...just words...

I feel as though the worst part of any routine comes with trying to pick it back up again, once you've let it drop. I can't even begin to count the number of times that I have wanted to write something on this blank page...and then talked myself out of it.  I am, after all, a master of insecure self-talk...so it should come as no surprise that as often as I think of writing, I also think 'I've nothing worth saying that anyone wants to read'. 

So I've kept to myself and let the routine lag.  Instead of blogging, I've spent fall and winter curled up with pen and paper whenever the mood hits and the mind quiets.  These many months that have gone by have been filled with scribblings in a notebook instead of ramblings on the blog.  Because you see, whether it's good or bad or not worth the time it takes to read, I still feel the urge to write it out.  

Write it out.

I quite like the way that expression sounds. 

Write it out. Right it out.  

And maybe that's why I do it. Maybe the writing is the righting.  My chosen way of making sense of things.  Of coming to terms with the cards I'm dealt. Of accepting challenges. Of understanding defeat.  Of learning from my mistakes and shifting a bit so as not to repeat the pattern. 

It's as though any moments of wisdom are too ephemeral unless taken out of the mind and put on paper.  As though lead and ink give them substance...give them life.  In a world where information travels faster than light and one is constantly barraged with additional or extraneous input, writing it out  gives thought an anchor. 

Likewise, memory.  So much information to compartmentalize. So many items on the to-do list.  So many irons in the fire…racing from one thing to the next without time to process.  Write it out.  Put words to the time and space.  A notation on the calendar, or a scribble on a piece of scrap paper.  A grouping of meaningful, well-thought-out words that trigger the remembrance.  

I want to remember.  Preferably, I want to remember but not have to experience again.

 I want to be able to read through the previous chapters of my own unfinished story with the generosity and sympathy for that under-construction-girl-I-was, that comes with age or distance or experience.  That ability to look at past mistakes and feel instead of shame, understanding of how very easy it is to trip and fall.  I want to be reminded of where I was. Of how far I've come.  Of how those choices were right in their time and space but maybe wrong within the bigger picture.  Of why sometimes they weren't choices at all, but inevitable and unavoidable steps.   I want to be reminded that no matter how much I change, I equally stay the same.  That I can make better choices but the previous ones formed part of me.  That I can, at any given moment, be both the woman I am today and the girl I was then.  That the voice of each age I've been still resides within me.   I want to be kinder and gentler to the girl that I was, then I was with myself when I was she.  And I want the previous words that I've written to serve as a reminder to be gentler to myself in the here and now.

So I right it out by writing it out.

I've never been quite sure of whether it's 'I write because' or 'because I write'. 

Down for the count...

Another week come and gone, and here it is Friday once again.  

It's been a mess of the week here for us.  Mister Man goes through cycles (I refer to them as A(autism) and B(better) days)  periodically, based on all sorts of sensory triggers.   On B days, we're out and about, busy as bees.  But on A days we're just barely getting to the basics.  He becomes extremely emotional, often times very depressed… and has major sleep disturbance issues and problems with daily functions.  Often times these periods hit with little to no warning, and then it's just a matter of hunkering down and getting through it.  On rare occasions I can see it coming…my Mami  senses start tingling!  And of course 10 years in, I know there are certain triggers which are guaranteed to set him off.  

One given is any sort of extreme temperature.  Here on the East Coast the weather has been horrendous...humidity and heat are the defining characteristics of an East Coast summer, but this past week has been off the charts.  Air as thick as pea soup...allergens enough to be visible...and the temperature, oh, the temperature.  Step outside and boil from the inside out!   Even with the air conditioner running 24/7 on full blast, the inside of our home has maintained above 85° day and night.  Mister Man is miserable, dysfunctional and whimpery...and my bag of tricks is proving inadequate.  

Homeschooling this week has been a joke. It's accomplished little more than make us both even more ornery than we were to begin with!  One positive note in all of this is that last week we finally made it through our chapter on division, and one little boy is absolutely delighted to be done with it!  While he generally loves math, and is very advanced and capable, let's just say long division involving hundreds and thousands is not his forte!  This week we've moved onto rounding and estimating reviews, and decimals.  One new strategy I am trying this homeschooling session is allowing him to use the iPad for his creative writing.  Handwriting has always been a problem for him. Rather then waste the time that it would take for him to handwrite out a short story (an excercise in futility) it makes much more sense to me to allow him to use the microphone feature and create a word document.  We can tackle the writing dysgraphia in other ways, without interfering with the creative process.  Of course the microphone presents problems in and of itself.  Because he tends to speak quietly and not very clearly, the microphone transcription has written some very interesting babble.  So in that regard, using the microphone is almost like a speech-therapy session. He has to work extra hard at enunciating his words and speaking in concise sentences.  And he has to think out what he wants to say in advance, before pressing the button.  The first few days using this method were definitely challenging, but I feel as though we are progressing nicely.  His current story is really filling out quite well.  

