...home-less...

It's no secret that I've yet to find my place. 

Or rather, it's no secret here...in my corner of the world where I write and you read, and the words pour out without restriction.

The argument could be made that I hide it well (though I'd disagree, knowing my limits and failures as I do) seemingly confident and self-assured.  I've mastered the enigmatic smile and learned to skirt the edges of the room.  But rest assured, I'm scrambling for footing on the inside, wondering why I still feel so home-less.

~~~

One of my earliest memories is of sitting in my childhood room, staring at the yellow gingham wallpaper, counting each little square while muttering over and over..."I don't belong here."

(How very, very right I was...even then.)

It was instinctual...a gut feeling of being, somehow, completely displaced and misplaced...

It was...a mistake...

Me. There.  In that room.  In that house. In that life.

I was a mistake.

I wasn't supposed to be there.

How very obvious.

My childhood 'displacement'...foster-child to adoptee...marked me as surely as a brand on my face.  I was here at someone else's behest...a purchase meant to ease the pain of infertility.  A shell into which to pour new life....with a history I had no biological claim to, and a responsibility to be a mirror of my adoptive parents' passions~values~interests~talents~etc...  I was, I sometimes felt, a faceless clone of some child they might have had...here, intact, with all the parts and function, but none of the story.

I wasn't supposed to be there.

~~~

An early marriage.

Youthful indiscretion?

Naivete?

Rebellion?

Rather, an overwhelming urgency to tie myself down...to someone and something and somewhere.

A tangling myself up in someone else's roots...claiming both name and history as mine.

A starting point on which to grow a family of my own.

A place...four walls and two arms to call home.

The roots I burrowed into were rotten, though.

The knots I grew entangled with, nearly choked the life out of me.

The family I was growing wasn't safe.

I wasn't supposed to be there.

~~~

Two decades later...almost...and I am still out of sync.

We've lived in this apartment for 15 years, and there's never been a day...a moment...where it felt like home...felt like mine...

Shared space...

our clutter and time intruding on one another...

all the more so when our family expanded to four...  

Every surface of multi-purpose.

Every quiet moment at risk of someone else's noise. 

This apartment was once a part of the main house.  A d.i.y. project of remnant floors and scrap cabinetry.  It lists and leans...sloping down from some central joist...creaking and groaning...

The lines have all gone soft.

No straight angles to be found.

"Quirky.", some might say. "Unbalanced."

(Some might say the same of me.)

I shim each piece of furniture we bring in, and regularly spackle new cracks and fissures in the corners.

Too hard of a footfall, and the dishes rattle on their sloped shelves.

Too rough of a door slam, and the knick-knacks shift to precipitous edges.

The apartment was a use of extra-space.  A money-maker.  A rent-collector.

It wasn't supposed to be permanent.

It wasn't supposed to be a four-person domicile.

We weren't supposed to still be here.

~~~

Motherhood.

Of two.

Or four...with stepchildren to consider.

Family.

And four walls we return to at the end of the day.

A place to 'call home'.

But...not...

They belong to me...these two boys.

I belong to them, perhaps more so.

My body to serve their needs: from early labor pain to the arms that comfort bruises physical and emotional, from soothing lullabies to vicious defense, from pre-dawn to past-midnight toil for their comforts and needs and pleasures.

Mine is theirs.  I am theirs.  Their mother...their person...their home.

They are my heart.

But we aren't home.

Not here.

Not yet.

This isn't home.

It isn't our soft place to land.

It's just the walls about...the roof above...

We shouldn't still be here.

~~~

We've roots now...little scraggly things digging into rocky soil.

We've built something, surely.

A handful of beautifully wrought connections to people and places.

But singular. Each of them. Singular and separate.  No ties that bind one to another...no convergent paths that end in community. Each a stand-alone.  Too far apart to bring round one large table.  No neighborhood of friends and family and friends who've become family.

Just individual bright spots...meeting places of one personality or other...one shared interest or other.

The temporary friendships of strangers on a train.  A shared journey of some miles, but divergent departures ahead.

Familiarity, but not a belonging.

We don't belong here.

~~~

Chapters ahead, unwritten.

Blank calendar pages, and maps to be pored over.

The journey to home still underway...though the travelling slows and stalls...

There's a place...somewhere...

Not here.

Not any of the theres.

But somewhere...

Where we all fit...

Where our sharp edges and quirks match the grooves already made...

Where our unstable balance will become steady underfoot...

Where we can finally unpack and set things just so and feel...

at home.

...the holes...

We rent.

We rent what, by some standards, would be considered a postage-stamp sized apartment.  It's the 'garage apartment' of our landlords' home...an afterthought of sorts...a subdivided use of what was extra space, walled off and renovated into living quarters.    

It is, by some standards, far too small for family life.

It is, by all standards, in constant need of t.l.c. after countless (preceeding occupant) years of neglect.

