Jason R. circa 1994-6

I imagine that, as with all things we imagine to be unique to ourselves and which turn out to be quite universal, actually, that we all have a connection with a certain name. A name we encounter over and over again throughout the course of our lives. For a long while, that name for me was Jason.

According to the hallowed hall of general knowledge that is Wikipedia, “Jason was a late ancient Greek mythological hero, famous as the leader of the Argonauts and their quest for the Golden Fleece…” There has also been a King Jason, a High Priest Jason, a philosopher Jason, a cat, a power ranger, a rocket, a government advisory group and perhaps most infamous, an ax murderer, all named Jason.

My first kiss was a boy named Daniel, my 2nd was a friend named Jason Cox, who lived around the corner from me. There was also Jason H., Jason Coffey, Jason R., Jason’s whose last names I have long forgotten and of course, Jaylin Jones, who I always counted as one of the Jason’s.

Jason R. was perhaps the one who meant the most to me and perhaps my first love. He was neither a greek hero, a king or a priest. He had short brown hair, sparkling deep brown eyes, like chocolate, a nose that I’d recognize even now and a smile that was so natural and bright enough to light up a room. I met him at a mall. I was a runaway, and had come to my favorite hangout to get away from my vicious siblings and indifferent parents. I was hungry, and needed a place to stay for the night. I was not the hiding and sleeping in the mall type, though I suppose I would have been up for it if someone else suggested it. Jason was sitting by himself in the food court, eating chinese. I brazenly walked up, sat in the chair across from him and asked if he would share his egg roll with me, which he did. Soon he introduced me to his friends who turned up at some point and these guys became my best friends, who I lied to and hurt repeatedly and for years.

Jason and I played leap frog along the canal as we walked from the mall to the apartments where a few of the guys lived. Three of them took me in, and it makes me very sad to realize that I don’t remember their names. They were from California, didn’t believe in microwaves and had an aquarium. I remember that I was supposed to make breakfast for them as my way of paying rent, but that was quickly forgotten around the first time I tried to make bacon on the stove top, after years of watching my dad cook it in the microwave… They had a black cat named el gato. We once all got very high together and figured out the secrets of the universe in one night, of course I have long forgotten those secrets, though aliens were definitely involved. They were really good guys and I hope they are having excellent lives somewhere.

Jason and I didn’t see each other very often, he was going to school and lived a little distance away, but when we did it was good, like we were drawn together and we fit together like puzzle pieces. The last time I saw him, it was outside the same mall I had met him, he saw me and shouted my name and grabbed me in an embrace that was like being home, the world calm and still and warm, all exactly as it should be. I had to wrench myself away and I might have cried if I had known the next time I saw him would be nearly 16 years later, on the Department of Corrections website, wearing the same orange jumpsuit that all prisoners wear and with the sparkle in his eyes long gone.

When I first saw that picture I felt a longing to reach out to him, write him a letter, tell him I was married, living in England with three children. All grown up, if you will. I suppose I thought it would be important to him, me reaching out from the past, perhaps even comforting. The girl with whom he had once sat in a closet for hours talking about his family, his fears and hopes and dreams, even reciting poetry. Of course he might also not remember me at all, the look in his eyes was one I associated with long time huffers, completely vacant. Though I wanted to write the letter, and did write one, I could see no point in sending it. This was not a person I wanted in my life, and had I sent the letter I probably would not have even included a return address. Perhaps I really had grown up, and grown out of needing these people, who I once adored.

I believe Jason has probably been released now, and I wish him well, though my heart aches that his life has not turned out the way he would’ve wanted.

Thanks for the egg roll, and the memories.

20/20

My eldest son has what I imagine is about the worst vision possible this side of legal blindness. Nobody knew this until he was about 6. I suppose a lot of his early behaviour issues probably were closely linked, but I was a young first time mother and oscilliated between privately thinking my child was crazy or completely normal. I didn’t know. Oddly enough, I don’t remember the first time it was suggested he may have a vision problem, whether it was before or after his teachers tried to convince me he had ADD and to medicate him, his first vision test, or even his first pair of glasses. I don’t even remember the first time I learned how poor his vision was, perhaps I blocked it out because not a day goes by that I don’t berate myself for unintentionally letting him go through his first years of life like that. Shocking to me is that my child was forcibly taken from me and circumcised while he screamed and I begged them not to, but checking his vision was not a priority for nearly 6 years. (I gather the APA’s priorities are slightly different now, we can but hope.)