As for me, my allergies have been wreaking havoc on my whole system.  About eight or so years ago I started getting this strange eye swelling thing. The very first time it happened I woke up in the morning and my eye was swollen shut. It looked as though there was a golf ball behind my eyelid.  The whole thing itched like crazy and it looked as though all the fluid in my tear ducts just backed up.  Over the course of the next few hours the swelling went down completely.  In the months following, this continued to happen about twice a week. Coming on overnight and disappearing in a few hours.  I tried allergy eyedrops, and even tried changing the allergy prescription I take every day. But to no avail.  About a year in, I noticed that it was happening less frequently but the symptoms were lasting longer.  And before the swelling set in, the area around my eyelid would itch horribly.  Fast forward to present day, and now it happens much less often, but the symptoms stick around for days. And instead of my just noticing it affecting my eyes, it seems as though my whole body is having an allergic reaction.  Years ago when this first started happening, Mister Man told me I looked like a one-eyed snake monster...because clearly it was incredibly disfiguring.  What can I say?  That description stuck in my mind. So now every time it happens, I not only feel unwell but also have that phrase running through my head!  Talk about feeling insecure!

Hoping for a weekend reprieve...

~Leanna

Full steam ahead!

How can it be that July has snuck up on us so quickly?  

The ringing of the last bell on the last school day of the year always seems to me to be the start of a race...a few short days of June to frantically prep and plan and then two altogether too-short months before school reasserts it's control over our lives.  If you happen to follow me on Pinterest then you know full well how many grand "plans" I have...and two months is barely time enough to make a dent!  

Summer vacation means two things in our little family...fun and hard work.  

The fun is easy enough...Mister Man is my favorite person to hang with whether poolside or picnicking, adventuring or lazing! Being able to stop-drop-and watch as he experiences new things or delights in little pleasures is  amazing to me.  It's that notion that his experience of life is so very different and yet so very similar to mine that just boggles my mind!  One of my favorite activities just about anytime of year happens whenever we are snuggled up on the sofa reading. At some point along the way when he doesn't notice I'll look up from my own book and just watch his face as he's reading along in his own book.  You can see the whole story play out on his features…this innocent, unrestrained, intense emotional reaction to the written word and imagination.  It's like a little dose of refreshment in this all together manicured, planned out world we live in where people moderate not just the expression in their voice but the expression on their faces as well.  

{ In my son at 10 years old, there is still a bounty of unguarded moments where true emotion shines through.  Full open-faced delight at the playground...shoulder-slumping disappointment...scrunched up worry, and oh, the sparkle in those brilliant blue eyes!   If it were only so simple a matter as wishing, I would wish that he always retain each and everyone of those expressions! }

Excuse the digression...

The fun, as I wrote, is easy enough. I've stocked the calendar with a veritable feast  of daytrips and crafts and summer activities.  Because the one larger vacation that I planned for this summer has now doubled (if not tripled!?!)  in price, the rest of our summer trips will have to be much more budget friendly then I had previously planned.  Luckily, we've got this whole budget thing down.  If there's one thing this little family of mine knows how to do right, it's how to make fun affordable.  I tell you, I firmly believe that the world's best financial planners are the single mothers! Why, we know how to extract every single cent out of a dollar and make it work!  That whole national debt thing? Assemble a team of single mothers to tackle it, and I can assure you they'll iron all the kinks out! :) 

As for the hard work, that's the challenge for both Mister Man and myself.  While  I supplement his public school education year-long with a dose of homeschooling, that ramps up into overdrive when summertime hits.  Those previously mentioned last few days of June?  I spend them running around like a chicken with its head cut off looking for all the supplies I'll need for our Summer/Homeschool, assembling lesson plans and reward charts, creating hundreds of worksheets and assignments, and repurposing the dine-in kitchen as a fully equipped classroom.  