It is also, seemingly, forever in need of fixing.  Something of a d.i.y. renovator's daydream, I suppose.  I have done what I can.  I do what I can.  There's been sanding and scrubbing.  Tightening of screws and replacing of fixtures.  Refitting and refurbishment.  Caulking and re-caulking.  Painting and repainting.  Little fixes and big fixes.

And it remains.  Unchanged.  In steady decline.

Pieced together of spare parts and looking every bit the temporary shelter that it is.

It is...

At best...

Quirky.

Cantankerous, even.

Floors sloping in all directions.  Cabinets that won't be orderly no matter how often I re-organize.  Drawers that stick or jam.  Surfaces stained by age, bleach-resistant.  Walls that show their seams.

And holes.

Oh, the holes.

Round the frames and doors and windows.  Where the insulation has rotted away. In the roof and in the ceiling.  In the walls, before I filled them.  The cracks and holes of mis-measured and old and settling.  The holes of nature wearing away.  And, in some cases, the holes we've made throughout the years...from the ever-changing displays of elementary art projects and holiday decorations.

I've fixed them all.  Or, rather, I've tried.  I've bought the spackle and the drywall.  Applied it liberally, then sanded.  I've fixed so many.  Too many.  I've filled in the cracks and the crevasses.  I've color-corrected with woodpaint in hopes of blending.  I've covered up with photos and artwork; those shiny happy things that distract from the disorder they hide.

But there are more. Always more.

I have fixed the holes in the walls.  Countless hours of labor consumed by delicate work.

Fill...Sand...Paint.

I have fixed the ones that are in ready view...the ones at eye-level...the obvious ones.

But there are more.

There are cracks in the ceiling.  Stains, as well.

Holes in the roof that let in all manner of waste and weather and wildlife.

Those holes remain.

They continue...they grow.

(They are, most would agree, not my responsibility.  But they are my burden.)

I know they are there.

I know there is erosion in the very framework.

I have fixed what I can of the obvious gaps...fixed that which others would easily see.

But the structural damage remains.

(The kitchen ceiling)

The holes in the very construction remain.  Out of sight...sometimes even out of mind...but there, nonetheless.  Impactful, nonetheless.  Burdensome, nonetheless.  Slowly and steadily eating away at themselves until they chew right through the walls and ceilings in more obvious ways.  Sure to suddenly reveal themselves only once it is far too late for damage control.

The holes remain.

Where this person ripped off a piece.

Where that person tore out a chunk.

Where someone else left without shoring things up.

The holes remain.

In him.

In me.

In this quirky, cantankerous life made up of spare parts and temporary fixes.

~Leanna

...it can stay, I don't have to - part 2...

Remember that time I wrote about The Wall?

Well, I did what I set out to do.

I stopped it from being the focal point, and went ahead and worked my way around it.

In fact, I jumped right on  that task the following day.

(Ikea to the rescue!)

We took our measurements, noting just how much room it was taking up.  Carefully lining up the tape to see how far it protruded into our space.  Top to bottom.  Side to side.  Deepest crevice to sharpest point.  The rock wall just sat there, immovable and implacable.   Up close and personal...noting each inch...I saw its ugliness.  Gray and brown rocks of no consequence or complemement.  Some glossy.  Others lusterless.   Dusty film adhered to that sticky coating of time or humidity or sealant...indeterminate.  I felt the crumbling plaster holding it together.  I saw chips in its grim face...where someone else-sometime else...must have tried to move around it or past it, and come up short.  The crash of one solid object into another...unyielding.  Fracture lines crazed around those chips...a testament to both its lifelong strength and eventual weakness.  

I saw its ugliness.

And didn't care.

Already, just by measuring it, I had rendered it defunct.

The Wall-In the Living Room-With the Measuring Tape.

I win! (Remember the game 'Clue'?)

We sprinted in the homestretch, down the corridors of Ikea.  Rounding each corner with purpose.  Eyeing up each shelf and cabinet...debating dimensions...focusing first on form, then on function.

Finally settling our sights on the one.  The Brusali cabinet, in white...

Discussed. Dissected. Decided.

Done.

Home we came with his new cabinet, my new office drawers (and more than a few other bits and pieces, because...Ikea?!?) and a concrete plan: he to organize, I to assemble.

It's fixed now.  The Wall.  Fixed in the spayed/neutered sense of the word.  Its there...sort of...but completely overshadowed.  There, but unnoticed.

The cabinet pulls the room together.  Brings order to the space.  Closed doors hide his toolboxes and supplies.  Shelves bear the weight of education...binders and files and textbooks organized, just so.   And high up on the top shelf, his current favourite Transformers hold court.

(The rest are banished to storage bins until we move!)

The room makes sense now.  It's ready for the life that happens in it.

The Wall is stopped.  I took it's place and made space from it...space for him.  

