entropicmom

RIP R.B. 3/11/1950 - 12/24/2008

2009-11-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

My son's father has passed away.

I kept track of his whereabouts via the sex offender database. He dropped off the list, so I googled him, and found his name on a Mormon genealogy website.

I have not wished him ill for a very long time. I no longer directed my anger toward him. What I hated was the person I became when I was with him.

I pray she remains dead for all eternity.

A clean house is the sign of an empty wallet

2009-06-30T19:09:00.000-07:00

There has been a flurry of activity out here in Entropia, the Kingdom of That in Which Nothing Much Happens. The precipitating circumstances are painful to revisit, and serve no purpose (kind of like punching the stitches where the doctor just sewed you up), so I'll forgo that trip. Here's the good stuff:

Last week, I plunked down $600 to have a bunch of old furniture and crap hauled away, and my house cleaned and scrubbed and shampooed from top to bottom (including carpets and windows, even the second story outside!) Even my refrigerator, toaster, and microwave are clean. All at the same time. I also donated three lawn-and-leaf bags filled with books, and have another box (12x24x6) of books and DVDs waiting patiently at the door, like a well-trained dog.

I have learned that every two days, I fill the giant kitchen trash and the large-ish upstairs trash, so I have to take them out every other day. I have also learned that I can count on The Person I Live With to have a poop accident at least once a day, so I must be handy with the Woolite carpet cleaner and the Lysol bathroom cleaner. And something to coat my nose with; you can learn a lot from crime investigation stories.

I have also learned, in just the last few days, how an organized house makes me feel calmer inside. It helps me think more clearly. I have organized my desk, and filed important papers that have been sitting there for months, some more than a year. Why let them sit? Because I thought, What difference does it make if his birth certificate goes into the file box when there is poop smell coming from the corner of the living room that I can't get out of the carpet?

I have also set up baskets and a little bookshelf with his art supplies, and with freed-up bookshelf space, have given the young man a place of his very own for books.

We have also whittled down his toy collction from a gazillion plus to four baskets that are not even overflowing. Admittedly, they are laundry and hamper-sized, but it's a start. And he has bought in to the idea of donating toys to Goodwill (as long as he is able to buy one or two news ones at the same time!) With his help (but mostly without), I also disposed of three lawn-and-leaf sized bags of broken toys, cheap Happy Meal toys (all 8,372 of them), game pieces to long-lost games, and books whose pages were ripped, or stained with substances sometimes identifiable but often too frightening to make the attempt.

Then there were the bed linens. I buy them as cheaply as I can, because there are some things I just won't attempt to wash in shared laundry facilities. My neighbors may not be my best friends, but they don't deserve that. That accounted for three or four more bags.

I still have the closets to sort and organize, and I have to find someone willing to haul the twin mattress away, the Evil Twin Mattress Stained With The Unspeakable. It's a craigslist ad waiting to be written.

I'm thanking God in the quiet of my heart and the quiet of my mind, thanking Him that what others intend for evil -- the cause of all this activity -- He intends for good. My home has not been this clean, and this organized, in over fifteen years. And He is a God of harmony and order, not chaos or confusion.

There is much to do in the coming months. He is preparing me. I am thankful.

I'm you' butwer!

2009-05-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my son approached me and said, "I'm you' butwer!" (Those l's have always been problematic, something speech therapy has been unable to heretofore remediate.)

Then he said, "I bing soda fo' you!" Which he did, a glass of diet Coke, with ice no less, on a makeshift paper-plate butler's tray.

Am I a pampered princess, or what?

I will sing of your mercy . . .

2009-05-13T22:50:00.000-07:00

I will sing of your mercy that leads me through valleys of sorrow to rivers of joy. Yeah. Allelluia.

This Christian walk is a weird thing, unlike anything in this world, and I am most inept at it.

The first and only thing I have ever embarked upon that didn't depend on my wits, skill, and ability to disappear quickly without drawing attention to myself. (Where could I go that You could not find me?)

It is the Father of all good new/bad news scenarios.

Which makes sense, it being the Father's work.

Roar at me, Aslan. I need to hear You roar!

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T12:07:00.000-07:00

It's just another day. May 10th, this year.

I can't escape the feeling that something is wrong with this one.

I'm tired; I only slept about three hours last night.

I've been informed by my son that he doesn't like Mother's Day (presumably because I am playing the "it's Mother's Day" card as an argument against doing what he wants to do).

No one has personally wished me a happy mother's day. (Not counting the group email my cousin sent to about twenty-five women in his mailbox.)

I suspect the guy I had a date with last night won't be calling again.

Other than the trouble with that Wilkes Booth fellow, Mrs. Lincoln found the play thoroughly enjoyable.

Is it self-pity, or an accurate assessment of reality?

Or some of both . . . ?

Transition

2009-02-19T08:25:00.000-08:00

How to start?

