My Take On Bird Box (Warning: Spoilers)

So, the Bird Box.

I see lots of posts of how wonderful it is, and lots of posts wondering what the hype is.

I’m a horror movie and book aficionado, and I fall into the “what’s the hype” camp, so thought I’d give my thoughts on it.

To begin with, most horror movies are awful. They fall into the “slasher film” subcategory, and they have unbelievable plots and often are just excuses to show people having sex, because that is always who gets killed.  When a decent one comes along, that is about the fear and suspense and not the sex and blood and gore, I think everyone thinks it’s the greatest movie in comparison to the slasher films.  I believe that is where the “hype” comes from.

Not that I don’t think it was a good movie, I just don’t think it was THAT good.  It does actually have the foundation that comes from good literature, which is the story being multi-layered:  The main level being the story that is being told, and the underlying level, which has some kind of sociological or psychological meaning.  This is not surprising, as the movie was based on a book, but like most adaptations, I think it probably lost some of it’s underlying level in the translation to film (and the ending itself is supposedly different than the book).  The movie DID make me interested in reading the book.

Sociological or psychological meaning, you ask?  Yes, read Stephen King and really think about the stories, and you’ll see it.  Notice I said READ.  This is because, unless King himself produced it, his stories lose not only parts of the underlying level, but sometimes the whole thing when being adapted to film.  My favorite horror movie of all time is The Shining, but not the Stanley Kubrick version that was in theaters.  It had thrill, suspense, and the wonderful talents of a maniacal Jack Nicholson.  It did have it’s own underlying theme, however, it was not King’s theme.  I have read that he absolutely hated the film because of that.  He later adapted it himself, as a TV miniseries.  His underlying level really shines through on that one, there is no mistaking that the whole story is about the horrors of alcoholism.  This version is my favorite, with the Kubrick version being my second favorite horror movie of all time, and it’s because of the much more subliminal fear factor to it.  I actually didn’t have a glass of wine for weeks after that!

Back to the Bird Box.  I’ve been reading some other amateur interpretations online, and while not all quite the same, they all seem to agree with the same thing I got from it….it’s about facing our biggest fears, our demons, and for the character played by Sandra Bullock, that was the fear of being a mother.  The details get a little harder to decipher though, and I think that it some of the stuff that got lost in translation.  The only person in the movie we really saw overcome her fear was Sandra’s character, but she did it in a roundabout way, “blindly” having faith that she could be saved from the demons, she never stared it right in the face (get what I’m saying here? 😉)  Those that did face their fears directly, they killed themselves, so….I’m not sure what that is trying to say, but maybe it is about having faith, leaving your fate in the hands of an unseen being (the voice on the radio), and not trying to do it all on your own?  The mentally ill people that did not have to be blindfolded, like many others think, I agree that is because they’ve already come to terms with their demons, they’ve been living with them all along.  And the birds…well of course they can sense demons, all animals have a greater sense at “seeing” the unknown than humans do because we overthink everything. The movie does leave a lot to think about, and that is why I’m interested in the book!

As far as “scary,” I didn’t really find it to be scary.  It’s not appropriate for a young child, but it really didn’t invoke the fear feeling in me.  It is more of a psychological thriller than a horror movie, but then again, so are many of Stephen King’s stories.  The movie “A Quiet Place” released this year had the same sort of apocalyptic theme, where you had to sacrifice one sense to survive, but I found that one to be more in the scary realm.  I wouldn’t say it was a better movie, but if you are looking for the fear factor, you’ll find it more in that one.

And, so, bottom line, I think it was a good movie.  I don’t think it was a movie that is on par with the greats like The Shining, or the Star Wars movies, or Gone With the Wind, or even the original Die Hard.  I think it worth watching, maybe even worth watching again to try to understand more of the underlying theme, but I don’t think it was so good that there are endless social media posts and blogs about it, including this one that no one will read!  And, so, it will probably win some Oscar because that is just what happens when I don’t think something is Oscar-worthy.