***The Wall is still there.  The Wall is still ugly.  But somehow, remarkably, it's nigh on invisible behind the sensible and serviceable piece that now stands before it...behind the life I built beyond it.

~Leanna

...it can stay, I don't have to...

        I am a compulsive mover.
        Self-diagnosed, but nonetheless true.
        I tire of my surroundings quickly.  I'm never wholly pleased with the way things are.  I constantly find myself picking things up and putting them down elsewhere...
        arranging...worrying on...then rearranging...
        Dishes, knick-knacks, furniture...nothing is safe or secure in my sightline.  If I could move the walls themselves, I likely would...and often!

       I've never understood how people can tolerate the static.  How they bring into their homes a piece of furniture or a decorative item and determinedly, decisively choose the very spot where it will live out the rest of its life.    And they dust it, or polish it, or vacuum around it and never once wonder if it might be happier...might be more comfortable...might be more pleasing....might be more useful...elsewhere.

         Maybe in that corner instead of this one?  Or up on that shelf, if this moved over and that was taken down?  Or....or...or???

        I wonder, as I sit down to write this, if it's my imagination that is the root of my compulsion.  My imagination that fills up the walls with possibilities.  My imagination that says "if ever this, then...." and tries to predict the arrangement based on all the foreseeable variables.

         Perhaps instead, it's my inner discontent.  Perhaps its an attempt to right the view when it's the viewer that is distorted. Perhaps the shuffle of stuff is nothing more than the sloughing off of what isn't working out.

         Or maybe, simply, it's just that I crave change.  That I want to grow and adapt without stagnating.  That I  want my very surroundings to reflect every new piece of information...every new interaction...every new sight, as it gets added to my story.

        Stop.  Redirect.  This wasn't what I sat down to write.  The "reasons why" wasn't the topic I had in mind.  I didn't mean to expound on the causes.

        It was the wall.
        It was the wall, this morning, that I looked at and furrowed my brow at...and, quite possibly, harrumphed at.
        It was the wall.

        The wall of rock that splits in half one side of the livingroom in our current home-base.  It's...decorative, I suppose.  I don't know that for sure.  Perhaps it's structural or load bearing or any number of other things I can't possibly understand.  But I think it's simply decorative.  Dark stones, stacked atop and amidst, sticky with some old attempt at shellacking.  Dusty, if you get close enough.  No matter how many times or ways I try to clean it, the dust just gathers there and I've never found the right tool to cleanse all the nooks and crannies.

        The wall just...is.  Glaringly so.  It's there...so solid and substantial that it can't be avoided.

        The Wall.

        See?  Bold and imposing and completely, wholly immoveable.  Even on the page.

        So here I am, this self-diagnosed compulsive mover, who rearranges the furniture every time that stressors bubble up.  Here I am, pushing and pulling and shoving and grunting...exercising and exorcising the irritation out.  This, no longer here.  That, no longer there.  Wait...no...maybe...no...  Scrap it all and start again.  Sweat the situation right on out of existence and flop onto the floor, ears ringing with the racing pulse and gasping breaths.
        Here I am, the mover and shaker of all the things...and there is the wall.

        The wall won't move.  The wall won't be shifted, ever so slightly, into the corner.  The wall won't be picked up and put where I want it.   The wall just is.

        And I have met my match.  Or so it seems.

        In all the years we've lived here I've never been able to sort it.  It's there.  And I'm here.  And everything gets rearranged around it.

       And for some reason, inexplicable to even me, I've never once been able to just...cover it.

       Even on the rare occasions when I've temporarily put a piece of furniture in front of it, it's still held sway.  It's still been the focal point and the furniture a mere interruption.

         So there I stood this morning, brow furrowed...coffee mug in hand...growl vibrating in my throat.  I stared at that wall.  I willed it out of existence.  I blinked and wished it to melt right down to the carpet.  Opened my eyes and there it still was.  The Wall.   I took a breath and felt my shoulders straighten.

         I decided.  Right then.  Right there.  Just like that...a shoulder shrug and I decided.

        Ignore it.

        Pretend it's invisible.  Pretend it's insubstantial.  Pretend it's irrelevant.

        Ikea, here I come.

        I've a boy who's growing faster than I can keep track of.  His physical body expanding upward and outward as his intellect grows exponentially.  I've a boy whose interests need substance, whose dreams need space to be realized.  I've a boy whose stuff needs room.  And that wall is in my way.

        So I'm bulldozing it out of my existence.  It can sit there all...substantial.  All...solid.   All...unmoving.  That's fine. I'll just move around it.  I'll just ignore it and put what needs to be in front of what is and just like that, stop it from being.  Stop it from stopping me.

        That wall has got to go.  I need that space for him.  And I aim to have it!

        *Sometime it really is just about the wall.
        **Sometimes, the wall is the one I accidently built with other peoples' expectations.

~Leanna

   

...tight squeeze...

Pop by our home unexpectedly and you're sure to find a mess...