Despite the school's staunch refusal to allow Mister Man to skip forward a grade or two, I have chosen to be "that sort of mother " who continues to challenge her child.  The grim reality is that my son's educational needs are not being addressed within the public school system during the course of the school year.  Because of his autism diagnosis and the social and communication issues that come alongside, I had chosen to hold him back from entering  kindergarten for an extra year in hopes that all the therapies and skill building would help him better adjust  to the demands of a typical main-stream schoolday when the time came.   While I still hold that this was the best decision in many ways, it has certainly come at a cost.  Mister Man is extremely bright…far more so then I.  His inherent intellect is but one facet of the greater problem with his school.  I think it far  more reasonable to assume that it is his curiosity and his love of learning that makes it so difficult for him to stay focused in a classroom that is meeting the needs of the lowest average.  Granted, the school does provide two honors programs, one in math and one in   science.  So at least every once in a while he gets out of the classroom and into a smaller group where the students are at the same level that he is.  But for the most part his schooldays are made up of nothing more than busy work. Copying over the same information that he learned two years prior on his own or at home with me.  

Come fall he'll be entering the fourth grade at school.  But by summer's end if all goes as planned,  he will probably have mastered sixth-grade math, science, and reading comprehension.  And written more than his fair share of "Henry stories" to boot!  

The challenge for me is always finding ways to continue to interest and challenge him.  He gets easily bored if we go over one lesson to many times.  It's as though his brain is akin to a computer… it takes in nd all the information the first time, all the tools and all the rules and new data...and builds a permanent file.  So once he's gotten the concept and gotten it right, to him it's a waste of time to go back over again.

And then there's that tricky aspect of creative writing.  It's fair to say that this is the area of Mister Man's greatest struggle.  It's not the writing that presents the problem per se, it's the necessity to draw from his imagination and create something new, rather than relying on fact and figure.  And I myself have difficulty comprehending his difficulty, because I see him draw from his imagination and create something new in all these other areas of life but somehow there's this stopgap when it comes to putting pen to paper or finger to keyboard. 

Sometimes the simple approach really is the best approach. And nowhere has this showed itself to be more true than when it comes to my son and his struggles with creative writing.  It's a lesson I learned the hard way, after having created all sorts of original documents dealing with the writing process and writing prompts.  One after another, those worksheets were met with anxiety and frustration and finally a sense of failure.  Finally, the light went on. I made the simple suggestion that he try writing a story about his favorite stuffed animal...the beloved and quite more...Henry the raccoon.  

And yes, it was that simple.

To this day the stories continue.  The adventures of this little furry buddy are vast and unending.  He is limited only by the imagination of his doting owner.  

What a lucky mother I am to have these years' worth of pages to cherish far into the future.  From awkward scribblings in kindergarten to concerted block type print from last summer...it's a whole history captured on page.  I've no doubt the adventures dear Henry goes on this summer will far surpass the ones of previous years.  And in years to come I will probably be able to see little bits and pieces of our summer as reimagined and rewritten for Henry to experience literally.  

Wearing all the hats can at times feel monumentally overwhelming.  My single mom story reads like a whole cast of characters...mother, teacher, therapist, friend, father, disciplinarian, taskmaster, example, comforter...the list is endless.  To define myself in the simplest of terms, I must be all things at all times for this one person.  And that can be overwhelming, and stressful, and confusing.  It can be exhausting and frustrating and disappointing.  I can feel like I'm succeeding in one moment and failing the next.  And that's not even taking into account all the sleepless nights when I am busy covering all the bases.  

But if there's one thing I want you to know about all of this, it's this one bold truth:

It is all worth it. 

He is worth it. 

Not quite a year...

It's when writing becomes a chore, that I no longer see it's value.

Oh, this poor blog...so oft abandoned by it's author...  Only to be picked up sporadically in fits and starts.  

It's as though I've waged a full-scale rebellion, against the rules I set for myself!  Rather than attempt to adhere to my own set schedule of writing things out, I've thumbed  my nose in the air and said, "Ha! I just won't write anything!"  

(Self defeating, much?!?) 

What happens when you rebel against your own creative outlet?  Rather than feeling a lessening of responsibility, or sense of freedom from "the schedule" (both of which I assumed, yes, Ass-u-me-d I'd feel), the passing days-then weeks-then months became an all out denial of any creative thought.  Having stopped writing was as much as saying "I've nothing worth writing about" as it was a daily mantra that I am not worth my own time and thought and words.  Rather than letting the words assemble themselves on the page, I tucked away all those thoughts and feelings that ran through my mind and focused on pushing through and accomplishing for others.  

The glaringly obvious fact here is that if you are a creatively based person and you willingly deny yourself creative outlet, over time you slowly begin to lose those bits and pieces which inherently make you who you are.  Nowhere in my life is that more obvious, then in regards to music. Most everyone who knew me when I was younger thought of me within a framework of musical terms.  Such a large part of my daily existence was devoted to musical expression that I think no one could ever have imagined a time when singing did not dominate my life.  I run into people every now and again who knew  me when I was younger, and without fail am asked what I'm doing musically.  

