I don't even want to be typing this here. I want to be in bed. Asleep. Preferrably with my sweet husband, but he's working tonight. And I can't sleep.
You see, I heard a cough.
#1 Son has insomnia these days. He says it's been going on for a while. He came out of his room at 10:30 last night complaining of being unable to sleep, and I pointed out that perhaps if he changed from his school uniform into some pajamas and laid down in a reasonably made bed, he might feel differently. He just blinked at me. And twitched.
He does that a lot. Just looks at you, blinking uncomprehendingly. Sometimes it's almost a R.E.M. sort of movement, quick, jerky, back and forth. I think sometimes it's an effect of the redirection therapy he had a couple years back to deal with the trauma of being molested. This is a kid with a lot of repressed issues, I totally know that. I just worry that he doesn't have the coping strategies to deal with the onset of puberty and the realization of what really happened to him that will probably accompany those changes. I worry a lot.
I want to be able to just trust that everything will be OK, but there's no telling, there's just none. I want to bury my head under a pillow and hope it all goes away. I want to call up RAINN and spill my guts: "Help, I'm an adult survivor of multiple sexual assaults, two of them in the same fricking WEEK so my mom thought I was just reacting to the date rape and didn't believe me about my brother, so she didn't tell my dad so he couldn't tell HER he'd caught the little bastard at it before with my sisters and we could have gotten HELP and he could have been STOPPED before he went on to victimize kids in other states and even other countries and maybe I wouldn't have quite so many nightmares now that my stepson has been molested at his own mother's house by a kid who shouldn't even be his stepbrother except that people are so STUPID and now he's having to deal with this stupid stupid STUPID family-solidarity thing where the criminal is accepted and idolized and is his main role model of how to be a teenage boy so now he bashes his head against walls and screams that he doesn't want to be a teenager and he sleeps only 15 feet from my precious little angels and I can't just lock him in his room and I can't stay up forever, I have to sleep sometime and I want to trust him but the only way to really know whether I can is to catch him in the act of violating that trust and my little babies and at that point it will be too late for us all and what if I did catch him and go berserk and rip his throat out or smash his head in or throw him down the stairs, it's not his fault, it's HERS and it's the OTHER one's and oh just please please HELP....." I want to vomit.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
A Little Cheering Up
For those of you who, like me, could use a good laugh right now, I give you two:
Geoffrey Chaucer meets the Dread Pirate Roberts
Star Trek Inspirational Posters
(That last one's for you, Julia. Especially page 2.)
Geoffrey Chaucer meets the Dread Pirate Roberts
Star Trek Inspirational Posters
(That last one's for you, Julia. Especially page 2.)
Oh, the Humanity!
I mentioned recently that we've had mice in our house again, which is something that I truly hate. When I shop for mouse-control, I go to the "whack 'em" or "poison 'em" section and load up. The Man, always on the lookout for something new, brought home one of those supposedly "humane" mouse traps-- you know, the catch-and-release kind that's basically a box with a one-way door.
Now aside from not wanting to deal with what to do with a live mouse (where on earth do you release the little boogers, and won't they just come back into a house, although possibly not yours?), I also don't want the guilt triggered by their anguished little squeaks from under my sink. Among other things.
It turns that these traps aren't as humane as all that. I'm not sure how it happened, but when we checked our trap a couple nights ago (upon hearing scritching and squeaking in the kitchen), we discovered three mice in it: two live and one dead. So very dead as to render it nearly a plurality. At least one of the other mice in the trap seemed terribly distraught about this turn of events. I think the other one might have given up or possibly had a heart attack. Maybe it was playing possum.
In any case, being buried alive doesn't strike me as a very humane fate. I think I'll skip it from now on.
Now aside from not wanting to deal with what to do with a live mouse (where on earth do you release the little boogers, and won't they just come back into a house, although possibly not yours?), I also don't want the guilt triggered by their anguished little squeaks from under my sink. Among other things.
It turns that these traps aren't as humane as all that. I'm not sure how it happened, but when we checked our trap a couple nights ago (upon hearing scritching and squeaking in the kitchen), we discovered three mice in it: two live and one dead. So very dead as to render it nearly a plurality. At least one of the other mice in the trap seemed terribly distraught about this turn of events. I think the other one might have given up or possibly had a heart attack. Maybe it was playing possum.
In any case, being buried alive doesn't strike me as a very humane fate. I think I'll skip it from now on.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Carpool Tunnel Vision
Warning: deep chasm of self-pity ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
There, I warned you. For anyone who's still reading, here's my rant.
When The Man came home on Friday with (finally!) the school's list of parents who want to carpool, I was overjoyed because it was about 11 pages long. Surely, someone on that list must live within 10 minutes of our house and have fewer than 3 children. Surely. Someone must.