Or three, purposely ignored in favour of fun.  Doubtless, there will be dishes in the sink and paperwork threatening to fall off the table.  If it's early on a weekend, I'll be unshowered and disheveled...tackling the "dirty work" in yesterday's castoffs.  There will be chaos.  You'll marvel to find me just barely balancing on one foot, while every other limb is doing it's own thing.  I like to think of it as a finely choreographed ballet in which one hand can sign off on med. forms and mail, while the other stirs the pot and the foot nudges things into their place.  In all likelihood though, it's probably more like a tornado. 

Pop by unexpectedly, and you'll find me multitasking.

You'll have to look harder though, to find Mister Man. 

Check the corners, the dark ones.  Or the furniture, underneath.

Boy...with a blanket...and a book...in a basket.
Of course!

 Because in our home, Autism is part of the design.  

Since he was but a wee little one, Mister Man has been wedging himself into small spaces.  Cardboard boxes, laundry baskets, dog cages...no enclosure hasn't at least been attempted.  A former friend in Ohio was moving and brought over a small bench she thought I might like for my entryway. We left it on it's side, heading to the kitchen for a moment for refreshments. Mister Man, never one to miss an opportunity, flipped it onto it's back and wedged himself into the bottom, there to chortle happily to himself when we returned.  The following day found him snug as a bug in that bench bottom, complete with a pillow, blanket, and sippy cup. I learned early on to stockpile boxes and bins. Friends with babies knew to drop off their bulk diaper boxes.  The stockboy at Kroger would save me cardboard milk crates.  And every trip to Aldi's netted at least a few empty cartons.  I made sure to keep duct tape in stock for repairs, and art supplies at hand for imagination transformations.  My living room was littered with airplanes and trucks and boats, all made from boxes and all suitable for just one passenger.  I learned to go with the flow.  And to guard my laundry baskets behind a locked basement door!  

Even when he's not in it...he's "on it".
Laundry basket lover!

If, on a morning in May, my son wasn't in bed when I groggily padded to his bedroom, I knew to check the hamper in the closet.  By June, I'd installed a nightlight in said closet.  I gated off the kitchen at one point, after someone emptied out all the contents of the refrigerator and then restocked it...with himself!  

We had a laundry chute that ran from the top floor down to the concrete basement.  I was ever-fearful that he'd become curious and try to wedge himself into the hole.  Thankfully, that never happened. Locks on the kitchen cabinets and oven were a must.  I bought the magnetic kind and then hid the magnet...so well, in fact, that we had to eat takeout for several days until I remembered it's secret locale! A burgeoning friendship with a gal I worked with came to a dead stop when my son locked himself in her dog's cage during a holiday dinner.  I was thoroughly non-plussed, but apparently it was all too much for her to handle.  

Just. Add. Postage!

With his eventual diagnosis came the marvelous new term "Proprioceptive Input"...the keyword in understanding Mister Man's ongoing obsession with small spaces.  He was, as I had suspected, finding some degree of comfort in an uncomfortable world.  The close-fit spaces he was so fond of provided him with calming sensory input.  And, moreover, gave him a safety zone in which to be himself.

Pop by unexpectedly and you'll find him, so long as you know where to look.  Check the laundry basket beside his empty chair.  Or the space right behind it.  Look on the bed, at that small huddled mass.  Or behind the cardboard sheet angled against the wall.  

Can't find a small space?
Will create one!

While you're visiting, note the spares...flat boxes I buy from home depot at $5 a pop and stockpile behind my dresser.  Lift the top off the ottomans and see where I filled them chock-full of Legos so there's no room for him to hide away inside.  

Home Depot boxes:the best gift ever!

Perhaps you'll see his spinning office chair, or see the portable spinner that can go atop any chair hiding under the kitchen island.  Proprioceptive input again.  Spinning and rocking and leaning...

Leaning to close for comfort.  The boy practically climbing onto-into me in restaurants and stores.

The boy all snuggled up in a full length winter-weight robe...at the breakfast table outside on a hot summer day.  I'll be the one perspiring in a tank and shorts.  The boy piling blankets on our laps at the open-air theatre, despite the heat and humidity...and the melting Mami.  

High 80's and humid as a swamp...
but just look at that smile!

Pop by unexpectedly and you'll see the chaos and the calm...the mess and the order...

Pop by and you'll see that this home of ours is an Autism home.  There's thought gone into every inch...from floor to ceiling, and every nook and cranny in between.  

...oh what a beautiful morning-to stare at a mess...

You know that line from Finding Nemo...

"Morning. It's morning, everyone! Today's the day! The sun is shining, the tank is clean, and we are gonna get out of...GASP!!!!

...yup, that one?

Here's my  version from this morning:

"Morning.  It's morning, everyone!  Today's the day!  The sun is shining, the windows are clean...

and crap, clean windows plus bright spring sunlight...gee whiz, would you like at the mess in here?!?