Stomache-clenching moment...

Followed by self-denial (it's not important...motherhood is my focus) 

Barely perceptible…their eyes will widen, their smiles will freeze…the internal workings blaring out "Does Not Compute"...when I quietly tell them I don't sing-dance-act anymore. 

It's as though because my soul was broken I could no longer sing and because I know longer sing my soul has become empty...

Motherhood has filled my time, my heart, my mind… Not only because it could but because I willed it so.  The distraction that conscious parenting can provide more than suited my need to step back from exploring my own creativity.  What's distressing and embarrassing is that I like to think of myself as one who doesn't shy away from any challenge, and yet here for almost a year I have purposely done just that.  Daily avoiding the blank page...

And quite effectively avoiding just as frequently, my own internal dialogue.  

I have been busy, it's easy to say. Busy with the task of being busy.  Busy avoiding setting aside a quiet time to sit with my own thoughts.  And busy is a very easy way to be when you are trying to avoid something.  Each and every one of us is more than capable of filling every moment of every single day with all sorts of "need to be done" tasks, no more so then when avoiding something we know we ought to be doing. I imagine it's the very idea that the term "busywork" is founded upon.  

What have I been doing while all this time has passed? Busywork!

...beyond the pale...



Everyone dreams.

The kings and queens, the migrant workers...the average caffeinated confessor.

Everyone dreams.

And for the most part every one of those dreamers wakes to a reality quite different from the fluff and fiction in dreamland.  The dreams of youth vanish into the ether of adult responsibilities.  The dreams of newlyweds alter as romance meets reality.  The dreams of mothers-to-be mildew with soggy diapers and spit-up-stains.

 And somewhere along the way the dreams begin to change.  The young adults begin to dream of home-ownership or promotions.  Newlyweds dream of vacations to capture those lost moments of romance.  Mothers concoct daydreams of uninterrupted sleep, or sipping coffee while it's still hot. 

The dreamers remain...though their dreams may fade and dim...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When we are young we plan for the future...or so we think.  We announce to curious relatives what we want to be when we grow up.  We proclaim to guidance counselors what our passions are.  We make lists of our youthful strengths and weaknesses.  We choose schools based on who we think we are...at 17.  And very often, we have it all figured out before it can even begin to exist. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Growing up as an adoptee certainly impacted my sense of self and identity.  I did not have genetics at my disposal.  I couldn't look to my mother to see where my skin-colour came from...or find in my father my scrawny build.  Rather, I was afloat.  If someone picked on me for my large nose or pointed out my dusky complexion, I had no defense.  There wasn't a 'team' behind me of relatives with the same bony elbows or long toes.  This odd assortment of genetic particulars that made up a whole me was wholly unrelated to anyone around me. 

How I longed to be an average.  If I could but blend in... 

And I was curious.  Curious but unwilling to admit it.  Curious, but not wanting to ask...for fear of hurting the feelings of those who had raised me...for fear of seeming ungrateful... 

So I kept that curiosity silent.

The summer after my senior year I met my birth-mother.   I met half-siblings.  But that's another story.

This story is about what happened when the curious girl grew up.  Because this story is mine, not theirs. 

I married young...comparatively.  The majority of my friends from high-school and college are still unattached.  Single and childless.  I jokingly describe myself as being on an accelerated path...first to marry, first to parent, first to... 

Clearly if you've been reading along this blog of mine you know how that chapter ended.  The new chapter is Single Motherhood. I'm not sure if that's a chapter...or the whole book.  Perhaps what went before was simply the introduction.  At any rate, that's my moniker these days...Mrs. Single Mami.  And it fits.  As the parent of a special-needs child I've knowingly and willingly made the choice to delay my own life in favour of being hands-on.  Gone are the dinner dates and girls-night-outs.  For now the payoff is more than worth it.  My son's autism diagnosis has gone from the grim and gruesome "Severe"  to "High-Functioning" in recent years.  We've developed quite the team...the two of us against whatever comes our way.  "Go Team W.!"

But this life...all of its challenges and rewards...has come at a price.  The dreams I had as a young adult, a newlywed and a mother-to-be have hit the recycling bin in order to create this piecemeal existence.  There are little bits and pieces here and there that I can still almost identify.  But the daily grind has done its job admirably...polishing out the unnecessary and unattainable. 

Until, that is, someone or something comes along to remind me of an old dream. 

It seems this past year that the universe at large is conspiring against my created peace of mind.  Time and again I'm reminded of who I was and what I wanted when I got married.  That whole curiosity thing?  Rears it's ugly head again. 