The time has come.

Or perhaps, the time has just come closer. Yes, that is a certainty. Whether the time has actually come remains to be seen, but the time has certainly come for me to begin the exploration.

What the heck am I exploring?

Group homes.

Someone I live with will be seventeen next month, an age at which many go off to college.

The emotional fallout is Biblical.

Gray Friday

2008-11-28T07:53:00.000-08:00

This is the day the media dubs "Black Friday." I read or heard recently that it's because it's the day retailers finally go into the black; it's the day they rely on to make a profit for the year.

If that's so, it's pretty sad. For them, and probably for us, as well. Because it all depends on the frenzied acquisition of STUFF! Something I battle daily to be rid of.

The day promises to be uneventful here, provided I stay out of fights with fools on forums. (If I believed in channeling, I'd think Spiro Agnew had wandered in here!) A day full of Nickelodeon, and PBS Kids when Nick gets too commercial, and a book or two or three, and eating turkey and stuffing, and warm baths, and naps.

I'll call it "Gray Friday," to match the sky. And if I do it right, I shan't buy a thing.

Between the now and the not yet

2008-11-25T05:33:00.000-08:00

Lying awake at night. The moment all goes quiet externally, the volume within rises to painful heights.

How do you give your child Christmas when you cannot pay your bills? How do you shake the feeling that you have only yourself to blame?

How do you walk another day, when faith fails?

I believe, but there is a gulf I cannot leap between myself and the Object of my faith.

Help Thou my unbelief.

Things I don't understand, and perhaps never will (first in an occasional series)

2008-11-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

So here's this whole Christian thing. Struggling to get it, to understand what I've committed to if I've identified myself with the Christ of the Bible. For sure do not want to be one of those who hears, "Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then I meet people, lots of people, who claim this same Christ. And at first, all is well. Lovely. Splendid. Just a regular smooch-in agape-fest.

Until they do something stupid and sinful. And then I am ready to expose them for the hypocritical wolves in sheeps' clothing they are!

The thing is, all the while, I have engaged in sin as well. But mine has been in secret. At least more secret than theirs. I don't shout mine from the rooftops (or post it on the internet); I have the good sense to be ashamed.

So, why do I want to expose them? To appropriate the question of a million Stanislavskiites, What's my motivation?

To feel better about my sin?

Wow.

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." (Psalm 139:23-24 NIV)

Depart in peace; men are pigs

2008-11-15T07:11:00.000-08:00

How do I say this? Men suck.

Even Christian men.

They find a thousand ways to hurt you before they've even gotten out of bed.

The last statement is hyperbole; no one shares my bed except the boy who sometimes wanders in after a bad dream; I wake up with eight inches of mattress and two hundred pounds of teenager.

The latest man tells me to, "Depart in peace; be warmed and filled," while he posts pictures of women in swimsuits on our forum!

No wonder he's fifty years old and living with his mother.

Eeyore Says Hello

2008-09-10T09:43:00.000-07:00

Hola amigos. Long time no blog.

I have been struggling with depression. I have lived with this for most of my life. I am now 48 years old; I can't remember if I had my first major depressive episode (two weeks or more in duration) when I was six or seven. I suspect it doesn't matter, but to my depressed brain, focus on inconsequential minutiae is the compulsive counterfeit of forward movement.

I'll spare you any more of that, my readership of two.

All is the same. My living room smells of bodily secretions; my carpets are stained; my child is excessively tired for unknown reasons, and sleeping late, so I had to cancel the carpet cleaners this morning; school personnel are terse with me because his attendance is off to a sporadic start, thanks to the side effects of both Sertraline and poverty.

I am running out of money, and at an apparent stalemate in my ongoing chess game with Social Security over Tim's SSI.

SN:AFU.

It's all so very familiar.

All aboard the "Don't follow me; I'm lost" express

2008-08-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

Monday morning, just past mid-summer. Time to straighten up the house in anticipation of the cleaning crew who comes every other week unless I cancel them, which I did two weeks ago because the house was too messy. ("I'm sorry, Dr. Jung; I can't make my appointment today because I am too depressed.") Please don't ask me to explain it; you either understand or you don't, and if you don't, well, congratulations, because that means your thinking is nothing like mine, and that alone is cause for rejoicing.

But I digress. I think. It's hard to tell when you have no destination in mind. Here's what I'm thinking: There are two weeks left of summer before school starts again. I think I will survive. And our friends at the Great Harlot Agency (aka SSA) are saying that they are almost ready to make a determination on Le Petit Chalupa's SSI; must call the office in twenty minutes to badger them. So economic relief, albeit minor, is also on the horizon.

And there is enough food for a few more days, in case my check is late. Of course, explaining soup and spaghetti for breakfast might be a hard sell for that guy I live with. One more thing to pray for . . . his heart, and his stomach. Okay, two things.