My daughter had her vision tested at my firm insistence early on and, thankfully, it was perfect. I have not worried about Rafe’s vision as he has not exhibited any signs of vision trouble, and here in the UK, the health visitors are pretty on top of it. But, it’s been awhile since Rafe has seen a health visitor and rarely needs to go to the doctor and since he is school age, I thought it should be professionally checked. The morning of the appointment, I kicked myself for not insisting it be done when he was much younger, for once again putting my faith in the professionals and I was terrified it was going to be a similar case to my older sons. Thankfully, it was not. I had prepared him for the appointment beforehand and he quite enjoyed wearing all the funny contraptions and telling the eye doctor what the symbols on the wall were. He really wanted to use the letters and not the symbols, but wasn’t quite confident enough in letter names (they teach them the sounds first.)

To be told he had 20/20 vision made me want to cry with happiness. I suppose I wouldn’t go so far as to call my eldest son’s poor vision a disability, but I imagine the relief I felt knowing my younger children will not have to endure the same challenges and pain that he has must be equal to that of any mother, who aches to see one child suffer and rejoices to know their siblings will not.

Rafey

Yes, that is a Santa hat next to him. The fact that he was wearing a Santa hat in August greatly offended the cleaning guy we passed, who felt the need to point out Christmas was 4 months (is that all? Shit- I’m still in 6 months away mode!) away, and then a moment later, having apparently decided he was super annoyed, informed me it was at least 130 days away! (144 days to Christmas, actually. 89 until Halloween and, most important in this house- 227 days until Rafe’s 6th birthday. This kid is on top of his holidays!)

Year 4

Devon’s 4th birthday party was held at a bowling alley, and I guess that’s why I don’t have any pictures? a small family party and I don’t have any pictures because Devon has them all in his photo album. His 5th birthday was at the bowling alley, and I’m fairly sure I don’t have any pictures of that.

Anyway, the last few birthday pictures I’ve posted he hasnt been smiling and I don’t want anyone to think he was some miserable little sod of a kid, so I thought I’d use some pictures with smiles to celebrate year 4.

Graduate!

Devon graduated from preschool when he was 4. They had a proper ceremony and everything, he even got a diploma. He was so happy and had so much fun at the party. He started kindergarten that fall, and I’m sure I cried. My baby was growing up. God, I had no idea. He’ll be 14 in 11 days. Last night when talking about what he was going to do when he finished school, we were talking about the possibility of him going into the armed forces. Devon said to a friend of the family, “I’m not sure I should really leave mom with Olivia and Rafe though, they might put her in a care home, you know.” Apparently he thinks that once he leaves home I will age 50 years and no longer be able to take care of myself?

Devon, clown, some other child

We also attended my company picnic that year, which featured a clown, a bouncy castle, a barbecue and even an inflatable jousting tournament for the kids. This was my favorite year with Devon as a little one, he mellowed considerably from the terrible twos and three’s and real school (and all the associated trouble) was still a while off. He told me lovely jokes, and we were always out and about. His favorite thing to do that year was go to the park and feed the ducks. This is the year I’d have over again for the sheer joy of it.

Cornwall 2010

Around this time last year I was not in a good place, and as I watched my settlement money from my unfair dismissal claim quickly dwindle, I knew I needed to get away before it was all gone and I was poor again.

 

So, I made last minute arrangements (as in “Hi, do you have a room free? Great, we’ll be there in 6 hours” kind of arrangements), arranged for the neighbor to keep an eye on the cats who had plenty of food and water and an open window so they could come and go (we live in a quite cul-de-sac and the neighbor would keep an eye on them). We threw all our gear in the car and we went. We spent a week in Cornwall, our 1st favourite place in the UK. We stayed in the former governess quarters of a large Victorian manor house, and spent our days taking long walks, going to the beach, exploring all the wonderful Cornish towns and villages (Mevagissey, Polperro, etc) and just really enjoying being together and not having to worry or stress about anything. (Well, not completely true, I took our big computer with us so I could finish an essay that was due imminently, but by our 3rd day I admitted defeat and arranged an extension instead. Good decision.)

Newquay, 2010 Olivia and Rafe

I love going on holiday with my family. I am glad we had that week in Cornwall last year, and grateful we had the ability to do it. Yes, I’m feeling ragged and tired and another Cornish holiday is exactly what I’m dreaming about right now. But that was a good time, and the memories and the pictures make me happy. So, I’m marking the calendar for next year, and hopefully we’ll be able to take a holiday to celebrate being a family, and not another one hiding from the problems that have been tearing us apart, though even those can offer some solace to a tired soul.