It turned out that 3 families had listed the same neighborhood school we did. (If you'll recall, this is the ultra super-duper classical/Core Knowledge charter school in the next town; it has a waiting list a mile long and then you only get in by lottery.) Well, 3 wasn't many, but it was something, so we called. The first number had been disconnected. The second turned out to belong to a business. The third, we got an answering machine, and I don't think the people ever called back.
So we branched out a little. We had already talked to some families we knew in town, but they already had carpools worked out. We started calling families from other areas of town, randomly-- somehow there just weren't that many. Saturday morning, we managed to get hold of one (yes, exactly one) family with 2 kids who didn't already have a carpool arranged. We set up a meeting with them for Monday, and everything seemed to be working out fine. Yes, they lived on the other side of town and their older kid had to be at school earlier than everyone else, but it was worth it to know that our boys would be able to get home from school.
This morning, The Man drove over to their place, picked up their kids, and got everyone to school on time (I think). The other kids' mom was scheduled to collect the kids after school and bring them home. Our place is on their way back to their house, so it shouldn't be a problem, and I was anxiously looking forward to seeing the boys after their big "first day of school" this afternoon.
Well, I waited. And I waited. And the longer I waited, the more anxious I got. School ended at 2:45; I figured they might not get away until 3:00. So 3:30 would be a reasonable time to see them home. But 3:45 came and went. And 4:00 came... Nobody had called, so I was sure everything was fine. I mean, this isn't your standard kidnapping method, certainly. It was just... odd.
When the boys finally walked in the door, I was so relieved I almost didn't notice the two plastic bags in Pirate Boy's hand. The car that had dropped them off had already left, and I didn't ask any question about the ride. We spent several minutes going over the excitements of the day, including not making too big a deal about the fact that my shy little boy had apparently had trouble getting permission to go to the bathroom (twice-- sigh) during class. First day of school is so overwhelming.
Well, we were all sorted and I managed to keep everything under control and even fix dinner before The Man got home. (I haven't even mentioned how cranky Punkin Boy was after getting up at 6 a.m. and having no nap-- or how cranky I was about it either.) Just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was our carpool people saying that they just couldn't take the stress of driving our boys around or the inconvenience of having to drive the extra, what, 5 minutes total out of their way, and did we know that our Pirate Boy had peed his pants? They hated to be a bother, but they thought we should start looking for a new carpool. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone.
The Man, ever calm, took it in stride and after dinner took up the carpool list again. There was one number we hadn't tried yet, so he called it. The number had been disconnected, so he tried the new one. Had to leave a message, then he had to leave. (On Tuesday/Thursday, he gets to come home long enough to eat dinner with the family for about a half hour during his 14-hour school day.) On his way out, he mentioned that he will be home late (as compared to the usual 9:30 p.m.) because he has to go get some help from the study group at the dorm. Absolutely must. Tonight. I wouldn't want to be here, either.
Fortunately, I'm not a suspicious or jealous wife. Just desperately upset and hormonal. So I shuffled the boys through baths and jammies and "what-did-you-think-you-were-doing-soaking-the-entire-bathroom?!" and so on. During this process, our last best hope for transportation returned TM's call and said, "No, sorry, we live in YZ Town now." Sigh.
I had managed to get the little punkins into bed and we were just doing our nightly ritual of prayers and songs when the phone rang again. It was the Carpool Poopers. The husband said his wife would kill him if he didn't just come out and say they wouldn't be driving with us again, ever. Sorry for the inconvenience and all. Sure.
So I end up sitting on the end of the boys' bed just sobbing for all I'm worth. After all we've gone through to get these kids into the best school possible, after the fights with Satan, after all these years of juggling schooling for The Man, after the confusion that almost left Pirate Boy without a school to go to this year... (I didn't mention that, did I? I thought "all's well that end's well"; ha!) After all the sacrifices for our family's well-being, we're being beaten down yet again. I hate that.
Sniffle. Thanks for listening. I feel better now. Carpool-less, but better.
There, I warned you. For anyone who's still reading, here's my rant.
When The Man came home on Friday with (finally!) the school's list of parents who want to carpool, I was overjoyed because it was about 11 pages long. Surely, someone on that list must live within 10 minutes of our house and have fewer than 3 children. Surely. Someone must.
It turned out that 3 families had listed the same neighborhood school we did. (If you'll recall, this is the ultra super-duper classical/Core Knowledge charter school in the next town; it has a waiting list a mile long and then you only get in by lottery.) Well, 3 wasn't many, but it was something, so we called. The first number had been disconnected. The second turned out to belong to a business. The third, we got an answering machine, and I don't think the people ever called back.