Despite the meandering, I think I'm where I meant to go. And where I was meant to be.

The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, and . . . Dad?

2008-08-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

The doctrine of the Holy Trinity never posed too much of a problem for me. It made sense to me from the get-go that God was three in one, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I've since heard teaching that expands my understanding, giving it depth and a resulting appreciation for the great dimension that exists in the created universe that can only be seen with spiritual eyes. (And even then, dimly.)

So in trying to introduce to my son the concept of God as Father, and also the idea that Jesus is God, Tim has logically come to conclude that Jesus is his dad!

What's an abstract-thinking mother with a concrete-thinking son to do?

Well, at least he's happy about the idea!

just thinking

2008-07-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

In every season is the seed of the coming season. All of the summer grass cannot continue green, and the flowers cannot bloom in full forever.

Having admitted to a loathing of summer heat, and a strong dislike of the relentless sun, I now confess that on this warm day I close my eyes, and in the breeze feel the relentless pull of autumn. Yes, that day is ten weeks away. But as long as we live on fallen earth, life and death are our daily bread.

Am I morose to be most at home in the season of dying? The season where we put things to lie fallow until spring? Spring is my second favorite season. It is the seasons of change that I love the most.

I'm so tired; I need a nap. A hibernation? Maybe I am a reverse mammal!

Hot misery in the summertime (sorry, Sly) and other miscellaneous ranting

2008-07-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

Here we are in my least favorite time of the year, a time I associate with extroverts who lack the gene for contemplation, drunken scary people, and a hundred other complaints from the sacred to the mundane.

By a stroke of mercy we are currently being spared miserably hot weather. I am thankful for that. Still, my loathing of this season is in full force, perhaps because of the relentless sunshine we've been subjected to. It causes hypomania and mixed episodes, my least favored mood states (the latter combines all the worst of both poles; oh, joy!)

My summer-hate started early this year; I am already counting the days, and the season is in its infancy. This does not bode well.

On another note, it is time for a confession. I offer it only because without it I cannot rant on my next subject. It is: internet dating.

Okay, so I have a profile (and picture) up on a couple of sites. (That's my confession.) I think I'm pretty clear about who I am, what works for me, and what I'm open to.

So what's up with the profusion of gentlemen in my age bracket who are seeking women: Better looking than they are; significantly younger than they are; who make a lot of money? And also, what's up with the men who describe themselves as Christian, but do not have that as a qualification for a potential mate? I'm confused.

What does being a Christian mean to them? Even the ones who peg themselves as regular and weekly church-goers have some pretty wide-open criteria - pretty much anything but Satan-worship gets a look-see.

The way I see it is this: Men over 50 are looking for women under 35 who have perfect figures, no children or children who don't live with them, make more than $75,000 a year, believe pretty much anything spiritually, and who will accompany them on a plethora of outdoor activities at a moment's notice, including but not limited to: Skydiving, scuba diving, horseback riding, trips to the wine country, hiking, baseball games, skiing, water skiing, and the ever-popular long walk on the beach.

I sense the internet may be the place the male mid-life crisis goes to seek its fortune. (Well, there, and the Porsche dealership.)

I am old before my time. I would be happy with someone who gets my jokes, and can make a decent cup of coffee.

And who loves Jesus.

Good think I am happy alone, most of the time (despite my weather rants).

2008-07-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight, tonight
won't be just any night!
Tonight I will have respite!

(with apologies to Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim)

Yep, in one short hour my beloved friend Jennifer will come over to eat pizza and drink diet Coke while I LEAVE MY HOUSE FOR FIVE HOURS! Technically, it should be six, but midnight is just too darn late, and she can't come any earlier than 6:00. But it's really all okay, because while His Preciousity is out of school (until next week), Mommy desperately needs respite. Respite of any duration. Doing anything. Anything except trying to tune out the sound of Nickelodeon and PBS Kids, and think a thought without interruption.

Thoughts without interruption. That is a pursuit I did not realize the value of until a few years ago, when it dawned on me that since my son was about two years old, the opportunities to engage in such pursuit had dwindled to almost nil. For someone like me, for whom rumination is as familiar as breathing, not being able to do so, significantly altered the quality of my life. Not for the better, it should go without saying.

Case in point: During the time I sat down to write this, I also had to: cuddle on the couch for conversation; engage in discussion regarding benefits of brushing teeth; retrieve clean clothes; take out trash; go to the bathroom. (Admittedly, the last one was me interrupting myself.)

But in just fourteen minutes, I am off! It doesn't even matter what I do.

What matters is that I do it without intrusion.

Listen to the Lion

2008-06-30T08:46:00.000-07:00

"He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." Micah 6:8

I have met lots of new people lately, people who believe all sorts of things spiritually, people who have no concrete spiritual beliefs, people who shoot from the hip and people who are circumspect, people who hang back and people who jump in, people who stir the pot and people who try to calm the troubled waters. Some seek attention, some seek wisdom, some seek peace.