That's why they have wine.  Have a glass and relax while watching the movie.

Santa Is Real

Santa.  The beloved name many of us grew up with, a man who generously brought everyone gifts in a mysterious, magical, impossible way every Christmas Eve.  A legend who consumed thousands of pounds of cookies and cocoa and milk to fuel him through it.  The representation of hope for millions.

Santa.  The now controversial idea.  The story that we will not perpetuate lest our children think we are liars.  The mythical man that steals our credit for getting Joey and Susie exactly what they wanted.  The discriminatory jerk who doesn’t appear at homes whose religions do not celebrate the holiday he appears on.  The oblivious fool who doesn’t realize that he is bigoted against those with less means.

Santa.

In this house, Santa is real.  In this house, Santa is the embodiment of the spirit of selfless giving without the need for credit.  He is hope, magic, generosity, and love.

I don’t have little children.  I have a 17 year old son and a husband.  Santa fills all our stockings somehow every year, and those of the pets, and no one says it’s anyone else.  Santa buys things for children in need, with my own child as his elf helper in picking out toys, and never gets to see their happy faces when they open it.  Santa donates to causes that benefit a myriad of our population, without needing a “thank you.”  Santa is a spirit that is alive and well here.

When my son was young, Santa brought all the toys.  All of them.  Mom and dad gave underwear and pajamas, and still do.  As the desire for toys stopped, the presents lessened, but there are always stocking treats and small gifts, as long as you believe and embrace the spirit.  I guess that’s why the adults and pets here get stuff too.

I’ve never had the “Oh no, my child found out there is not a Santa!” moment.  I’ve had the question if he is real, with the answer of “If you believe, he is real.”  There’s never been another doubt, and never a mention that Santa doesn’t exist.  There’s not been a crisis that I’ve lied to my child, because I haven’t.  I’ve just taught him the magic of giving.

The Santa at our house, he is open to anyone, of any religion or financial situation that wants to participate.  He doesn’t discriminate, he doesn’t try to show anyone up, and he doesn’t choose to not exist because someone else may not believe.

That’s why they have wine.  In some houses, Santa may prefer that over cocoa!

I Forgot My Toddler Was In The Car

Sadly, we read incidents of small children left in hot cars on too regular of a basis.  The usual response, not surprisingly, is not actually one of sadness, but one of outrage, one of placing the parent or caretaker in the realm of serial killers or perhaps of even Satan himself, one of “Well, I WOULD NEVER do that.”

But is that the correct response? 

A typical comment I see on news articles is “People don’t forget their cell phones, but they forget their child!”

Let me start by saying I leave my cell phone in the car all the time.  ALL THE TIME.  I’ll need to make a call for work and realize I have no clue where my phone is, after working for a couple of hours.  My 17 year old, he finds it hilarious that I have first, an alert on my work calendar to remind me to pick him up from school, and second, and alarm on my phone to tell me when it is his bedtime.  I can’t even describe the laughter when I don’t get the bedtime alarm because I left my phone in my car.  He finds it hilarious because he has ADHD, so completely understands being so involved in something else that your mind sort of one-tracks, and he likes to tell me I must have it too (and maybe he is right!).  What he doesn’t think is that I’m a bad parent for this, he knows how much I love him, how much I’ve fought for an appropriate education for him, how I am ALWAYS there, be it 2 am, if he has an issue and needs help.  He knows that he is a miracle baby, MY miracle baby that I thank God for everyday, born prematurely while upside down and backwards and with the cord around his neck and that my doctor didn’t think he was going to be alive…

But you know what I did one day when he was 3?  I forgot to drop him off at daycare.