Never Wore Flowers In My Hair part 2

Union Square. Possibly my favorite part of San Francisco. It was like a gateway to me, once I was at Union Square, I knew how to get anywhere. I wonder if I’d feel that way now, if I went back there?

I remember the music. Almost every day and night there would be music, it was magical, to me. Buskers, mostly. But occasionally, something great would come along, and they werent just playing for spare pennies.

Sean and I danced one night. In Union Square, while one of those rare and special bands played. I don’t remember their faces, or the instruments or tune they played. But I do know that it was something infectious which just…moved the air and you with it. We danced and we laughed and he held me in his arms under the lights of Macy’s windows. Then someone in the band, the singer I think, looked at Sean and said “She’s a lovely girl, you take care of her.” Sean looked at me and touched my face and promised he would, and I felt for a moment like all was right and perfect with the world and everything in it.

Sean was my 2nd love. He was from Oklahoma, and his parents had property out there and we were going to move there and live in a ranch house and he would get a job in oil and we would be happy. This fantasy spoke loudly to me, and my strange desire for that sort of heartland lifestyle. Sean was sort of broken and messed up and I was stupid and naieve enough to think he needed me and I could fix him.

In the end I didn’t go to Oklahoma and I haven’t seen Sean in almost 15 years. My 14 year old in love self would be devastated by that, but my 29 year old self is glad for it. He was sort of broken and messed up and it turns out, I was too. I never could’ve fixed him. But, I still think of him from time to time. Somewhere I may even still have a photobooth picture of he and I, it would make me smile to see it again, and being a girl, one prone to nostalgia and romance, I wonder if he still has his two from the strip of four we divided between us.

Coffee Cake

Growing up, there were two cookbooks in our house that were my mothers bibles. The Panasonic Microwave cookbook and the Bisquick Recipe book. After 20odd years of constant use both were falling apart when I left home for England in 2005 and I don’t even know if she has them anymore. It is only in recent years that I have realized what a big part of my life the dishes in these books were. While I don’t use the same recipes my mom did, many of the same meals and desserts that she made from these recipes are a regular fixture on my own dining table.

On a side note, I have to give credit to Betty Crocker for the creation and phenomenal marketing of Bisquick. A staple of most American kitchen cupboards for decades, it is essentially no more than self-raising flour. When I discovered after my transatlantic move in 2005 that Bisquick was virtually unheard of here in Britain I panicked, how would I possibly bake anything??!!!? I soon realized that anything I could do with Bisquick, I could do with flour and raising agents and I never looked back. But, it shows the power of marketing, back home you use Bisquick instead of flour, pay about twice as much for it and don’t think to question it.

But lets get back to the cake, shall we? One of my absolute favourite recipes was Coffee Cake. The name is slightly misleading as it is named for being a cake you enjoy with coffee, it contains no coffee itself. I was having a look at facebook and noticed a friend had posted a picture of the British version of coffee cake, an iced “slab cake”, no doubt containing coffee flavoring and excessive amounts of sugar, I cringed just looking at it. But, it prompted memories of the delicious coffee cake I had enjoyed so much growing up. Not often, as my mother wasnt a huge fan of it, so it was even more of a pull. I had to make it. Immediately.

So, I did. The smell was wonderful, just like I remembered. The stresuel topping, amazing. The Williams-Sonoma recipe I used suggesting using a bundt pan for this cake. Friends, you know I nearly did. Nearly convinced myself that this time, I could do it! But, I pulled myself back from the edge and used my spring form pan instead.With the consequence that the edges and sides were slightly dried out and over brown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the cake itself! A thing of beauty. Moist. Delicious. I almost cried tears of joy at the same time as a melancholy feeling of longing for my childhood came over me. Even my husband relished every bite, before ruining it by suggesting I add glace cherries in the future. *sigh*

I’m tempted to make this an apple coffee cake next time, which would complement the cinnamon and brown sugar of streusel perfectly. A wonderful and easy cake, I recommend it wholeheartedly.