All their arguments, all their philosophies, and all their pain have brought this verse from Micah back to me. The world is always looking for and selling Simple Steps to Happiness, or Wealth, or Great Sex, or countless other things that we think will fulfill us.

What boundless comfort there is in taking God at His word. How good to know where the boundaries are, and at the end of a hard day, to find yourself in the warmth of the Lion's mane, His soft breath upon your face, His truths settling in like marrow in the bones.

All glory be to God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Yeats and respiratory distress

2008-06-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

They're saying in the news reports that there is particulate ash that we are breathing now, so tiny we cannot see it but it gets into our lungs.

I awaken with a sore throat every day, I cough a lot, as does my lamb, and the skies have been ashen for days.

I think of my precious gift, born with chemical pneumonia, and the antibiotic-filled months of his early years. What might this do to his respiratory system, over the long haul?

We stay inside. The car AC is set to recirculate.

We pray.

And wonder, what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

The graveyard shift, but no differential

2008-06-26T02:41:00.000-07:00

I am awake at an hour that can only be called ungodly.

I have permitted His Cuteness to revert to his natural late-night tendencies, and tonight I am waiting him out. He must get tired; he absolutely must!

To the background sound of Sesame Street on sprout, I look for anything to keep me awake - but not too awake! I must be ready at a moment's notice to respond to the call of "I'm towered," and assist the young pup in his bedtime routine.

He is fed; he is medicated; his eyelids begin to droop.

None of this looks like anything I ever intended.

But it is what it is.

Something Changed

2008-06-23T01:47:00.000-07:00

Something changed. It really did. I think it changed today.

For a past few weeks, I have been plagued by my own desperate personality. Fearful, anxious, like I was twenty years ago, it was a terrifying experience to be that vulnerable again. I dutifully slogged through each day, finding momentary relief only to be plunged into an abyss deeper yet, seeking perpetual obedience to the few Truths I know.

And today, something changed. I don't know when. I don't know how. I only know that grace visited me, and the Balm of Gilead has soothed me once again.

To the praise of His glorious grace!

Darn Floor - Big Bite

2008-06-20T16:09:00.000-07:00

from the album "Darn Floor - Big Bite"
Words and Music by Terry Taylor, Tim Chandler, and Greg Flesch©1987 Broken Songs (ASCAP)

You touch my hair and cheek sometimes
Feel in yourself this flesh and blood
My poor flesh and blood, my poor flesh and blood
I think I met an angel once
But I cannot really know for sure
Do I know you now? Do I know you now?

Illuminate my muddled heart
Sweep the shadows from my mind
So I might imagine what you are like
And understand the great design

Darn floor - big bite
You are earth, water and light
Darn floor - big bite
Can I ever hope to get it right, can't get it right

I believe I've had a vision or two
Could have been a dream
I guess it could have been a dream
I saw the wide world crack where you touched down
And bodies wash up on a mythical shore
Will you save me now? Will you save me now?

In not-quite earth, in not-quite heaven
I'll imitate love like lovers do
In not-quite art, in not-quite living
I'll pray that writing it down is part of loving you

Darn floor - big bite
You are twilight, dark and bright
Darn floor - big bite
You are beautiful, terrible terrible sight!

Darn floor - big bite
You are love, fire and light

No I can't get it, no I can't get it right

Crime Scene Investigation

2008-06-20T02:45:00.000-07:00

Paint spatters,

everywhere like blood

unseen except in blacklight.

Crumpled in upon myself,

compression on compression, seeking

pressure greater than any I have known,

but You

stand outside calling,

calling,

calling.

In my ears the roar

of thoughts.

Inside the sacred

profaned yet again, and

recrimination chorus casts the first of many stones.

But I will not implode.

Redemption draws nigh.

Still the voices;

calm the quaking heart.

In my tense repose,

I am bowed to You.

Ode to a former mayor

2008-06-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

Janet's gray haze
lingers around the rim
of our bustling valley,
though gray is a misnomer;
it's really more like whiskey:
It dulls our senses,
and tastes terrible,
and leaves us with a headache the next day.

I don't know if Mrs. Hayes
even drank whiskey.
It's more the providence
of society men,
although I wouldn't really know,
not being a member
of that society.

Red Pajamas

2008-06-13T11:18:00.000-07:00

I will try to tell the story: The truth, the whole
truth,
nothing
but the truth.

I will say what is true.

A gift box came, a month early,
everything wrapped in the paper of the season
to come.
Oh how we looked at those packages!
The promise of delight: Two weeks
of freedom, play, silliness,
uninhibited laughter.

With the treasures came others
sooner put to use:
Not gifts but exotic clothing
worn by older cousins
bought in different stores.