A week earlier, we had switched him from a daycare a couple blocks from home to a daycare a couple blocks from my office, in rush hour time that is a 50 minute difference for a 12 mile drive when there are no accidents.  That morning, I had an argument with my husband and was stressed out over a high priority issue I was working on at my job, and I had not slept well with the stress.  The drive was worse than usual, and I was running late for work and worrying about that.  If it had been my set routine to drop off my child at daycare right before work, without a doubt I would have pulled in to that parking lot while running on autopilot.  But it wasn’t.

I got to my office and parked, turned around to grab my purse, and “OH CRAP!”  Yes, my toddler was fast asleep in his carseat.

I pulled back out and drove the few blocks to his daycare.  But it all could have been different.  It could have been tragic.  His life, my life, his dad’s life, the life of everyone that loved him or me could be a completely different story.

Not because I am a horrible mother that doesn’t deserve her child, but because I am a human being.  An imperfect human being, as we all are, even if we don’t want to admit it.

If you’ve really never made a mistake in your life, or even just not with your children, my hat is off to you, but I will be sending pillows to break that fall from your pedestal when it happens because it is painful.

That’s why they have wine.  A toast to those that understand the phrase “But for the grace of God go I,” because you’ve realized one of the big truths in life and are able to accept it.

Shame Doesn't Cause Change

I was recently banned from a community group on Facebook because I question the value of kicking people when they are down and of trying to improve our city by running to the media and putting it in a bad light whenever they find something offensive.

After banning, the admin felt they needed to state that I was and talk about my personal page, not the usual MO, so I’m going to say “Thank you” that you found my opinions valid enough to shake you out of your ordinary, maybe you will read this whole post while you are looking for “mistakes” on the rest of my page.

When my son was little, I was the authoritarian parent, what I learned from my own.  I’m not sure why, because it didn’t teach me anything.  It made me afraid, it made me temporarily comply, but it certainly didn’t make me agree with them.  In fact, it did the opposite. 

At some point, around when he was about 10, I had my wake up call.  It wasn’t working.  My life could be very miserable, and I was stressed all the time, as was he.  I didn’t rub my dog’s nose in his accidents when he had them, rather I learned to recognize the signs and took him our when he needed to go.  If there was an issue in the software I supported, I didn’t try to band aid it, I looked for the root cause so it could be truly fixed. When I got a divorce, I had a discussion about what was important to each and wrote a fair agreement (I don’t do lawyers, lol). Why couldn’t I be as sensitive to my own child?

I changed my approach.  If my child threw all his toys around the room, instead of grounding him or implying he wasn’t good enough, I talked to him.  I found out what was going on in his thoughts, and went from there, addressing the issues from that starting point.  I didn’t punish, I taught.  That doesn’t mean bad behaviors weren’t addressed, or that there were no consequences, it meant that I didn’t beat him down but instead helped him to be a better person.  The toys being thrown?  Day at school where he was in the back of the class and couldn’t hear because others were being distractive and he zoned out as a defense mechanism from the overstimulation and would get in trouble for not paying attention.  He’s a good kid, he’s a rule follower, he held it in at school but he would get home and it would all come out.  I didn’t punish him, I hugged him. We talked about finding more appropriate outlets for frustration (going outside and practice swinging the baseball bat, punching a pillow, talking it out). He had to clean his room. And I followed through on my suspicions that all was not right and got diagnoses and meetings at school and a 504 plan.  I can’t remember the last time he threw anything.  We fixed the problem permanently, not just for that day.

In the past few years, I can only even remember one time I had to discipline him, and this is because we worked through whatever it was that was causing the issues.  I attacked the root, I taught alternative behaviors, I didn’t shame.

This is how we need to treat everyone if we want to change anything.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing, productive in digging up mistakes that someone already corrected just to shame them.  There is nothing productive in calling people names if you feel they have somehow wronged you or don’t agree with you.  There is nothing productive in putting people down.  There is nothing productive in trying to punish instead of trying to teach.  It is, all, in fact, counterproductive if your goal is to try to get anyone to reconsider their opinions.  I am sorry if I didn’t express that message well enough that you could understand what I was saying.  You need to start from the point where you are where right now and move forward to really make a difference.