So we branched out a little. We had already talked to some families we knew in town, but they already had carpools worked out. We started calling families from other areas of town, randomly-- somehow there just weren't that many. Saturday morning, we managed to get hold of one (yes, exactly one) family with 2 kids who didn't already have a carpool arranged. We set up a meeting with them for Monday, and everything seemed to be working out fine. Yes, they lived on the other side of town and their older kid had to be at school earlier than everyone else, but it was worth it to know that our boys would be able to get home from school.
This morning, The Man drove over to their place, picked up their kids, and got everyone to school on time (I think). The other kids' mom was scheduled to collect the kids after school and bring them home. Our place is on their way back to their house, so it shouldn't be a problem, and I was anxiously looking forward to seeing the boys after their big "first day of school" this afternoon.
Well, I waited. And I waited. And the longer I waited, the more anxious I got. School ended at 2:45; I figured they might not get away until 3:00. So 3:30 would be a reasonable time to see them home. But 3:45 came and went. And 4:00 came... Nobody had called, so I was sure everything was fine. I mean, this isn't your standard kidnapping method, certainly. It was just... odd.
When the boys finally walked in the door, I was so relieved I almost didn't notice the two plastic bags in Pirate Boy's hand. The car that had dropped them off had already left, and I didn't ask any question about the ride. We spent several minutes going over the excitements of the day, including not making too big a deal about the fact that my shy little boy had apparently had trouble getting permission to go to the bathroom (twice-- sigh) during class. First day of school is so overwhelming.
Well, we were all sorted and I managed to keep everything under control and even fix dinner before The Man got home. (I haven't even mentioned how cranky Punkin Boy was after getting up at 6 a.m. and having no nap-- or how cranky I was about it either.) Just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was our carpool people saying that they just couldn't take the stress of driving our boys around or the inconvenience of having to drive the extra, what, 5 minutes total out of their way, and did we know that our Pirate Boy had peed his pants? They hated to be a bother, but they thought we should start looking for a new carpool. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone.
The Man, ever calm, took it in stride and after dinner took up the carpool list again. There was one number we hadn't tried yet, so he called it. The number had been disconnected, so he tried the new one. Had to leave a message, then he had to leave. (On Tuesday/Thursday, he gets to come home long enough to eat dinner with the family for about a half hour during his 14-hour school day.) On his way out, he mentioned that he will be home late (as compared to the usual 9:30 p.m.) because he has to go get some help from the study group at the dorm. Absolutely must. Tonight. I wouldn't want to be here, either.
Fortunately, I'm not a suspicious or jealous wife. Just desperately upset and hormonal. So I shuffled the boys through baths and jammies and "what-did-you-think-you-were-doing-soaking-the-entire-bathroom?!" and so on. During this process, our last best hope for transportation returned TM's call and said, "No, sorry, we live in YZ Town now." Sigh.
I had managed to get the little punkins into bed and we were just doing our nightly ritual of prayers and songs when the phone rang again. It was the Carpool Poopers. The husband said his wife would kill him if he didn't just come out and say they wouldn't be driving with us again, ever. Sorry for the inconvenience and all. Sure.
So I end up sitting on the end of the boys' bed just sobbing for all I'm worth. After all we've gone through to get these kids into the best school possible, after the fights with Satan, after all these years of juggling schooling for The Man, after the confusion that almost left Pirate Boy without a school to go to this year... (I didn't mention that, did I? I thought "all's well that end's well"; ha!) After all the sacrifices for our family's well-being, we're being beaten down yet again. I hate that.
Sniffle. Thanks for listening. I feel better now. Carpool-less, but better.
Monday, September 04, 2006
In Memoriam
In honor of his Crikey-ness, the Croc Hunter, who died earlier today, I am playing Adventure Quest tonight. Specifically, I am visiting the Frogzard Hunter, who was modeled after Steve Irwin and is mildly entertaining in a similarly fun way. Go check him out if you can get on the server. Just don't tell him how badly drawn his pants are.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Nick of Time
With back-to-school day right around the corner, we've been trying to get #1 Son to read up on some of the classics that he might encounter in school (e.g., Greek and Roman history and mythology) or that he might just enjoy for their content (e.g., Frankenstein). But he hasn't seemed terribly excited about them, calling the latter book "boring." Now, knowing the book and being the irritatingly dedicated problem-solvers that we are, The Man and I decided to quiz him on the content to see whether he was having comprehension problems despite the boy's assertion that he does totally understand, it's just really dull.
[TM reads a passage from the explorer's narrative, which mentions sending a letter on a merchantman headed the right way.]
#1 Son looks bored.