One of these, a pair
of red pajamas,
nylon, with white lace
trimming the edges,
was woefully impractical.
I loved them.
My mother,
champion of the pixie haircut,
cotton, flannel
and sensible blends,
believer in the versatility of neutrals
and faithful to their practicality,
would never have purchased such a thing.
But her youngest sister,
the one who loved Shirley Temple
the baby of her family
indulged her own daughter.
And I
gleaned the fields
after their abundant harvest.

There I am,
all of seven,
Christmas vacation now a promise granted,
purring contentment
at the end of a long day
in my red pajamas.

Was I asleep?
Or in twilight?
I recall only being summoned
in the way of children –
secretly, hushedly, for a new game to be played.
So I follow.

And there in the light
of a small Christmas tree
bought to grace a brother’s small room
I am introduced
to The Hand
and the demon
who would plague my days.

“I can’t find it!” he stage whispers
to his friend, the audience,
who looks on, laughing nervously, but
equally game for the hunt.

When they are done,
I am released
with the admonishment,
“Don’t tell anyone!”

I was such a good girl.
For fifteen years, I did not.

As I lay awake in bed,
I pondered
Why care about where I pee?
And another feeling
a stirring
a sensation
unfamiliar
not unpleasant
but not sweet.
A bitter poison that leads me to the brink of death
with a tiny measure of sweetness that saves me from it.
I shall live on the brink of this death
for years to come.

Even when I told
fifteen years later
it was not
to accuse
but to seek forgiveness
for these events
and all those that came after.

For he did not content himself
with this adventure alone. No.
At least the future’s acts were without audience.
and in the days before camcorders
the only record that remains
is my memory
and his,
which conflict as to role
and motivation.

However,
I am inclined to believe that
at age fourteen
I was not the
devilish seductress
of my brother
six years older.

But may I digress
to address
the betrayal
of the nerve endings
who are without moral compass
or reasoning skill
and when awakened
in a seven year old girl,
they do not go back to sleep
as easily as she.
Instead she is rendered
through her sensations and her need
for significance,
a willing victim, an easy mark,
and hopeless,
full of sorrow
and need.

Seven years later
I begin a new adventure:
the nightly gauntlet
from my room to the bathroom
and his room in between.

He, the favored son
forgiven all transgressions
by his mother confessor,
lies in wait.

(Many years later
she tells me she
only sought to protect him
from the cruelties of his father.
A troubled relationship they had
so different from that
of the father and the younger brother.
And I a mother
of a beloved and vulnerable son
can understand how she felt.
It is a mercy
that she learns of his transgression
when she no longer has the capacity
to remember.)

How long does the nightly gauntlet
go on?
I do not remember.
A brief tour of duty
that goes on forever
everywhere I go.
Some things helped.
Many things helped.
But that initial sense memory persists
of the forbidden
and the pleasure
and the mysterious
and the discarded.
All of which I was too young to understand.

Many months later,
I went to bed with gum in my mouth,
something I knew
would result in disaster.
And sure enough,
by morning
those red pajamas
were in ruin.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

A Night at the Bathtub

2008-06-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

Colored People on the radio
thumping from upstairs,
running water,
electricity hum,
he is oblivious to time.

Between You and Me,
he hums along
so easily satisfied.
He has taught me
satisfaction in the small.

Night purrs
stretches out its legs
extends its claws
into the velvet silence
of dark

everywhere but here
in my laboratory of entropy,
where the experiment
never ends, and
the content do not sleep.

Love (according to C.S. Lewis)

2008-06-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

"Love of every sort is a guard against lust, even, by a divine paradox, sexual love is a guard against lust. No woman is more easily and painlessly abstained from, if need be, than the woman one loves."

The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis, Vol. III

2008-06-11T07:59:00.001-07:00

Have you ever fallen? I mean, fallen into something so tempting, and enjoyed it so thoroughly, all the time knowing it would leave you feeling tormented, humiliated, and just needing more?

This must be what heroin feels like.

Pray for me, friends of Entropy, for I am fallen.

Strange Days

2008-06-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

We might love someone
who's an enemy
We might even break the laws of entropy
We might breathe clean air
You might even listen to me
In the strange days of our lives

When we took the torch into the night
We vowed to search the highways for an honest man
But when we looked into each other's eyes
We knew it would be best to make some other plan

Terry Taylor, Strange Days

And these are strange days indeed. As the much-loved Mr. C used to say, "The world's on tilt, and all the shit's sliding this way." I miss the much-loved Mr. C, and the equally-loved Mrs. C. Why did they have to die when I was busy doing something else?

Let me just interject, I am aware of the rapt self-absorption. If I could type and suck my thumb at the same time, I would.

That's part of it, you know: That people I loved, people who facilitated my initiation into sane life, the midwives of my second birth, are all gone. My beloved, hated Alice. She's alive, but raising her children in Austin, far from wretched, ungrateful me. The aforementioned Mr. and Mrs. C, my second parents.