Let me tell you readers, nothing but nothing brings attention to a house in need of major spring cleaning like those first morning rays of springtime promises.  I can see every speck of dirt, every crumb the vacuum ignored and of course veritable mountains and valleys of legos all over the livingroom floor!  Consider whatever part of my insomnia-addled brain that was actually cheerful this morning promptly returned to sleep-mode now that I see what really lies before me. 

Spring may mean regrowth and fresh blossoms out in the natural world, but here in Casa Caffeinated it's looking more and more like box up and toss out time. 

With another move in the works for this summer it's definitely not absurd to be thinking of condensing once again.  But good gosh, it would have been nice to go an hour or two this morning without the visual reminder and dismal realization!

Time to start marking the boxes I suppose...keep, toss, flea market, pass-it-on's, craft supplies, etc...

I suppose that means another trip to Target for a few more crates.  I'm fairly certain that by the time we set up some permanent residence of sorts, Mister Man and I will have more plastic totes than we know what to do with...

...spring cleaning...

Over the last week or so my home has been undergoing renovations. No, not the large scale construction projects or one-room-at-a-time remodels. Ours has been much smaller and yet, at least in my eyes, just as major of a change. I even posted about it on Facebook! Now if that's not major... :)

So what's the change you ask?

Why, dishes, of course.

Dishes?!?

Yup, dishes.

Part of this single mom journey I'm on has meant holding on to things I might otherwise have wanted to get rid of, out of pure necessity. Things that emphasized the broken part of what has made my family. Things that held significant memories of a toxic marriage. Things that someone else had chosen. One of the good changes that came out of our move two years ago was the letting loose of some of those things. We had a huge garage sale. We listed things on Craiglist and on Freecycle. We found new happy homes for useful belongings. We filled the dumpster...several times over. And in the end I locked the door and walked to the U-Haul full of things we still needed.

So every morning for years now I've made my coffee and poured it into a blue mug...added water to instant oatmeal in a blue rimmed bowl...and shared dinner with my son on a blue plate.

Mind you, I like blue. I like blue a lot. I even joke that when people ask me what my favourite colour is I always say purple, but I should say blue...because that's what I generally buy.

But these blues...these tangible unyielding surfaces of blue...they belonged to a past I've struggled to grow out of. They were a symbol, of course, of a marriage that failed and that hurt me deeply. But more than that, they were objects that held memories...of a 'he and I' and how he chose them for 'us'. Even here in a new place all these years later I could go to take a sip and have a clear memory of him lifting the very same mug to his mouth. I could remember setting the table for dinner and how I hoped he'd like what I had prepared. And that little moment so easily could overpower me with images of how bad it became...the fear, the anger, the sorrow...

And yet, here in this new place I had made room in the cupboard for those dishes. I continued to reach for them in the morning...making my son's breakfast on a plate that the father he doesn't know chose. And finally, I just had it. The dishes had to go.

And GO they did...first onto the floor to smash into smithereens, then into the kitchen garbage...and soon thereafter to a dumpster. Gone. Just gone.

I can't explain how or why that little rebellion of disposal just freed something in me. But it sure did.

Of course, now I had thrown out the dishes. The DISHES!

Which meant...I needed to go buy dishes! Within a few days I had gone here there and everywhere in pursuit of new dishes. We ate a lot of takeout during those days! I finally settled on Bed Bath and Beyond and Mister Man assisted in the choosing. After all, these are the dishes that we are choosing for our family.

That night after Mister Man was tucked safely into bed with his own mis-matched pajama choice and his stuffies round about him, I went to work. I cleaned out the cupboard and scrubbed it bare. Carefully I lined up the new dishes and bowls and mugs and glasses. And then I stepped back. I'm fairly certain a sigh of contentment came next. There, in front of me, was a fresh start. A highly symbolic one, but oh so important.

The following morning I poured my coffee into an oversized mug...quite well suited to my caffeine addiction. I made my son's breakfast and plated it on a dish...with raised edges that help prevent some of his spills. I poured juice into a glass...with a heavy bottom that's hard to tip over. And I admired our choices as the Mister Man munched, crunched, slurped and gurgled before school.

I know it's crazy to put so much into a few simple dishes. But to me, just this once, the object was important. It's one step at a time, as it's always been. One change or lack thereof. One discard or one acquisition. But gradually, with the help of one opinionated little boy, I'm making a new life for us full of things and people and choices that are well thought out...

Curious? In the end we went with white...clean, pure white...in all kinds of funky, structural and free form patterns and pieces. We opted to mix and match among the pieces he liked and I liked. And I LOVE that we can keep adding in new things whenever necessity calls. After all, this life of ours is constantly changing...who knows what we'll need further down the line.

Besides...everything goes with white!

..let time gone be a bygone...