I ask: "So, what's a merchantman?"
#1 Son: "Umm... a man who's a merchant?"
Me: "Hmmm, no." But I have to admit it's a reasonably logical deduction. Turning to Pirate Boy, we pose the question again: "What's a merchantman"?
Pirate Boy: "It's a type of ship!" Of course.
So the conversation went on like this and we determined that yes, #1 Son was having some comprehension issues that could probably be resolved by the judicious use of a dictionary. Or they could if he realized that he doesn't understand the words. School is starting up none too soon, I'm afraid. In another recent episode, #1 Son kept insisting that 6 + 6 = 14 and got irate when I suggested he might want a slight review before classes begin.
On a similar topic, Pirate Boy informed #1 Son and me the other day that "in the War of 1812, the British were trying to gain control of the Mississippi River, so Jean Lafitte and I helped the Americans defeat them." There was something about the comparative casualty rate and a letter he'd sent to the British commander. He ended with a knowing nod: "Then the British retreated."
Dear heavens, school is starting none too soon... I wonder if they cover the War of 1812 in 1st grade?
[TM reads a passage from the explorer's narrative, which mentions sending a letter on a merchantman headed the right way.]
#1 Son looks bored.
I ask: "So, what's a merchantman?"
#1 Son: "Umm... a man who's a merchant?"
Me: "Hmmm, no." But I have to admit it's a reasonably logical deduction. Turning to Pirate Boy, we pose the question again: "What's a merchantman"?
Pirate Boy: "It's a type of ship!" Of course.
So the conversation went on like this and we determined that yes, #1 Son was having some comprehension issues that could probably be resolved by the judicious use of a dictionary. Or they could if he realized that he doesn't understand the words. School is starting up none too soon, I'm afraid. In another recent episode, #1 Son kept insisting that 6 + 6 = 14 and got irate when I suggested he might want a slight review before classes begin.
On a similar topic, Pirate Boy informed #1 Son and me the other day that "in the War of 1812, the British were trying to gain control of the Mississippi River, so Jean Lafitte and I helped the Americans defeat them." There was something about the comparative casualty rate and a letter he'd sent to the British commander. He ended with a knowing nod: "Then the British retreated."
Dear heavens, school is starting none too soon... I wonder if they cover the War of 1812 in 1st grade?
Dilemma
So in a fit of curiosity a while back, I signed up for one of those "find your old school friends" services online-- just the free kind, 'cause I'm not that crazy. But of course most of the people I care about talking to again aren't listed on those things, or I already know how to get in touch with them, so I'd kind of forgotten about it.
However... this evening I got a notice that someone from my past was interested in getting in touch with me. This is a girl I hung out with in my old neighborhood (4th-8th grade), which I have to tell you, wasn't a very nice one. The neighborhood, I meant, but it's true of the girl too. There are those who would have called her family "white trash"; I didn't know what the term meant.
I could mention that she's now a single mom of teenagers and living in North Carolina, cleaning stuff for a living. So probably she hasn't really changed much, although I'm admittedly biased. I remember her laughing uproariously at her older brother's fart jokes. I remember the plaid shirts she used to wear before grunge had made them cool. I remember her stringy red hair and freckles, sometimes under a cowboy hat. Her wide grin, her brassy voice-- usually making a rude comment disguised as humor.
My mixed feelings about whether to reply to her note are curious to me. The years I spent in that place were not mostly happy ones, and the fact that I hung out with people I didn't like or respect embarrasses me. The fact that they feel good about having had me for a friend is nice, and I really want to be a friend to people... love thy neighbor and all that. So I guess I'm having a hard time accepting that I don't love my neighbor when she makes my skin crawl. Must work on that.
However... this evening I got a notice that someone from my past was interested in getting in touch with me. This is a girl I hung out with in my old neighborhood (4th-8th grade), which I have to tell you, wasn't a very nice one. The neighborhood, I meant, but it's true of the girl too. There are those who would have called her family "white trash"; I didn't know what the term meant.
I could mention that she's now a single mom of teenagers and living in North Carolina, cleaning stuff for a living. So probably she hasn't really changed much, although I'm admittedly biased. I remember her laughing uproariously at her older brother's fart jokes. I remember the plaid shirts she used to wear before grunge had made them cool. I remember her stringy red hair and freckles, sometimes under a cowboy hat. Her wide grin, her brassy voice-- usually making a rude comment disguised as humor.