That’s why they have wine.  Here is a toast to hoping that people can understand this, because I want where I live to be the best it can be.

Forgiveness is Not a Dirty Word

Forgiveness.

Some people see that as a bad word, a word that is about someone who harmed us, something that should be avoided.

That’s not what forgiveness is.

Recently, I was talking to my husband about a TV series that I watch, one in which one of the characters unexpectedly has his father back in his life, the father that was an abusive alcoholic when the character was growing up.  This is a situation I am very familiar with, having lived it myself.  I was telling my husband how impressed I was that the storyline wasn’t “He’s toxic, continue to hate him and push him away!” but rather one of forgiveness.  His daughters, his AA peers, they were pushing him to forgive, to see the person who was trying to be repentant and salvage a relationship, to see him as human.  I was impressed because this is not the popular social sentiment anymore.  We seem to think that forgiveness is about the one we are forgiving, but it is not, it is about ourselves.  The dictionary definition of “forgive” is to let go of anger, and letting go of anger, it is exactly what it is about.  We forgive for ourselves, not for the other person.  We stop ourselves from being consumed by a negative emotion that will turn to hate, an emotion with no positive end. 

The other night, on the show, I cried my eyes out at that moment that you could see the forgiveness occurring, because I love the character and want him to be a happy one!  Forgiveness releases the chains that bind you, allows you to see things more clearly, frees you from pain and being under control of the person who wronged you.

This is not to say that everyone in your life is good for you, I’m just saying that forgiveness actually gives you back control of your relationships and emotions.  Forgiving a parent for abusing you, forgiving a spouse who cheated on you, forgiving a friend from stealing from you, it doesn’t mean that what they did was OK.  It means that their action is not in control of your life and your emotions.  By all means, there are people we need to avoid for our own safety or sanity, but if you won’t let go of the anger and hate, you really haven’t released them from your lives, you’re letting them stay in control.

I forgave my own father long ago.  I still remember the bad things, but I also remember the good.  I remember the shared love of horror, crime, and mystery novels and movies.  I remember him showing me how to draw and giving me art supplies (even sending them to me as an adult!), I remember him coming to get me when I had an accident on my bicycle and my friends rode to my house for help.  I do also remember the dad who tore my entire bedroom apart looking for the keys my mom hid so he wouldn’t make good on his threat to run over a kid who rode his bike out in front of the car, who embarrassed the heck out of me by going to a father-daughter dance in 10^th grade drunk out of his mind, or my brother jumping him from behind to keep me from being hit, but I also saw his humanness, and how hurt his soul was when my mom divorced him and took us to another state, and I saw the transformation in him that the wake up call brought.  I attended his funeral about 10 years ago.  I never saw so many people at a funeral.  People came up to me to tell me how much he had meant in their lives in AA, how much he had helped them.  For all the hell he may have put me through, I’m still proud of him, still can see the man he was meant to be.  I am actually a lot like him.  Smart, hard working, introverted, strange sense of humor, artistic, and caring and forgiving.  

His ashes are in an urn on my bedroom shelf.  My son talks to them sometimes.  He’s never met his grandpa (not because I didn’t offer to bring him here, but because he was too proud to take money from me, another trait we share), but he knows the good things I’ve said about him and finds it comforting.

Forgiveness.  It’s not a bad word.  It doesn't change what happened, but it does change our outlook and affects our own happiness.

That's why they have wine.

The Elusive Question of Color

This may be really long, and maybe a little scattered, but I’m feeling very hopeful after a couple of recent conversations – one in “real life” and one online – in the last week that have shown that there are really people out there who can have open, non-political, discussions about race and culture.  Some will still read this with their political talking point glasses on, but some, I now know, can actually see past all of that stuff.

Skin color.  What does it really matter?  That question, well, it seemed to be the thing said for a long time in this country by those pushing for change.  Now, it seems to be being asked by those who are confused because they are judged for not thinking it matters.  It’s gotten to be a confusing muddle of information.