So. Freaking. Good.

fa la la la la

So, the router is finally fixed and I’m back up and running. There really isn’t any good reason to not be blogging. In fact I have started some posts. People profiles, of friends I had many years ago, are some of the posts I’ve started. But, time has a funny way of distorting memories, and I find that actually, I can’t remember enough about these people to fill up a whole post.  Which is sad in so many ways, not least because for the short time I knew them, they meant so much to me.  Part of me wonders if it’s really that I don’t remember, or if it’s more like I never really knew much about them at all. I decide that instead of simply telling you about these people, I should really be telling you our stories. I like that idea, so I’ll be working on that for awhile, and hopefully they’ll start appearing here soon.  In the meantime I’m hard at work on my Psychological Development and Early Childhood course, with my Social Psychology books waiting in the wings for their turn.  It looks like my husband will be returning home soon, for a trial run, though he may be losing his job, due to his industry being in a virtual free fall currently.

Another disaster? Universe, you do spoil me.

I leave you with this  picture of the wall behind me as it is right now, the 20th of January. Almost a full month after Christmas.

 

Also of note: Six red and gold pillar candles and the 2 ft. tall fiber optic Santa on the printer shelf next to me.

eachingtay ymay idskay a ewnay anguagelay

My husband doesnt speak pig latin. This was shocking to me when I first learned it. I thought everybody spoke pig latin. But, my husband grew up in a different time and place and so, he doesnt speak pig latin. He’s not terribly interested in learning, either so I mostly speak it to be silly or annoy him. It can get a bit boring though, speaking a silly language to yourself.

I don’t know the last time I actuallyhad a conversation with another person using pig latin, probably not sicne I was 12.  I decided it was finally time to teach my kids this fine art. They loved it of course, caught on right away and so for the last day I’ve been conversing with other people in pig latin!  It’s been loads of fun, but I have to admit it’s been a bit of a challenge working otu what they are saying, so I feel a tiny bit bad for all the grief I gave my husband all those times he just looked at me and rolled his eyes when he couldnt work out what I was saying.

I havent done any sort of scientific (or otherwise) poll on the subject, ut I kind of get the impression that pig latin isn’t really a thing over here in Grand old Britain, so I especially enjoyed teaching the big kids, because now of course they can teach their friends who will hopefully be delighted.

Our favorite word so far is odaytay which of course is “today”. It’s a lot of fun to say and of course it sounds so bizarre, it takes a moment to work out, even though it is such a common word!

I was glad to be able to share this with my kids, I feel so frequently that there is nothing new and exciting that I can teach them, they are so bright and with it, they know so much about the world and have their own opinions. I hope they will remember learning it from me with fondness. I can’t recall who taught me, only that it was a long time ago. I can’t imagine it was my mother or even my sister so it was probably some friend that I have long ago lost contact with and will probably never meet again. It’s a small thing, I suppose but I am grateful for that friend  for giving me that gift, something that many years later I would share with my children and at which they would laugh in delight and spend hours coming up with new words and phrases to say, especially my daughter who carried on a conversation with me in pig latin all the way to school today, even with other people around.   

I’m curious is anyone else speaks pig latin? Where and when did you learn it? Do you still use it now? I’m very interested in knowing if it is just an American thing.

(ps. library computers are rubbish, I swear it’s a 56k dial up connection and the sheer slothlike speed makes me want to gouge out my eyeballs, or at the very least beat someone over the head with this giant keyboard that sounds like a tap dancing troup is performing on the desk.)

more lessons from motherhood

There is screaming ascending the stairs. It is the girl and I assume there must be an axe murderer or at least the hounds of hell chasing her. She rounds the corner and flys into the baby’s room, still screaming. On her heels is her older brother, glaring menacingly. He sees me and stops dead.

*sigh*  To your room, I say. He grumbles. He didn’t do anything, it’s all her fault, he always gets the blame, we all hate him. Something along those lines. I stopped paying attention or responding ages ago.  He stomps away and I hear the door slam, but not before he sticks his arm out and points directly at his sister, he will finish this later.  She squeals.   To your room, I say. She cries.

I don’t know why they’re fighting, I don’t care. That particular boat sailed long ago.   Getting involved solves nothing. And mostly just makes it worse.

I head downstairs and prepare lunch, half an hour later I call them both down to eat. I say simply and calmly that that behaviour is unacceptable and they are both old enough to know better. They apologize, first to me, then to each other, without me having to prompt them. The problem, whatever it was is forgotten as they talk about their favorite song to listen to and see if it is on guitar hero, while they eat.

It took a long time for me to get to this point. To realize that yelling was not required, ad nausea talking was not required, getting involved in the issue is not required. Previously this sort of incident would have ended in tears all around, yelling, more door slamming, and my son completely shutting down, running off or becoming actually violent.  These occurrences are less and less now.