My mixed feelings about whether to reply to her note are curious to me. The years I spent in that place were not mostly happy ones, and the fact that I hung out with people I didn't like or respect embarrasses me. The fact that they feel good about having had me for a friend is nice, and I really want to be a friend to people... love thy neighbor and all that. So I guess I'm having a hard time accepting that I don't love my neighbor when she makes my skin crawl. Must work on that.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday 13: End of Summer
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Friday, August 25, 2006
Back-to-School Whine
The Man went back to school this week (after nearly two weeks off--woohoo!), in case you were wondering where I've been. (That, and I was plagued by another round of migraines and started some new blood-pressure medicine. Oy.)
Because TM is in school full-time, I've been home all day, every day, with all the kids. Under some circumstances that wouldn't be impossible to deal with. In fact, I suspect that most moms do not get so stressed by their children that they begin their days by threatening homicide. But I have to be different. Or rather, my kids do.
So they cannot simply walk on the floor (even when it's clear of toys and trash); oh no, they must run and jump and fling themselves on the furniture, preferably head down so that their little necks look like they will surely snap. Of course. And they cannot simply talk to people who are standing within 5 feet of them in a room less than 10 feet square. Oh no. They must yell at volumes calculated to carry in a baseball stadium-- during the World Series. And when they get really excited they must utter sudden and piercing shrieks over and over like a flock of possessed gulls.
This is when they're on their good behavior, mind you. Today they... weren't. It's been building up all week-- Monday, they were pretty good (Monday is also a short day), Tuesday, it was quite a bit harder (TM is gone for about 12 hours on Tues/Thurs and I'm still coping with crippling pain and coma-inducing medications). Today was the worst. After TM came home, I'd wanted to just crawl into a corner and cry, but instead I had to help keep the monkeys under control while he very kindly fixed dinner. And it almost wasn't enough.
After dinner, I did go crawl under a blanket and shake violently from the stress, but the animals found me anyway. While their dad was on the phone trying to persuade his brother to move in with us, the kids swarmed over my bed, sat on me, and whacked me with books to indicate that it was story time. But I couldn't even do that. I, who used to study Chinese and Russian simultaneously in the middle of the night with my eyes shut, couldn't even open my eyes and read Go, Dog. Go!
I wanted to be back on my feet before time to tuck the little brigands in, but I simply couldn't move. And within minutes, there were violent screams and wails from their end of the house. Apparently TM had had a bad day too. I managed to pry myself out of bed and totter on pain-pierced feet down the hall, collapsing across the end of the littler pirates' bed. I pulled the door shut and announced, "We are all going to sleep now." Oh, how they fussed! I just laid there. The Punkin jumped and bounced and turned acrobatic flips off the walls and onto his brother's head. I moved him over but otherwise just laid there. He howled and complained. "We are going to sleep now," I repeated. And in only 30 minutes, both of the little pirates were unconscious. Truly a miracle. One week down, 14 more to go-- this semester.
And now, really, I am going to sleep too.
Because TM is in school full-time, I've been home all day, every day, with all the kids. Under some circumstances that wouldn't be impossible to deal with. In fact, I suspect that most moms do not get so stressed by their children that they begin their days by threatening homicide. But I have to be different. Or rather, my kids do.
So they cannot simply walk on the floor (even when it's clear of toys and trash); oh no, they must run and jump and fling themselves on the furniture, preferably head down so that their little necks look like they will surely snap. Of course. And they cannot simply talk to people who are standing within 5 feet of them in a room less than 10 feet square. Oh no. They must yell at volumes calculated to carry in a baseball stadium-- during the World Series. And when they get really excited they must utter sudden and piercing shrieks over and over like a flock of possessed gulls.
This is when they're on their good behavior, mind you. Today they... weren't. It's been building up all week-- Monday, they were pretty good (Monday is also a short day), Tuesday, it was quite a bit harder (TM is gone for about 12 hours on Tues/Thurs and I'm still coping with crippling pain and coma-inducing medications). Today was the worst. After TM came home, I'd wanted to just crawl into a corner and cry, but instead I had to help keep the monkeys under control while he very kindly fixed dinner. And it almost wasn't enough.
After dinner, I did go crawl under a blanket and shake violently from the stress, but the animals found me anyway. While their dad was on the phone trying to persuade his brother to move in with us, the kids swarmed over my bed, sat on me, and whacked me with books to indicate that it was story time. But I couldn't even do that. I, who used to study Chinese and Russian simultaneously in the middle of the night with my eyes shut, couldn't even open my eyes and read Go, Dog. Go!
I wanted to be back on my feet before time to tuck the little brigands in, but I simply couldn't move. And within minutes, there were violent screams and wails from their end of the house. Apparently TM had had a bad day too. I managed to pry myself out of bed and totter on pain-pierced feet down the hall, collapsing across the end of the littler pirates' bed. I pulled the door shut and announced, "We are all going to sleep now." Oh, how they fussed! I just laid there. The Punkin jumped and bounced and turned acrobatic flips off the walls and onto his brother's head. I moved him over but otherwise just laid there. He howled and complained. "We are going to sleep now," I repeated. And in only 30 minutes, both of the little pirates were unconscious. Truly a miracle. One week down, 14 more to go-- this semester.