I would like to ask it though.  Skin color, what does it really matter?  Is it any different than eye color or hair color or the size of your ears or whether or not your belly button is an innie or outie?  Does the shared tone of your skin with someone actually mean you shared the same culture and experiences?  If I get a tan and am as dark as my husband, do I suddenly have more in common with him that matters?  If you are African American, do you share the same background, struggles, and goals as your neighbor who is of Haitian heritage?  Do I, as a “white” person with Polish and German heritages, have the same traditions as my friend with an Irish background?

To me, skin color is just a physical characteristic.  It means nothing more than if your pinky toe is longer or shorter than the one next to it.  So why do we invest so much energy into the tone of our skin?

There are, most definitely, people who judge on skin color, I’m not questioning that.  I am questioning why on earth we think this matters, and I’m talking to people of ALL skin tones.

I have been told I can’t understand because I’m white, because no one judges on that, that maybe I’m even envied.  If I was going to go the politically correct route, I’d say “Yes, I can’t understand, everyone thinks it’s wonderful that I have “white” skin, and I obviously have never, ever been judged on that.”  If I was going to go the politically correct route.  If I am intellectually honest, however, I can’t say that. 

In my 20’s, I lived with a man with whom I discussed marriage plans.  We even told my mom we were at some point planning to marry.  His mom, however, we didn’t tell her that, she didn’t like me.  Well, she liked talking to me, she liked how her younger kids got along with me and would be excited to tell me about their baseball games or their new toys when I came over, but she didn’t like that I was in a relationship with her son.  She didn’t like it because I was not Hispanic.  She never told me this outright, but she spoke it in front of me in Spanish constantly to her son.  She didn’t care if he found someone Argentinian, like they were, but she wanted him to find someone Hispanic.  A couple of weeks before we broke up, I told him I was not going to live my life with someone whose mother didn’t want me there, and a son that wasn't going to defend me.  Yes, I revealed that this little blonde Polish girl actually understood every darn conversation that went on about me.  Surprise! 

That is just one example in my 50 years of life.  I get it.  I get that sometimes there are people who look differently at those outside of their own culture.  I understand how it feels.  I don’t understand why we judge on that, or, more recently why we are judged for not judging on that.

The term “colorblind,” this was the goal some years ago, meaning to be able to look past someone’s skin color.  That term now carries negative connotations.  Why?  I was told recently that it is because people are ignoring other’s skin color and aren’t “embracing” their skin color, celebrating it.  And here I am very confused.  It’s skin color.  I don’t embrace and celebrate eye colors, I’m not sure exactly what it means to embrace and celebrate someone’s skin color, even my own.  It’s skin.  It’s an organ we all have.  It varies in shade, even among the “colors” we have defined.  I have no clue how to embrace it.  And wasn’t ignoring it kind of the goal at one point?  Why have we gone from realizing it doesn’t matter, to now realizing that it does?

Is part of our issue being comfortable in our own skin?  We are terribly oversensitive to if someone thinks we are too tall or too short, too skinny or too fat.  We hate our hair texture, the size of our nose, the size of our butts, the hair on our bodies… Is this part of the same thing?  Something else that was brought up in a discussion was that people of a certain race, within their own race, tend to judge each other on their lightness or darkness.  Is this issue maybe part of what is assumed those of other races are judging on too? At this point in time, is what we really need to do is learn to appreciate ourselves and all of our own physical characteristics? Can we help to combat some racism by having true love for ourselves and who we are, and realizing that those that don’t love us for ourselves are the ones losing out?

We all come from different backgrounds, different cultures and different mixes of cultures, we all have different personalities, different looks, different thoughts and feelings.  Every single one of us is different from the other, and all of us have some common characteristics with a wide range of other people.  However, we have this love of grouping and labeling ourselves into small definitions for some reason.  Maybe we need to stop that?