I feel like the last man standing.

It was never supposed to be this way.

I have no plan, clever or foolish.

My heart is sodden with grief.

Hellooooooooooo Beverly!

2008-06-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

I remember Bud Stuntt. I even had a postcard of him, given to me by a friend from work.

He was a cute little man who did the traffic (and weather?) for KSAN, possibly the best radio station in the world. Definitely the best in the San Francisco Bay Area.

From 1977 through 1979 I listened to KSAN daily. They played everything on the rock spectrum with a strong leaning toward the emerging independent scene and away from record company swill. They played Ian Drury ("Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll") and Warren Zevon before anyone else did. They ran a new episode of Duck's Breath Mystery Theater's Roto the Monster every day:

Roto the Monster
He's from outer space!
Flying to destroy us
Destroy the human race!
Roto the Monster
From Real Far Awaaaay!

And they had Bud Stuntt.

Every morning, he greeted the morning DJ, Beverly Wilshire (!), the same way: Hell00000000 Beverly!

Bud Stuntt passed away many years ago; he was an elderly fellow when he had the KSAN gig.

I miss Bud. I'd just like to hear him say "Hellooooooooo Beverly!" it one more time.

2008-06-08T13:44:00.000-07:00

The weather is okay for now. The dreadful, too-early heat of three weeks ago passed and has not yet returned. The onshore flow will return, but for now it's reversed.

There is one week left of school. The pressure is on to find something to keep the young man busy. He is as inert as I sometimes. Whatever I do, he will get at least a week off. He needs it; so do I.

It's coming up on two years since mom passed, and six since Jan. I see the rest of my family once a year if that, twice if we really try. Is this normal? Good? Healthy?

I am more questioning than answering today.

There are many questions. I don't care to dig today.

The mundane calls; a bathtub in need of cleaning sends its aroma wafting downstairs. Must haul cleaning products upstairs, and paper towels; the upstairs supply closet has been depleted.

I had hoped . . . . I had hoped . . . . I had really hoped that by now . . . .

Well, you know.

And if you don't, I just don't have the energy to tell you.

A Tale of Two Fevers

2008-05-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

My nose hurts.

It also itches, runs, and occasionally sneezes.

And I cough, sometimes with unpleasant results.

I know there is absolutely nothing remarkable about these facts, nor is there about the following:

My son is breathing through his mouth, and has been for several days.

He awoke today with a fever, acting silly and cute and delirious, drank eighteen ounces of flavored water, and went back to sleep, for a total of eleven hours.

In the last six school days, he has attended one day.

I have sat down to write three or four times in the last week, and have had to abandon each effort. Each time, I had a pressing theme, words and phrases and whole sentences formed, multiple clauses floating in my head, turns of phrase eagerly waiting their turn at screen animation.

But no.

So here I am, to tell a tale of snot and phlegm (try explaining what that is to a sixteen year old with Down syndrome), and used tissues and raw noses, piled up laundry and trash, and the whole unremarkableness of it all.

Fully human.

Longing for transcendence!

How to waste a Saturday morning

2008-04-12T10:56:00.000-07:00

Awaken, look at clock. Note time: 7:15-ish a.m. Close eyes and settle deeper into warm bed.

Open eyes again, note time: 8:05-ish a.m. Conclude this is a good time to get up and put the first of MANY loads in the shared laundry, before other tenants get in there.

Turn on computer, start coffee, realize there's no water in the coffeemaker, turn off coffeemaker, put water in, hear sound of son coming downstairs on his bottom, wonder to self if he is clothed.

Log onto computer, observe son 1/3 way down the stairs on his naked bottom. Suggest clothing, or at least underwear.

Note soft whining. Proceed halfway up stairs, engage in precarious hug with large naked teenager with developmental disability. Suggest underwear again. Concession obtained.

Help with underwear, walk him back to his bed.

Go back downstairs to get coffee, realize coffeemaker not turned back on, turn on.

Complete computer login.

Note that half an hour has passed, and still have not put load of laundry in, sipped coffee, or read a single email.

Continue for five more half-hour increments, with additional activities including: Snuggle with son, draw son out on the cause of his whining, determine whining is an expression of desire for orange juice, debate going to grocery store or Starbucks, go to Starbucks, grab napkin to wipe three-quarter inch green slime extending from son's nose while waiting in line, buy orange juice, coffee (because it was STILL not ready when we left), head home, hear son requesting cheeseburger from Jack in the Box for breakfast, choose to indulge son, FINALLY make it home, take medicines, assist son in preparing food, check email, STILL no laundry in, get caught up in reading peoples' left wing/right wing, orthodox/whatever debates on Amazon.com, get irritated about the pharasaical demands of some evangelicals, accept conviction that it is an expression of THEIR need for structure, STILL no laundry, check time: 11:00-ish a.m. . . . .