Can it really be so long that I have neglected this blog? Yes indeed, I know full it can...
For several months now we have lived something of a transitory life and until now I was without a home internet connection. Mind you, I could have taken the extra time to log in and update from someone else's computer...but honestly, I prefer blogging in my own space and time.
Last night we set up my home computer with a wireless connection...so fingers kept crossed...I ought to be able to maintain some semblance of regular updating! At some point in the next few days I hope to get some back-dates up and running and add a whole slew of photos from the past few months.

...homeward bound...

I know there are those of you...maybe two or three in all...who are wondering when I'm planning on getting back to blogging. Just a quick heads up then from me...we're still in transition with this whole moving thing and until we're settled in firmly in our new place, I'm not online often enough to blog.
Keep your fingers crossed!

...declarations of worthlessness...

So...
...we're moving...
Yup, I wrote it, therefore it must be true!
And let me tell you, this whole pack up your life in a box and go thing was much easier before the invention of mister man!
Our house is so full of stuff...good stuff, bad stuff, everything in between. And now I actually have to take hands-on ownership of said stuff and decide if it's worthwhile or not?!?
I'm thoroughly overwhelmed by the work I have created for myself in making this decision. The planning, the picking, the packing... Argh!!!!!
And the lists...oh my...the lists...
I am, by my own admission, something of a compulsive list maker. But now it might just be getting a tad bit out of control. Every friend and acquaintance who lives nearby now has a list in his or her name...of things I may just pass on to them. And then there's the Craig's List List, the Ebay List, the drop-at-thrift-store List, the Once Upon a Child List, the return to parents' List...etc...
And that's just for objects!
That doesn't included the lists of intangibles!!!
Oh my...I think I need to make a list of all my lists so I can keep track of them.

(PS-Can't I just make things easier on myself my lighting a match and walking away? After all, they do say 'the more things you own, the more you are owned by your things'...and I'm not a fan of being owned. Facebookers and Myspacers take note...I do NOT want to owned as human pet...so stop offering to buy me!)

...so in need of a groundhog day...

Wake up, grumble, grouch, repeat....
Ugh...today went downhill fast, though I'm still holding out hope that the afternoon will bring a miracle cure.
Getting caught in the shower fully soaped and shampooed...with no water...yup, that'll make a day turn grey right quick!
I'm trying desperately to get the mister man's appointments booked and failing miserably. Apparently all the 'cool' therapists are full up until fall. Niiiiice!
And to add the cherry on top...the mister man in his brilliance decided to purloin a jelly jar from the fridge and smuggle it up to his bedroom, where evidence suggests he not only ate it, he also fingerpainted with it!
Fun stuff!

...when it's worth the effort...

A friend of mine recently came to visit and brought me coffee. Now granted, it's kind of a no-brainer...the me-likey-coffee shtick. But still...I think it's pretty phenomenal, especially since it's Dunkin'Donuts whole bean.

So now, as I sit here with my freshly pressed steaming mug of joe, I'm wondering when is it okay to just say I deserve the good stuff? And more importantly, when is it ok to just throw out the poor quality substitute?

There's a lot of things in my life that can only be called substitutions...from the town house apartment we STILL live in which was supposed to have magically transformed into home ownership two years ago, to the canned veggies in the cupboard, to a good 90% of my wardrobe.

Yesterday we stopped by E's house on our way up to Sherritt's Market so the mister man could play with E and B for a bit. While there, we got to chatting about the rising gas prices (urgh!) and food costs...and then she said she'd finally had it. Had what? It! It-with the cheapo yard sale strollers that she'd been wasting money on all these years. (PS-she now has three little ones) It-with the fact that she's home going crazy with three strong willed kids all day and her husband thinks buying a $300 tool to dig a few holes in the back yard is worth it. And in a conspiratorial and slightly embarassed tone told me she had just put down $500 plus on a high end, all the bells and whistles double-stroller.

Hurrah for women everywhere!

Don't hold me to it...and don't throw it in my face, but I'll admit, I kind of sort of maybe want to read:


E was good enough to point out to me the fact that my parenting is directly affected by my own level of contentment and happiness...and if all I do and have goes straight to the kid, what am I left with to care for myself...

The upshot of all this...tomorrow we're headed to Trader Joe's to stock out cupboards with food that is both good and good for us...and yes, I'll be splurging on one thing JUST FOR MYSELF!

...what to do with my impromptu...

I'm ready to move...and yet I'm not.

That seems to have been the ever-present refrain of my life for the past four years now.

This solo journey of parenting and life in general can get quickly overwhelming as soon as I really start incurring changes. I feel like maybe it's a matter of taking the bandage off...just ripping things up really quickly and moving on before I get a chance to process the feelings. But on the flip side I worry that if I act to quickly I'll miss something or worse yet, make things difficult for my son.