Many of our differing opinions on things, while they can be rooted in our background and culture, are influenced often by other things, such as age, education, work experience, life experience.  While we come from different cultures, we can have similar values as those not of our own, and we can have vastly different ones from our own children.

Just take a little time to ponder why we base so much on some arbitrary physical characteristic.  If you have insight into some of my questions, please offer it.

That’s why they have wine.

Want to Make a Difference?

We all see life from our own unique perspectives, based on our experiences.  You, me, people who achieve fame, people who don’t live up to their potential, people that go down the wrong path….

My perspective, it comes from a place where I’ve known the only so called “cheese” in our refrigerator coming from the government, life in an alcoholic family, my own cerebral palsy, a sibling’s ADHD, an uncle’s severe Autism, and, luckily, parents whose intelligence was kind of off the charts, which may have been my saving grace as, well, that got passed to me too. 

My experience, it made me grow up fast, when I was little, maybe 11 years old, I was in charge of making sure my entire family got up for work and school and that there was coffee made before I even woke anyone up.  That coffee had to be mugs in my hand to hand to my parents in bed, with orange juice in glasses sitting on the kitchen counter for my siblings. One of my biggest memories from childhood is when I dreamed my alarm went off and woke up my whole family at 4 am for the day.  They didn’t think it was funny, it still makes me laugh.  I also loved that I could pretend I drank that crappy, cheap orange juice that tasted like the can it came in before anyone got up, and didn’t really have to drink it.  There is a silver lining to everything.

I’ve dealt with coming home from an event with a drunk father driving, who, on our street, got upset that one of the kids went out into a street with a Big Wheel.  My dad pulled into the driveway, told us to get out, and that he was going to go back and run that kid over.  My mom grabbed the keys out of the ignition, ran in the house, and hid them in my bedroom.  My bedroom, which 10 minutes later was a complete disaster of every physical thing in it being picked up and thrown, shattered toys, broken furniture.  I still remember falling asleep that night crying, looking at all my broken things on the floor.  I hated the world, and wondered if that was what a nervous breakdown was.

My dad and I, personality-wise, we were very similar.  Smart, introverted, artistic, with the same love for music and horror and crime novels.  I thought I could “fix” my dad.  I thought I could just make him enjoy his life with us if he saw what a great daughter I was, how much I was like him.  The cost me being accused of by my mom of trying to break up their marriage, making him like me better than my mom.  I was maybe 12 years old.

I got moved around several schools during my late elementary school years.  I was always the new person, and I was who got bullied.  I don’t have any fond memories of those years.

A few years later, when my mom was crying one day over something my dad said, when he left the house, I’m assuming to go to a bar, I asked her why did they not divorce.  She said it was because of us, my siblings and me.  I told her we don’t want to deal with the fighting.  Well, she started divorce proceedings.  My dad had visitation during the separation, and one day my brother did not want to go.  My dad smashed in his bedroom door with a walking stick, as my brother ran away out the window.  I think my brother actually hated me for a few years, knowing that I was the one to tell my mom to do this.  I went off to running camp, where I for the first time felt connected to some of the girls I went to my expensive all-girls private school with, a school I only got into because of my score on the entrance exam which gave me a scholarship.  A camp I only went to because the coach called my mom and told her I had a lot of promise, and someone from the school paid for me to go. We couldn’t afford real cheese, there was no way I could have gone there otherwise. 

I felt like I finally fit in, much in part by a wonderful classmate and teammate who was my roommate at camp, who a few years ago died from a brain tumor.  I am very grateful for social media, as I was able to tell her how much she meant in my life before she died.  What I’m not grateful about, I got picked up from running camp, with all my belongings packed up in the station wagon, and moved to Florida, no warning. I never got to say goodbye to any of my friends.  I again felt completely alone, and this was compounded by the fact that friends were mad at me for not telling them I was leaving.