Decide to blog about it all instead.

The poop on . . . well . . . poop

2008-03-21T12:06:00.000-07:00

* * * * * * C A U T I O N * * * * * *

This blog entry contains references to bodily wastes, the reading of which may gross out the Gentle Reader. Please skip this entry if you are delicate of digestion.

We will resume our normally socially appropriate entries when the subject of our son's bodily functions no longer absorbs 98% of our consciousness.

That could be a while.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I was a young girl, growing up, playing Barbies, and dreaming about my glamorous grown-up life (A stewardess? A nurse? A teacher? Samantha on "Bewitched?"), I never imagined I would have a life so completely devoted to poop.

Its eradication from various surfaces of my home: Carpets, floors, walls, bathtubs, shower doors, toilet seats ("If you can get it on the toilet, can you get it in?"), bedsheets, blankets, chairs, couches, clothing - did I miss anything? - has reached shared rotation with bathing, eating, sleeping and laundry as Things I Must Do At Regular Intervals.

And no, it's not mine.

And no, I'm not an obsessed scientist, running a lab devoted strictly to the research of anti-poop cleanup strategies.

And yes, it's human poop. I do not run a kennel. (Although at times it smells like one.)

I am a mom. A mom of a teenager who has a developmental disability, a side effect of which is fecal incontinence, also known as encopresis.

And I know a thing or two about poop.

I am not of the spiritual persuasion that ascribes to past lives. Those of my acquaintance who are believe that I must have done something to deserve this. One does not need to have done something bad in a past live to deserve a little crap; something bad in this life will serve.

And I am too busy cleaning up poop to re-examine my life for poop-related misdeeds. I'll take my punishment. Bring on the crap.

This message brought to you by Stanley Steemer, Resolve carpet cleaner, Kids-n-Pets furniture and rug cleaner/deodorizer, Arm & Hammer baking soda, Lysol, Ajax, Clorox, and Vero's Household Maintenance.

I Love Job

2008-03-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

I don't yet know if today is a dark day or a light day; it is only 1:10 in the afternoon, and after a week like the one I've had, I ought only to judge a day's tone after I am horizontal and my eyes are closing.

Being more optimistic than not today (score one for the light side), I am choosing this blog, and not her more morose sister.

I have gone back and forth this week and last, several times, as to whether or not the Social Security Administration is in fact the Great Harlot referred to in the Book of Revelation. I believe it may be the Harlot's mother, she who will birth Mystery Babylon after a demonic coupling with God-knows-who, perhaps that World Leader From The East (East Illinois?)

In any event, she is asking for all of my bank statements from October 2006 to present before she will even begin to process Timothy's claim for SSI, so I must gather them all and mail them off to her.

This is because they must redetermine if he meets medical eligibility. Mind you, he has already, twice at least, based on his having Down syndrome; you know, a chromosome, and extra one, the 21st, in every cell in his body. Not a thing known to change.

I have had to suffer too many fools this week, and I have not been humble.

Today I was given Job 1:21: "G-d gives; G-d takes. G-d's name ever be blessed."

Let me always remember this.

Tongue only partly in cheek,
Much Afraid, in relentless pursuit of mediocrity

Not So Much

2008-03-10T06:25:00.001-07:00

One day last week, while driving along, I heard from the back seat, "I love Timmy time." Impressed by the warmth and enthusiasm with which he made this statement, I inquired: "You mean when you wake up and Mommy's still asleep? And you go downstairs and watch Nick at Nite?" "Yes!" (Imagine it said slowly, drawn out, with a blissful grin.)

"Do you love Tony time, too?" (His teacher.) "Yes!" (Same drawn-out bliss.)

"Do you love Jennifer time?" (Our once-a-week respite provider.) "Yes!" (Again, drawn-out bliss.)

"How about Mommy time?"

Silence.

"Not so much?"

"Not so much."

And they said he'd be developmentally delayed! Sounds pretty much like a typical fifteen year old's response to me.

I am oddly relieved that he said this. He has a huge capacity for devotion and affection, most of which was for me. I have been acutely aware in the past few years that he absolutely must develop significant attachments with others, partly to "hard-wire" the skill into to himself, and because I won't be here forever, and I hope for some continuity of people in his life.

I am also relieved because I feared that I was creating dependence, doing the opposite of that which is a parent's goal: Prepare your child to fly away. This tells me that I am not, or at least not as badly as I thought.

Having said that, I still love it when he nestles his head into my neck (a much tighter fit, now) when he announces he is "towered" at night.

But he will be sixteen in a few weeks, and he is not ready to fly alone yet.

Everybody wants a Date with Mystery Babylon!