To meet my son you wouldn’t think he was any different from any typical child, I daresay you would even be impressed by his vocabulary and his excellent manners.  You would be surprised to know that at three months old he was already trying to rip out his hair with his own hands in anger and frustration. At three years old he was jumping out his second story window and running off during time out and at six he was thrown out of school after he fled his first grade classroom out of frustration and anger and ended up in the pharmacy down the street scared and lost where two policemen grabbed him, handcuffed him and put him in the back of a police car.

These days, it scarcely seems like the same child. We have both learned so much since those days. I have spent so many nights lying awake and wondering why he is the way he is. Is it a medical thing? Is it my fault? But, it seems unlikely that I will ever know for sure, and really it doesnt seem to matter all that much anymore. The damage that was done by the constant assessments, interviews, meetings and reports that lead to no action and no improvement has been done.The damage done by a young mother who had no idea what to do with her screaming, hitting, preschooler, and who probably did the wrong things at first, has been done. We have come out the other side, perhaps bloody but not beaten, and certainly smarter and stronger.

But, it is not all sunshine and roses.

Every mother has the moment. When her child lashes out verbally for the first time, usually with a defiant ” I HATE YOU!”. It leaves the mother stunned and speechless, maybe even in tears. Eventually the child’s tears and anger subside, the problem is corrected and all is again well with the world, but in the mothers heart- there is still a sadness, an echo of those words that will probably remain with her the rest of her life.  Long after she has gotten used to such outbursts, has learned to ignore the melodrama, or even bite back with a sarcastic “OH? Then I guess you won’t want me cooking your meals anymore, WILL YOU?!” (That’s not just me, right?) The pain will remain, but eventually the wound scars over and the mother can attribute new found wisdom to it, enabling her to offer sage parenting advice.

How about when the words cut deeper? When your teenager shouts “FUCK OFF!” at you and then runs away?   I imagine there are many weathered parents out there who have gone through the teenage years and have had their share of fuck off’s thrown their way, but for me, it was like being thrust back almost 10 years to the first time my son screamed “I hate you!” at me, and then slammed his door.  For  a moment I could only stand there and watch as he ran down the sidewalk, arms pumping by his sides. Part of me felt so defeated-  wanted to sit down on the driveway ,head in hands and cry.  But I didn’t. You can’t. Our kids needs us, right?  Never so much as when they are trying so hard to push us away.

He come home eventually, and I was at the front door waiting and as soon as he came in the door he threw his arms around me and started crying and saying how sorry he was.

It is not hopeless, though frequently it can feel that way.  A young mother learned to hug instead of yell. A boy learned that he could sit silently for a little while and things would work themselves out in head. His mother learned to let him. We are all better off for it. Most of all, him.

Ever just not like someone?

Admittedly, I am probably the one people just don’t like. The loud, opinionated American who talks to much. Having said that, I tend to have people in my life that I like and get on with and everyone else is either a casual acquaintance, that’s fine!, or not part of my life.

 

Rarely do I take a rather extreme dislike to someone, but it has happened with 3 people in the last 5 years.  What bothers me the most about this is that the people I tend to dislike on sight are the ones that everyone else loves to death. What is that about? Try as I might I can not find a single thing to like about them- yet they have everyone else eating out of their hand. Is it me- some sort of jealousy issue? I don’t think so- I genuinely find these people to be horrid and very curious why others find them so appealing.

When I dig a little deeper I find that these people remind me very much of the bullies who taunted me mercilessly as I was growing up. The ones who asked in a sneering, break glass voice, “Whyyyyyy?” As in “Why are you wearing THAT?” Why are you doing THAT?” Why, why why.  I realize that the mannerisms of these people are very much the same as those of my seventh grade bullies so many years ago.  They gossip behind your back, ridicule you to your face in a stupid sweet as pie voice, and are ever so adept at making it look like it’s all in jest and oh, so fun! “Banter”, the British call it.

I simply think they are twofaced, and I have no time for it. This attitude endears me to exactly noone, and this bothers bothered me for a long time. Why do others put up with it? IS it truly some character default within me?  If everyone else likes these snarky, pretentious, shallow people- shouldn’t I? OR Is it a trait that bullying survivors share> the ability to spot them coming a mile away?

I wonder what you, lovely readers, think about this? Have you ever just met someone that you disliked- even if they were well received by most others? Why do you think this is?