Why am I telling you all of this?  Because I want you to know what it means to someone to have someone reach out to them, to make them feel like they belong, how that can change their lives, and possibly impact the lives of others.  To let you know that my opinions on things, this is where it arises from.  I’m not guessing what it is like to have a rough life, a life where you suffer from depression and anxiety and feeling like you are on the fringe, I’m talking from actual experience.

Luckily when we arrived in Florida, we moved in with my grandparents, and I knew a girl on the street my grandparents lived from my visits who helped me fit in when I went to the first day of my new school.  She likely has no idea how much that meant to me, but it did.  I went on to have a great 2 years at that high school, and graduated with some lifelong friends.

I was lucky.  I was lucky.

When I grew up, I did go to therapy.  I was on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication for a while.  I worked on skills to be able to get through my life without the meds, worked on my very eroded self-confidence.  I got degrees in psychology and sociology, and I worked with severely mentally ill people in both a group home setting and as a case manager.  I had no trouble empathizing with their situations, and I have a really good insight into knowing their feelings, and did a darn good job at turning some people around from looking negatively at their lives to finding the positives.  It was the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done in my life, something I would still love to do, but since we place so little care on mental health in our society, I couldn’t continue to afford to live on the salary I was paid.  Unfortunately, that extremely low rate of pay, much lower than even our teachers, means that there are a lot of people who could really make a difference who just can’t afford to do that as their job.

There are so many kids who feel they are not accepted, who feel on the fringe, who do not have the best family lives.  There are kids who suffer from mental illnesses like depression or anxiety, or neurological issues like ADHD and Autism, who are outcast.  They are not only made fun of by other kids, but parents of other children tell their kids to stay away from them.  We fear those with issues, and only marginalize them more.

My own child, he has ADHD and some other neurological issues.  He was born prematurely, my miracle, because if I hadn’t had an ultrasound that day he wouldn’t have been rushed for an inducement.  He wasn’t breathing when he was born, after being suctioned out with the cord wrapped around his neck, you could see the fear on my doctor’s face.  He’s had to deal with his own issues. He has some developmental delays.  He got suspended once in third grade because he stood up to someone who had been bullying him. As he got older, he really struggled in school.  He’s been on baseball teams where he sits on the end of the bench in the dugout and no one spoke to him.  But he’s never felt alone, because that was something I was never going to let happen.  Never.  Even if it was just me, he was going to know he was loved and a great person, and how it was OTHER PEOPLE’S problems if they were not nice to him.

What I have is a well-adjusted son, who has a good number of friends, who will go out of his own way to reach out to the person no one else is talking to.  I’ve reached out to some of these kids personally too.  I’ve been the person that some of the kids we knew, children of drug dealers, children of parents they had visitation with after they got released from prison, children who just weren’t fitting in for whatever reason, and given them love and acceptance, in addition to food and whatever else they may really need.

Do you want to make a difference, see if we can stop the senseless violence in our country?  Reach out.  Understand that there are so many people that have it worse than you do.  Understand that they really, really crave love and acceptance.  Stop the perpetrators of crimes, you will stop the crimes.

 

That’s why they have wine.

I'm Not A Feminist

What does it mean to support someone?

My teen has done some stuff over the 16 years of his life…lied to me, told me he hates me, bit me, not done as well in school as he’s capable of, even thrown up all over my bed when he could have easily leaned over the side (this last one is sarcasm, folks, feel like I need to say that in this day and age).  I don’t support ANY of those behaviors.  Not a one, nope, not anything that is going to make me say “I support you, so I am perfectly good with every choice you have made.”

How about the rest of you moms?  You good with those?  How about when your son comes home and admits to cheating on a test, do you pat him on the back and say “Good job, boy, I support you!”

No, that’s not how you parent?  Do you love and support your child?  Are you sure?  Yes, I agree that you do, sometimes we have to say we don’t agree, don’t think that is the best for you.  That is what actually makes us support our children.