And now, really, I am going to sleep too.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
It's Alive!
I've been reading an interesting book lately, in between chasing children and weeping uncontrollably. It's called The Monsters: Mary Shelley & the Curse of Frankenstein. The Man brings home all sorts of bizarro stuff from the library, and being a half-comatose invalid, I basically take what I can get and read it all. Some of it's bad. Some of it's good. This book is fascinating.
Mostly I say that because of the research that obviously went into it. Now, the people who wrote this book, Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, were consummate professionals at researching biographies by the time they got to this one. The "Also by" page lists another 18 nonfiction titles to their credit. Their specialty seems to be analysis and interpretation of the facts, not mere reporting of each one. Their skill at this impressed me, and as many of you know, that's not easy to do.
But about the story. As you've guessed, the book traces the life of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of the novel Frankenstein, but it goes so far beyond that that you may forget who this "Mary" person is they mention from time to time. Her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, is obviously a major factor in her life, but long before he arrives on the scene, we experience the stories of Mary's parents, who were also important and well-known in the literary and philosophical circles of late 18th-century Britain. As the book progresses, we learn in great detail how deep Lord Byron's involvement reached in the Shelleys' life (along with some fascinating tales of his personal habits and character).
We watch the heartbreak of women who, in the attempt to live according to their principles, lose parents, children, husbands, lovers, fortunes, reputations, homes, health, hope, and happiness. I was fascinated to note how pivotal in the saga was Mary's stepsister Claire, who seems to have had less strength of character and intellect than nearly everyone, yet seems to destroy nearly everything she touches. Maybe I'm overanalyzing things. Anyway, it's a fascinating read. If you happen across this book and have a couple extra days lying around, pick it up. Read it. Devour it. Ponder it. But for heaven's sake don't let it near your kids.
Mostly I say that because of the research that obviously went into it. Now, the people who wrote this book, Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler, were consummate professionals at researching biographies by the time they got to this one. The "Also by" page lists another 18 nonfiction titles to their credit. Their specialty seems to be analysis and interpretation of the facts, not mere reporting of each one. Their skill at this impressed me, and as many of you know, that's not easy to do.
But about the story. As you've guessed, the book traces the life of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of the novel Frankenstein, but it goes so far beyond that that you may forget who this "Mary" person is they mention from time to time. Her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, is obviously a major factor in her life, but long before he arrives on the scene, we experience the stories of Mary's parents, who were also important and well-known in the literary and philosophical circles of late 18th-century Britain. As the book progresses, we learn in great detail how deep Lord Byron's involvement reached in the Shelleys' life (along with some fascinating tales of his personal habits and character).
We watch the heartbreak of women who, in the attempt to live according to their principles, lose parents, children, husbands, lovers, fortunes, reputations, homes, health, hope, and happiness. I was fascinated to note how pivotal in the saga was Mary's stepsister Claire, who seems to have had less strength of character and intellect than nearly everyone, yet seems to destroy nearly everything she touches. Maybe I'm overanalyzing things. Anyway, it's a fascinating read. If you happen across this book and have a couple extra days lying around, pick it up. Read it. Devour it. Ponder it. But for heaven's sake don't let it near your kids.
Careful What You Ask For
It occurred to me yesterday that I'm finally where I expected to be when I grew up: a stay-home mom chasing multiple children around a little house in a little town while my husband tries to finish school so that we can have a better life. Oh sure, I expected to be here in my early twenties instead of my late (VERY late) thirties, but I'm here. Yay me.
Friday, August 18, 2006
I'mGonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna...Live? Really?
Happy dance, happy dance, I got paid today!!! Whew, whew, I can breathe again. I can't even believe we survived this long, but every time we needed just another hundred dollars or two, it turned up, or someone generously shared a bushel of food, or something weird happened to save us, but MAN, that's a hard way to live. Faith-building, I won't deny, but exhausting. And now, we have room to breathe and recover our strength for another month or so until the financial aid comes in, and so we'll be OK until about the end of the year. Whew!
**And there was much rejoicing...**
Oh, yeah, and I had a good birthday, too.
**And there was much rejoicing...**
Oh, yeah, and I had a good birthday, too.
Monday, August 14, 2006
For Better or For Worse, or Love Conquers All
Tomorrow, Tuesday, is my 8th wedding anniversary. Eight years of being married to my soul mate, literally the man of my dreams. Eight years that, despite the occasional (or more than occasional) trauma, have sped by like lightning. The most wonderful eight years of my life, in fact.