Because you see, what I wanted desperately was family.  Lots of family.  A way of making up for growing up without.  I wanted more children.  Not just one.  Not just this solo solitary one.  I wanted a whole house-full of rambunctious little people with my dna stamped all over their faces.  I wanted to see what I was made up of imprinted in the little children I dreamt of.  I wanted a daughter...at least one...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm content...for the most part...with this one child.  He's just miraculous enough to fill my mind and push out all those other dream-children.  And the reality of him easily outweighs the fantasy of any others. 

I'm the first to declare that this may be the limit.  This good may be the best there is.  This may be the whole book. 

But time and again, someone will come along and suggest or hint or ask..."Don't you want more?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Playing on a two-man team,

~Leanna

...clean slate...

and I, for one, am thoroughly done with not being enough!

ready...

set...

Jump!

Here I am...back again once more...not that there's anyone left still reading to have noticed my return after such a prolonged absence.  This blog's been on mute for far to long I'm sure.  Why just look at the preceding post.   January 6th.  January 6th?  And here it is, Friday the 13th...of July!  Clear evidence to support the claim that once you fall out of the habit of doing something routinely (exercise, education, etc... blogging) it's so very much more difficult to take it back up again. 

(my calves wholeheartedly agree...as I've been attempting to regain my prior flexibility as part of my personal summer fitness challenge)

The thing about writing...particularly in a public forum...is that if you force it to adhere to a set of guidelines (even if you yourself created those very guidelines) , eventually not only do you begin to lose your own unique voice, but also the actual creative desire.  I've spent my life writing, so far as I can recall.  Scraps of paper, to full-blown journals ~ classroom assignments to unfinished novels ~ published poems and short stories ~ to books I've written for my son.  And years ago...this...  And it's this that has proven to be a struggle.  It's an awkward pull between authenticity and privacy, open-ness and embarrassment.  And of course, in this corner of the world called blogging...a raging inferiority complex.  

I'm fairly certain (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) that the majority of readers here at Confessions of the Caffeinated are, in fact, people who know me...IRL.  And while it's all well and good that y'all are reading along...the truth is, most of this was never meant for you.  This...this little corner of my world...was for someone else...or someone elses...  Why read here what you could converse with me about...face to face or over the phone?  At some point, this blog of mine grew up and out from simply being a place to update those I already knew with pictures and blurbs...to a solitary corner in which to 'write myself out'...and finally into something of an open-ended conversation with an unknown audience. 

Of course, that's just about when I threw in the towel.  Because you  see, when you go from 'writing yourself out' ~ from that vital surge of creativity that simply needs to find an outlet ~ to the ridiculous aspiration of tailoring your words to suit the unknown entity of an audience of strangers, you may as well throw in the towel ~ because you've already lost what you were after.  

It's trite and saccharine...but true nonetheless...

I am unique.

 I'm not content with simply being more of the same.

Embracing your own unique style...whether that applies to writing or clothing or life...is, I think, something of an uphill battle against the message of conformity and desire for acceptance.  In order to live the life that is your own and not just walk in the footsteps of others,  you have to get in the practice of thoughtful intent...carefully assessing whether your desire to do something stems from your own inner wish or an external pressure to do as the masses do. 

Finding yourself is, I believe, the one true lifelong quest for the holy grail... 

Ever moving, ever changing, ever just beyond reach...

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in action,

~Leanna

...any day can be {the day}...

Fallen leaves litter the ground...crunching satisfactorily underfoot and painting the landscape in muted browns and golds.  A season's change...nature running it's course...  Nothing in life escapes the inevitable.  Love or heartbreak, despair or joy, moments that flit and those that drag on...meanwhile time marches on and seasons change.  And one can become so ensnared...so caught in the slow-motion that only the seasons changes signal time is passing.

This blog has lain dormant these many months as my slow-motion storm raged. 

I had met my wall...the inevitable moment when it was simply to much. 

And that's ok. 

It happens to us all.

It's even ok to admit it.  To step back.  To say, 'I'll be back later'...'maybe'...

And now my maybe is here. 

Maybe it's ok to step back in slowly...

Maybe I don't have to approach this as an added {responsibility}...

Maybe I can write something today...without promising to do so again-anytime-ever...

Maybe the only reader that matters is my future-self...

Maybe being a work in progress holds greater value than being a success...

I made a choice recently...to mindfully-steadily work at living a life of action, not reaction.

This is new...this idea that I can wake up one morning and shape the day as I see fit...ignoring the outside...dismissing the rules...

I can stop trying to be that which I was never intended to be.

And I can finally...at long last...close a door I so long refused to see as open...and walk away.

I'm turning my eyes ahead...the rest now lies in shadows...