.  None of the medical professionals that my son has seen have labeled him with any particular disease.  They have batted about ADD, ADHD,  Asperger’s, Tourettes, but no concrete determination, no helpful real life applications for how I should help my child fit into a normal world.

I often call the police to help me intervene with my son.  He does not respect me.  I am not abusive or unreasonable in my parenting.  I have expectations, but when your own child refuses to listen to you because they have deemed you mentally inferior to themselves it is nigh next to impossible gain cooperation.  He attributes my stupidity to remaining within an abusive relationship.  He does not see his own behavior as repeating those same abuses that I left.  I cannot draw those connections for him.  I want to.  I desperately want to sit down with something so simple a thing as a piece of paper and say here is A and here is B and see how these two connect.  Perhaps it is my desperation that makes me fail.

He watches television shows I wish I could eradicate from the face of the earth because this is how he believes other people truly interact and behave and treat one another.  It is not so much about censorship.  For a normal, mostly well adjusted person to sit down and giggle at the stupidity of these shows or the foul humor is different then for a child who is a visual learner to cue in and repeat.

Where do I draw the line between the help I can give and his wanting me to do everything for him, as if he were a tiny child and not a fifteen year old?  He will demand the right to drive and yet he refuses to write assignments claiming that his dysgraphia prevents him from using even a computer keyboard.  I cry bullshit.  He tells me I am abusive and uncaring.  His intelligence is undisputed.  He is a genius, but sadly one who chooses not to perform.  My ex and his parents call him lazy.  I do not think that is entirely the case although, no doubt there is a bit of that in him.  I cannot force work ethics upon him.  His behaviours were shaped by the parent who raised him from birth to age three, my ex husband.   You cannot tell either of them this fact, they both turn tables and blame me.

Hmm I need a break.  I will explore this more later.

Happy Thanksgiving

A day for giving thanks, this year I have a laundry list.  Foremost as crazy as they are I am thankful for family.  Without my family I would be homeless.  Friendship has been the mainstay of my year.  Most of my friends are on line, there are a few here in my everyday life.  New friends, old friends, their support and love has kept me waking up everyday.  I shall not drag you through the sordid events of the past year at this time, but I will say tumultuous has new meaning for me.   This is a poem for you as I have no means of coming round with a bottle of this or covered dish filled with chocolate chips or even having you ’round for a meal designed to put you in a food coma and keep you coming back.  My motto: You will never leave my table hungry, but you will always leave it wanting more, and YES I am just that good.

Heat from the kitchen pours through the house

As wine pours from bottles

Filling glasses

Glasses steam as the cook leans over

The pans and pots

Smells of butter, onion, sautee

Roasting turkey flowing over with sausage and herb stuffing

The pounding of children’s feet as the run front door to back

Shrieking like Indians wanting to scalp Pilgrims

The dog lurks under the kitchen table

Laying in wait for scraps from the mistress’  hand

Hands that pull you close

Into arms that pour heat through your body as they welcome

A quick buss on the cheeks

A smile that spreads and melts hearts like butter in a warm pan

Stray fingers pinch filberts and pecans from bowls on end tables

The odd body wanders through the cooks domain

Pulling forks and spoons from drawers

Dipping and sampling the tantalizing wares in

The pots and pans.

As if by magic or unspoken command

Those women of a certain age appear

Setting the table, plating the food, herding the children and all the wayward brood

The table it bends under the weight

Pointless flames on candles flicker as a hush fills the room

Blessings and thanks are spoken

By one for all

The proclamation done the Turkey is carved

The ballet of food begins

Arms crossing to pass dishes

Of this and that

The ritual of a meal at a table

As old as time

Offers comfort anyone can find

It is this moment

This frozen tableau of a feast

Snippet of memory with sound and smell

Stills the mind, calms the sea

Clears the skies of rain and cloud

Shines like sun on a meadow

or warms as heat from a fire

And it is in this moment that I am thankful for you.

Gray

Fog

Before rain

On dismal days

Lends clarity

Through austerity

Focus is sharpened

Colors become

Crisp and true

Brooding thoughts

Swirl and surface

Drawn out by gray

The harshest light of day

Is softest

2A5118 Pantone for green

Leaves on trees, and blades

Of grass and blades

Like knives

Cut open the wound

Expose the festering

Sore

Fed on by leeches and maggots

Realization

To heal

You need to experience

Leeches and maggots

Their lesson

Why amputate when you can save

You cannot save time

Time is ephemeral

Almost as

Ephemeral as

Fog

 

Car Windows

Looking forward, looking back there is stability in the picture.
A glance to the side reveals a blur of color depending on the scene.
I like the windows down.
Glass free.
Escape is easier.
Windows up distorts, the picture, the color,
Glass traps
The smear of cold wet noses, small finger prints obscure
Distracting, detracting unfocused and impure
Dirty windows dirty dirty dirt
In summer the harsh sunset clouds through the grime
In winter crystalline webs outline the smears
Autumn and Spring rain create mottled fog on the panes.
Sometimes industry, a spritz of ammonia and a flick of a rag
Offer clear vantage, but like all free things it never lasts.
But windows down, windows down
On fine days
In May or perhaps November
Lends clarity to disparity  lifting eyes skyward.

It’s Friday

The sun is the relentless light bulb that blinds

Leaves of Oak and Beech rain upon me as I walk, the odd Sugar Maple splashing red like blood

Crushing blades of still green grass, splitting acorns and snapping twigs

mingle with the labor of my breath and tattoo of my shoes

The drone of leaf blowers of the lazy homeowner mixes with the scratching scurry of squirrels

An engine sputters to life in the distance drowning out the barking dog and shrieking child

and fade to silence

A cross street formata

Darting glances take no chances, people die crossing streets

The rhythm changes when a jogger darts past with a curt nod hello

A whisper of wind through the Cherry trees and the startled flight of some sparrows

brings me no closer to home but leaves me lost as the trees that have lost their leaves

the pace picks up and a corner is turned and face flushed and body warm

I return to the house having enjoyed

Late Autumn street music, a symphony for one