In those eight years, he's been with me through five years of college (his), four pregnancies (mine), three debilitating injuries, two career changes, and the death of one child. He's been with me in the emergency room and the Phantom of the Opera room, 3000 feet in the air and 30 feet under the sea, laughing so hard the tears ran down our faces and crying so hard that the tears ran out...
How do you thank someone for that? For being the perfect spouse? For loving you exactly the way you are, even when the way you are is ugly, angry, whiny, hopeless, helpless-- or unemployed in Greenland? And for all the while assuring you that you are in fact the most beautiful, lovable, wonderful human being they've ever met? In short, for being completely, certifiably crazy?
As long as he's crazy about me, I'm happy. And he is. And I am. And we are.
Happy Anniversary to the most wonderful husband in the world.
In those eight years, he's been with me through five years of college (his), four pregnancies (mine), three debilitating injuries, two career changes, and the death of one child. He's been with me in the emergency room and the Phantom of the Opera room, 3000 feet in the air and 30 feet under the sea, laughing so hard the tears ran down our faces and crying so hard that the tears ran out...
How do you thank someone for that? For being the perfect spouse? For loving you exactly the way you are, even when the way you are is ugly, angry, whiny, hopeless, helpless-- or unemployed in Greenland? And for all the while assuring you that you are in fact the most beautiful, lovable, wonderful human being they've ever met? In short, for being completely, certifiably crazy?
As long as he's crazy about me, I'm happy. And he is. And I am. And we are.
Happy Anniversary to the most wonderful husband in the world.
Freak Show
You know, I almost posted again Thursday night. Some weird little things had happened, but here's me trying to stay positive and not distract attention from the Thursday 13 post... yeah. Now I know to follow my instincts. Remind me of that later.
So today we get the fallout from one of the psychotic eXpisodes (go read The Man's post about it; you won't regret it). For those of you who are putting off going there, I'll sum up: TM's ex is a psychotic who totally projects her own crimes on others and loves to accuse TM and me of neglecting and/or abusing #1 Son, even though she has no other reason than her own psychosis. A while back, she called 911 because all of us assured her that #1 Son had not sustained a serious injury when a small rock hit him on the head. We must be lying about the extent of the injury, she insisted (though somehow she believed the bit about its existence), and although she was nowhere within 100 miles of us or the boy, she filed a report with the cops. (Yes, this has been going on for more than 8 years now, and no, we are not amused, and no, the authorities still haven't caught on.)
So, today, right. Today the Child Protection Services shows up on our doorstep. Someone (gee, we can't imagine who) has reported that our children are being starved and that all they get to eat is scraps of banana bread. OK, we did have an awful lot of banana bread there for a while, but nobody in their right mind... Oh, yeah. All right, lady, come on in and take a peek in the pantry... the fridge...the freezer too if you want, but watch out for falling chickens. Yeah, take the kids aside and ask them what they've had for dinner recently. We'll wait. (Note that Pirate Boy gives a more accurate account than #1 Son, despite being only 6. The kid's got a great memory.)
So it turned out OK, I think. We talked a lot more about the molestation situation, and how no, sending #1 Son to live with "Mommy" would probably not be the best thing for him, considering her attitude about making a family for him with the Molester. And the CPS lady totally agreed with me that #1 Son needs to be watched carefully as he enters puberty, lest he continue the cycle-- she stressed that the aforementioned "family" situation could make it worse, could encourage him to idolize the older boy and follow in his footsteps, thank you very much. Idiot-freak-psycho-EX! I am so angry about that; gee, it probably shows, too. Sigh.
And one more thing, while I'm on the subject. If she cares so deeply about whether we have any food in our house to feed HER child, why doesn't she consider just maybe paying more than $90 a month in child support? Just a thought. Oh, and now we've got enough zucchini to bake about 2 dozen loaves of bread with. Wanna bet there'll be another freakish phone call?
So today we get the fallout from one of the psychotic eXpisodes (go read The Man's post about it; you won't regret it). For those of you who are putting off going there, I'll sum up: TM's ex is a psychotic who totally projects her own crimes on others and loves to accuse TM and me of neglecting and/or abusing #1 Son, even though she has no other reason than her own psychosis. A while back, she called 911 because all of us assured her that #1 Son had not sustained a serious injury when a small rock hit him on the head. We must be lying about the extent of the injury, she insisted (though somehow she believed the bit about its existence), and although she was nowhere within 100 miles of us or the boy, she filed a report with the cops. (Yes, this has been going on for more than 8 years now, and no, we are not amused, and no, the authorities still haven't caught on.)