I know we need to move...I've known it since the day I sat in the offices of legal aid filling out papework to file a restraining order against my spouse. And yet...four years later we're still 'just starting' the process. I worry all the time that no matter what decisions I make they will be the wrong ones...and it's that fear that keeps me staying put. The devil you know...

So this time I'm taking a new approach and covering all the bases. While I narrow down my search options for where to move to, I'm making sure to leave the doors open here. The mister man is re-enrolled in school for next year though I very well know that I don't want to be here next year. And at the same time that I'm locating a new school and new therapists for him, I'm making sure he's set up fully with services here. I'm redoing the interior of our home and downsizing our belongings even while I'm mentally packing things up. And yes, my head is spinning...

...winds of change...

I woke up this morning...again...to rain...and the great grey sky...and thought 'what happened to spring?". For the past two months the overwhelming majority of days has been damp and chilly. So I turn on the cd player and pop in Guster...'woke up today...to everything grey..." and dance around the kitchen making coffee.

As already noted, I've been lax in updating this blog lately...my mind has been elsewhere and my current insomnia means every time I sit down all I want to do is snooze...which doesn't make for exceptional writing...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

I was thinking the other day how it's funny that we really do let the seasons rule our lives. Fall ALWAYS means back to school...Winter ALWAYS means celebration and goal-making, Spring ALWAYS means renewal and re-assesment... And this year was no exception. Now that spring is here, albeit damp and grey, I'm tackling projects that symbolize renewal...priming and painting the home I shared with my ex-husband and laying to rest the ghost of mutual decisions...emptying the house of things that need to be replaced or are excess or have to many memories attached...and downsizing our belongings to suit the life we do have instead of the one I used to think we should have.

BTW...painting on ceilings is a sure way to wake up with upper arm cramps!

...march comes in like a lion...

Goodness, I've neglected blogging lately...

I've been busy with work and mothering and all that falls in between...and honestly, every moment online has been used multitasking as is...so there really wasn't opportunity to sit down and type out my ramblings.

We're halfway into March already, and as of yesterday it does seem that spring is peeking around the corner. My wind chimes are melodious in the breezes...I can hear them through the open windows downstairs. And the twittering birds in the morning more than makes up for a bad night's sleep.

How funny that there are still a few deep drifts of snow piled up in the parking lot. We had, at the very beginning of March, a "level three snow emergency" snowstorm...over two days and two feet of snow. Truly, winter's last and most ferocious blast.

I think I've officially determined that I am a spring/fall person...I have no use for the extremes of summer and winter, but the tranformative months hold me fast.Every day the view changes, every morning brings something new to the table.

Of course March brings on the need for spring cleaning also. Which is why yesterday I spent a good hour raking and bagging all the leaves off the patio and damning the maintenance men who seem to blow them under the patio walls on purpose. The mister man was an active participant also, using his dumptruck and bucket method to move the leaves from one area to another.

We'll be busy later drawing flowers on the windows with Crayola Window FX markers...and hoping the real flowers poke up their heads soon.

...spiderwebs and sleeplessness...

Once again I'm ashamed to log onto the blogger page and see when last I posted. It seems I keep getting caught up in these blog-free slumps, where days or weeks go by and never once do I sit down and organize my thoughts. Granted, that may be due to the lack of 'deep thoughts' currently swirling throught my grey matter...but really, when has this ever been a forum for deep thinking?!?

Since before Christmas I've been struggling with fairly massive sleep issues...ranging from heart-pounding, pulse-racing anxiety attacks at 3am to full on days without end insomnia. Perhaps the mister man is sucking the sleep out of me? He seems to be doing fairly well with the concept of 'a body at rest tends to stay at rest' and is actually up to five hours at a time of solid sleep. Amazing! Last year at this time it was only about two hours before he'd thrash about.

At any rate, the effects of my sleeplessness run the gamut from diminished thought capacity to full on clumsiness. The other day the mister man and I were walking through a mini-blizzard to the grocery store and I quite literally walked straight into a tree. Face...meet Bark. A quick recovery and appraisal of the vicinity to make sure I'd had no audience, and off we went...only to have the mister man then tell everyone we ran into that 'Mami runs things over'. Brilliant.

Spring may be slow in poking its head out...but that isn't quelling the urge for the annual spring clean-out. Note the fact that I use clean-out, not cleaning. Every year around this time I find myself ready to toss out half of the contents of my house, and start fresh. Financial concerns being what they are, this urge is usually stopped in its tracks right after the first gimcrack or thingamajig has been tossed into the dumpster.

I'm ready to repaint...and have been ready for quite some time. But with spring on the way and warmer weather just around the corner...I'll be able to open the windows and do so. Of course the first step is taking down all the pictures and nails...and finally getting at a few of the cobwebs. Apparently the spiders are foregoing the front entrance and it's clear 'Keep Out' sign.

And this above...this is what happens when I sit down to write and haven't yet had enough coffee. Apologies.

...sums and mores...