So, then, your best female friend, your female coworker, your female neighbor, they do something you don’t agree with, do you say “Good job, friend, I support whatever you do”? Do you?

If you don’t, you are not pro-woman.  Being pro-woman means that we are part of the female Borg collective, and we support every decision.  What, you don’t know what the Borg are?  OUT, you are OUT!  My goodness, we can’t have dissent. (And if you really don’t know and would like to get my point, watch some Star Trek episodes, or at least Google the word.)

I was posed a question today, on why women don’t label themselves “feminist” even if they support equality – equal opportunities, equal pay, the right to vote, etc.  For me, it comes down to the modern day feminist movement is very abortion rights oriented.  I’m pro-life, it’s just not my group.

So, I’m anti-woman.  I believe something isn’t the right choice, but if I don’t support it, I don’t support women. I’m not worthy of support for my position as a woman, because that opinion makes me, well, unworthy of being a woman.  Apparently, there are levels of womanhood, and you have to checkmark all of the agenda items off to be one.  I think I made a recent post on this on Facebook, I don’t even know what gender I am because, well, I’m apparently not a woman, I have dared to have my own opinions (which ironically, would have made me a feminist back some years ago).  I’ve got the parts too, but those don’t count anymore.  I’m pretty sure I’m a human being, but who knows in these times?

For the record, I’m not for making legislation to tell everyone what to do, about abortion, or smoking pot, or wanting to go to a strip club, or a myriad of other things.  I do, however, hold opinions on those things, and if I’m talking to you about them, I’m going to try to persuade you to do what I think is the right thing, but in this day and age we live in, because I even have opinions on those subjects (you know, I actually THINK about how I feel about things instead of just going with the crowd), that makes me the most horrible, judgmental person on the face of the earth.

I’m good with that.  I have a brain, and I’m darn well going to use it.  That’s why they have wine.

The Attitude of Happiness

Every New Years, I hear a lot of people say “Thank goodness THAT year is over, and we are starting with a new one.”  Often, these same people said the same thing the year before.  I have a hard time being able to respond to that, being able to understand the reasoning.  It’s not just because that minute between 11:59 on December 31 and 12:00 on January 1 does not hold some kind of magic formula that suddenly makes everything right, it’s because I don’t understand how others don’t get that happiness is something that they actually control.

I’ve often been accused of having lived some charmed, perfect life because I believe that.  That could not be further from the truth, and I can tell you with certainty that I dealt with more stuff in my life by the time I was 15 than many people have when they are 50.  The difference, it’s attitude.

 

You are completely correct, attitude doesn’t make the bad things go away.  It does, however, help you to deal with them, to not allow them to overwhelm you or consume your life.  It does help you to see the good things that happen among the bad, the friend you would not have otherwise met, the trigger to change something in your life for the better, the love and outpouring of care from those around you.  To see the hope.

Sometimes it may take years to be able to look back at something and see those slivers of light, but they are there.  They are always there.

My problems didn’t end there, I’ve dealt with divorce, deaths of loved ones, health issues, financial difficulties, even abuse and rape among other things as I’ve aged, but I had already learned how to not let those bad things take over. The need to be able to act as an adult when I was 9 or 10, it has what has made me eager and able to see things as a child as an adult, to, in essence, have my childhood.  THAT has made me a better parent and often a better friend, to be able to find joy in the smallest things, to always be on the lookout for the silver lining.  Those bad things that happened in my life, they are what taught me what happiness really is, in all of its wondrous simplicity.  Without the bad, I couldn’t ever appreciate the good to its fullest.

My happiness doesn’t depend on my paycheck, how many friends I have, how pretty I am, who is President, or what health problems I do or do not have.  My happiness depends on ME, and I am in complete control of it.

Sometimes life gets hard, and that’s why they have wine, but in the end it is up to us to decide how we are going to let us affect us.

Here’s to 2018.  May it be just as great as every other year I have gotten to experience life, all of it, whatever it has thrown at me.