So, today, right. Today the Child Protection Services shows up on our doorstep. Someone (gee, we can't imagine who) has reported that our children are being starved and that all they get to eat is scraps of banana bread. OK, we did have an awful lot of banana bread there for a while, but nobody in their right mind... Oh, yeah. All right, lady, come on in and take a peek in the pantry... the fridge...the freezer too if you want, but watch out for falling chickens. Yeah, take the kids aside and ask them what they've had for dinner recently. We'll wait. (Note that Pirate Boy gives a more accurate account than #1 Son, despite being only 6. The kid's got a great memory.)
So it turned out OK, I think. We talked a lot more about the molestation situation, and how no, sending #1 Son to live with "Mommy" would probably not be the best thing for him, considering her attitude about making a family for him with the Molester. And the CPS lady totally agreed with me that #1 Son needs to be watched carefully as he enters puberty, lest he continue the cycle-- she stressed that the aforementioned "family" situation could make it worse, could encourage him to idolize the older boy and follow in his footsteps, thank you very much. Idiot-freak-psycho-EX! I am so angry about that; gee, it probably shows, too. Sigh.
And one more thing, while I'm on the subject. If she cares so deeply about whether we have any food in our house to feed HER child, why doesn't she consider just maybe paying more than $90 a month in child support? Just a thought. Oh, and now we've got enough zucchini to bake about 2 dozen loaves of bread with. Wanna bet there'll be another freakish phone call?
Thursday, August 10, 2006
T13: Is It Thursday Already?
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Someone's really looking out for us.
We're gonna make it. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Hallelujah
Someone's been reading my blog. It must be that. How else would someone know to leave a couple bushels of food on our porch right about now? How would they know I love M&Ms and could probably use some chocolate? Yeah. I think I know who it is, too. Bless you.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Mouse Potatoes
Tonight as I sat at the desk and The Man lounged on the couch with the laptop, I burst out laughing. He asked what was up, and I managed to stop snorting long enough to tell him to check CNN.com's tech section. After a brief discussion of Sen. Joe Lieberman's predicament, he found the right article. "Wow," I managed. "They have a term for what we do every night." And for some other stuff, too. Some of it may be gone from the lexicon by morning, but I'm keeping my favorite, which describes us perfectly: electroverts.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Nobody's Going to Make It Stop, Are They?
I ought to know better. Just when I think "I can make it only another hour and no longer," I ought to realize that at the end of that hour I will find the means to go on after all because I haven't got any choice. Not really, I don't. Turn the kids over to their own self-destructive tendencies and just walk out the door? No, I can't do it. I have to go on, no matter how late The Man comes home, no matter how little sleep I've had, no matter how my head throbs from all the screams and whines, and no matter how badly the pain makes me want to throw up. Day after day after freakin' day.
So what I need to do is figure out how to live this way without losing hope, sanity, and self-control more than once per day. (Oooh, you're lucky you didn't hear me tonight. My family may never recover from all the screaming I did. One whine too many as I fixed dinner through my own sobs.) It helps to hear from my sister who is facing possible breast cancer and to read about other moms with chaotic lives. It does. To quote Morgan Freeman, "You are still alive."
Oh yes, and I need to figure out how to feed a family of 5 for the next 3 1/2 days on nothing but 3 loaves of bread and 2 fishes-- no, 2 containers of sour cream. And some mushy tomatoes. We have a little bit of cheese left, and... let's see... some canned peaches. Very little else, outside the spice/baking supplies cupboards. It's going to be a tight squeak until the windows of heaven open again on Friday. But we'll be OK. We will. What choice have we got?
So what I need to do is figure out how to live this way without losing hope, sanity, and self-control more than once per day. (Oooh, you're lucky you didn't hear me tonight. My family may never recover from all the screaming I did. One whine too many as I fixed dinner through my own sobs.) It helps to hear from my sister who is facing possible breast cancer and to read about other moms with chaotic lives. It does. To quote Morgan Freeman, "You are still alive."
Oh yes, and I need to figure out how to feed a family of 5 for the next 3 1/2 days on nothing but 3 loaves of bread and 2 fishes-- no, 2 containers of sour cream. And some mushy tomatoes. We have a little bit of cheese left, and... let's see... some canned peaches. Very little else, outside the spice/baking supplies cupboards. It's going to be a tight squeak until the windows of heaven open again on Friday. But we'll be OK. We will. What choice have we got?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Thursday Thirteen: The Princess Quotes
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[Update: My husband pointed out that I had the same quote twice. So I changed #12. This should help the attitude problem these quotes seem to have.] Links to other Thursday Thirteens! |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
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