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...brushing by...

I have the most boring hair ever. Stick straight and fine as can be. I wear it down, and keep it long. I alternate between a center part and a side part. Rarely will you find me with it up, or back, or any kind of anything. It doesn't hold curl...not without tons of product at any rate.
So you can probably imagine my surprise-delight-confusion combo when first my son's hair started to grow into the soft, loose curls of his toddlerhood.
When he was born I remember staring at him, as all mothers do, analyzing what parts of this new creature came from me and what from the other half of his gene pool.  His hair, it seemed, was determinedly mine: jet black and stick straight and fine as spiders' silk.  But as he grew, the black melted away into chocolate brown, and the straight lines curved and corkscrewed.  They would twist right round my finger when I brushed his hair and in the sunlight, spark glimmers of gold and red.  I wore my hair in braids then, my "mom-do"  …
Recent posts

...cut and run...

There's a move in our future. Not sure when. Not sure how.  Not sure where.
Hoping soon.  Hoping simple.  Hoping south. It all depends on the budget.
Wallet worries aside, we (or rather, I) have been slowly working steadily towards it. I've moved a good deal.   Oddly enough, I've never really found it stressful.  Maybe the excitement over-rides the fear?   Packing up is fun.  It's an opportunity to sift through memories and toss out the ones that don't mean as much anymore.  It's a chance to divest of the bits and pieces that aren't a part of you or your life/lifestyle.   It's the perfect time to really take stock of all that you have and unencumber yourself, shedding off those things you never really wanted or used, but couldn't quite see your way clear to throwing away.  
I'm no moving expert, but I like to think I have a pretty good system.  At the very least, it's one that works for me.  I like lists.  I like boxes.  I like knowing I h…

...resilience:revisited...

Last week I attended a speaker presentation hosted by a local special-education parent advocacy group, on the topic of "Building Resilience for Kids and Teens" and it reminded me of this mini series I wrote a while back:
https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-sunday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-monday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-tuesday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-wednesday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-thursday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-friday.html https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-saturday.html
At the start of the meeting, during the roundtable intros, I spoke briefly about myself and my son before sharing that my primary reason for attending was because the topi…

...billows and bellows...

I'm the mom of a 15 year old now.  It happened overnight.  I swear! Just a moment ago I was cradling a newborn in my arms.  Now here I am a blink later and helping him develop his business.  
I can't wrap my head around it.  Where did that time go?  How did it just fast forward like that?  More importantly, where's the damn remote so I can just rewind and go back and stay there a while longer?  Oh, I miss it so!
The days are speeding up, it seems.  Frantic mornings and then the blur of school and work before he comes home.  There's catch up to do, conversing over espresso (or tea..but more often than not, he wants the good stuff!) about our days, reviewing the lists:done and to-do.  Homework and housework to get through.  Then on to the dream-building whenever there's time: designing and printing, refining and reprinting over and again until it's just right, then writing and editing, reviewing and listing.  
All the while I wonder as I look at him. I wonder ho…

...it could be worse...

I stopped talking. I caught myself, and stopped the words. In the silence, my mind whirred onward...that lightbulb flickering on...shining brightly and suddenly on my mistake.
I stopped talking. In the middle of a conversation that started, innocently enough, when I checked my email.  Another well-meaning missive chock full of good-intentions and misinformation.  Another scientific study...another medical miracle...another "have you heard of/tried...?  You should.  I read/heard/saw something about it!" So, typically, I read or listen or smile and nod my way through these.  But for some reason, this time, my brain imploded.  Maybe it's the tooth infection's fault.  Maybe it's the antibiotics that have me feeling some kind of a way.  Whatever the reason: implosion.  Followed, sad to say, by verbal explosion.  Yup, full-on full-volume rant.  
So there I was, huffing and puffing my way through "The Audacity!' and 'Constant Interference' and 'Respe…

...silent treatment...

Please tell me I'm not the only one who sits down to write, head full of important thoughts and ideas, only to hit that wall where the words just won't come out.  
It's bad enough that the words literally won't come out right now.  I've been taking it easy the past few days, trying to ignore the pain of an infected, impacted wisdom tooth.  The antibiotics make me nauseous, exhausted and restless at the same time.  I've always been "chemically sensitive", so I tend to avoid medication unless it's really the last resort.  Even Tylenol makes me feel off.  But when the pain kicked in last week, I became best friends with my bottle of Aleve.  I made it through most of the week, firmly believing in the "this, too, shall pass" mantra.  Rinsing with salt water.  Feverishly brushing ever time I felt a twinge.  But come night time I was miserable, the pain enough to keep me wide awake and writhing.   Yes, I finally went to the dentist. (Dental P…

...a helping hand...

He is exactly who he is supposed to be.
On Sunday, we attended the "Mercy Me/Tenth Avenue North" concert.  It was, notably, my son's first (non-classical) concert.  Another first.  Another stepping stone.  We sat way up high in the nosebleed seats.  The only ones I could afford.  An usher pushed aside the curtains and led us to our seats.  He held my hand, as he usually does when we're out and about and I felt his grip tighten when he saw how very high up we were and how very low the guardrail was.  I kept looking at it, every few minutes.  Made nervous by my own imagination.  Feeling the tremblings of fear as people jostled by one another, far too close to that drop-off.  We took our seats, and I had to turn in mine, crossing one leg over the other to accommodate my purse.  It's awkward, I suppose, sitting half in and half out of a seat, just so that he doesn't have to relinquish my hand.  He pulled me further in, shifting my elbow beneath his ribs so he cou…