Ah Sunday...this past week is FINALLY dead and buried.
Having spent a good part of it sick and hurting, I'm more than ready to move on and enjoy some health and well being, not to mention wealth (as if!).
With the school year well underway, the round-up of weekly meetings is also in full effect. I'm thrilled to report that the mister man's IEP meeting this Wednesday was a raging success despite my having a 102 degree temp and an even more raging headache. Seems the genius child is wowing people left and right...and has met more than 50% of the goals we set for him last year! Rock on! His teacher was most impressed with all the hard work we did this summer and spoke glowingly of all his advances and new skills. And since it's his second year in this classroom, he's so the big kid on the block...senioritis anyone??? :) Seriously though, he's doing phenomenally well and is really skill building.
Related and yet not, I recently noticed that of all the kids my son plays with...he is by far the best behaved. Crazy, huh? He's the only autistic one in his circle of friends....which would usually equal major behavioural issues. And instead, in public, he's the one with the least. We've worked so hard on how to behave appropriately in society....it's awesome to know that it has paid off so well. He's a gentleman in the company of thugs! His little playmates run roughshod all over the place...and here he is saying please and thank you, cleaning up after himself and being a helper. Awwwww.... So I'm taking a moment to pat myself on the back and congratulate myself on raising a child with strong FAMILY VALUES in a SINGLE PARENT FAMILY!!!! Hahaha....
Speaking of family....the in-laws side was here yesterday for the semi-annual visit. We do get along much better now, so (insert some long, drawn out, mature sounding bit of garble). But...I still know full well that there is a need to protect both the mister man and myself and it's sometimes quite awkward. I ended up 'giving in' on one thing that I wish now I hadn't...but it's to late now. And just for the record, I don't like this 'day-after' emotional stir-up that comes from them talking about my ex!!!
There was also a more than healthy dose of attemptive-guilt-tripping done over our intention to move out of Ohio. For real??? Are you freakin' serious? What, we're gonna stay here in culture-hell because you show up twice a year to spoil my kid with material things? Or because my mother-in-law will miss us even though we see her a marginally better 4 or 5 times a year? She wasn't even the one complaining! In fact, she has more than once told me that she supports our need to get a fresh start in a place that suits us better.
End rant!
Ok, truth be told I do feel a twinge of the badness for ranting about them at all. It's not their fault we any of us are in this situation...that blame lies squarely on ex's shoulders. But I just don't like the way they've chosen to deal with it. At some point in life you just have to take a moral standing and figure out what issues you support and which you don't. And if someone has abandoned his child, don't take his side in front of that child's mother. Or make it your personal crusade to do his dirty work for him.
Must. Stop. Now. Else I'll get grouchy all over again!

...shallow thoughts from a deep mind (or the reverse)... (crosspost)

September is drawing to a close, and after a brief spat with cool weather, we've warmed up again, and my tank tops and I both wish the warmth would last till November. I miss those mild autumns of my childhood, when come Halloween one did not have to wear turtlenecks and long underwear under costumes. Of course someone somewhere is laughing loudly...as it's more than common knowledge that I sport the jeans/tank-top combo all year long!
The mister man will be representing the Batman this Halloween...and has already begun getting into character. At least twice a day we enter stages where I am only allowed to refer to him as Bruce Wayne. I've known now for a while that his obsession had moved from Spiderman to Batman, and it was luck indeed that found me a thrift store goldmine in a $0.90 costume that includes both cape and mask/hat/bat-ears. Rock on! Now all I need for him is black slacks and turtleneck and he'll be good to go. I, on the other hand, am still spinning my wheels in regards to my own costume.
I've rearranged my entire home (or so it seems) and the upshot is that for the first time in years I am actually getting real sleep! Yay me! Could this mean those dark circles under my eyes are a thing of the past? *cross those fingers* Additionally, the mister man now has a defined room for play/therapy and I have a defined place to put him when quiet-time NEEDS to happen.
I find it funny in a sad way that nearly every blog/group/organization online that is Autism related devotes 99% of its energy to 'in-house' fighting. So much for support and community. I liked how Jenny McCarthy said 'my son is my science' or some such sentence. That's just how I feel.
I love the very beginning of each season...as it inspires me to get cooking. It's really the only time I get down to using all those seasonal recipes that I fanatically cut and paste. Fall has me dreaming of apples and squashes and soups. But I know before long I'll be back to my old standards.
Having never had cable, I don't really know what I'm missing...but can it be any worse than 'The Bachelor'. Hurling wads of crumpled-up paper at the tv does not ,in fact, cause the contestants to check their desperation at the door. Do other people change the channel out of embarassment or am I the only one?
Speaking of TV, why do I turn it on for background ambience? At the end of the day when the mister man is finally off in dreamland, I usually settle down on the sofa with a good book and a warm cup....and turn on the tv. Maybe it's the flicker? Or the garbled voices when the volume is a step away from muted?