2008-03-10T06:11:00.001-07:00

(with thanks to Terry Taylor and the Swirling Eddies for the title)

An update on visit to the local Social Security office:

I arrived at 12:20 for a 12:30 appointment and checked in via their computerized system, was given a ticket noting that I had checked in successfully, and sat down with my documentation and my Reader's Digest to wait. Fast forward 45 minutes: I still had not been seen and was about to garner some less-than-welcoming attention from the armed security guard with the gin blossom nose when I was ushered into the back with apology.

The outcome:

There was no way we could do what I came for in the time left. Rescheduling was the only option. (Had they taken me on time, there still would not have been enough time.)
The person who had scheduled the appointment would be informed as to the amount of time required for this kind of appointment so that she wouldn't make this mistake again.
I was properly chastised for being entitled and whiny about not having to wait.
I rescheduled the appointment for Tuesday at 10:30.
I got to talk to a very funny, smart woman who takes claims (like mine), and she said that compared to working for six years as a Marine jet mechanic (yes, those Marines), she found this to be the more complex and demanding job.

So I take back everything I said!

Peace in the Valley

2008-03-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

Monday morning, 6:00 a.m. For most, an unremarkable time. For me, on this day, a small extraordinary.

Yesterday, we set the clocks forward - typically, not my favorite thing to do, and not just because of an hour lost: it also portends spring - a good thing - which gives way to summer - in my book, not so good.

But I find this dark morning no dread for summer, only a quiet and calm because I am up before his Noisiness, the Precious Gift from Above. This is the hour of my sanctuary.

My Appointment with the Great Harlot

2008-03-07T09:52:00.000-08:00

I am preparing for a visit to Our Friends at the Social Security Administration, a Government Agency that serves YOU!

Except I'm not really; I'm sitting here trying to drain off my anxiety for said meeting by writing. Okay, I guess that counts as preparation.

But champion procrastinator that I am, what I'm not doing is gathering the records that Our Friends need in order to determine if my son qualifies for supplemental security income.

The thing is, he does.

I know that. They know that. So why do I have to prove it for the fifth time in sixteen years?

Because they're the federal government, that's why.

Our Friends have informed me that I also need to produce receipts demonstrating how I spent approximately $6,000 that I received as an inheritance.

This is problematic.

I don't have them. I didn't know I needed to save them. The best I can do is produce bank statements showing transactions. That better be good enough, but knowing Our Friends, it won't be.

The existence of government is good. I abhor anarchy. But bureaucracy is as sure a sign of the Apocalypse as Mystery Babylon.

Greetings from the upside of despair!

2008-03-03T12:12:00.000-08:00

Hello, friends and the ranks of the bipolar/mood disorder army (into which we are drafted, quite without our consent, and from which there is no Canadian escape).

It is interesting how quickly a dreadful mood can change. Not instantaneously; were that the case, I would check my meds, and schedule an emergency visit with the p-doc.

No, I am talking about the lying-in-bed-at-7:30-this-morning, idiot-news-radio-blaring-because-it's-the-only-thing-that-wakes-me, it's-too-late-for-a-shower-but-I-need-one-desperately, how-long-has-the-boy-been-up-and-what-horrifying-messes-has-he-made, oh-God-I-am-a-horrible-mother Despair. Capital D-despair. There is so much more I could say, but even in the blogosphere there is such a thing as too much information.

And now, it is 12:21, and I have gone from a 1 to a 7. God is good.

Lessons learned from this:

1. Always take the shower. It just makes you feel better.
2. Thanks be to God for the Awake and Dressed Himself Boy (How did this happen? We still live in the age of miracles, and God is still good.)
3. Make the Boy go to school. (If he bothered to dress himself, clearly he wants to go somewhere. Might as well be school!)

So on this side of despair, I say, God is good!

The Fear of the LORD

2008-02-27T10:03:00.000-08:00

Greetings from the recesses of my celeb-addled psyche. I can now tell you all about Pam Anderson's recent filing for an annulment from her third marriage, as well as the range of reactions from her fans and detractors. I will, however, spare you the language, as most of it will require a shift+number key, and some things just shouldn't be repeated.

What is more significant than Ms. Anderson's love life is my fascination with it, and with so many other things celebrity. Why do I care? To paraphrase Jack Crabtree in the most recent News and Views from Gutenberg College, I am to forsake every thing, including entertainment, in response to the Christ's sacrifice on the cross, and His completion of the work set before Him.

Is it that I do not care? Does my lapse in fervor for Christ imply the converse of my celebrity question -- that I do not care for the Lord?

Honestly, Dr. Crabtree's writings frightened me, because I am not at all times, or even often, filled with ardor for the Lord. I am lukewarm, at best, and fear the consequences.

Well, the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Is there hope . . . ?

BUTT FREEZE!

2008-02-20T10:45:00.000-08:00

Everyone knows what brain freeze is - that wincing headache you get when you eat or drink something very cold too fast. My son, who has Down syndrome, learned this expression and its meaning from his eclectus-loving babysitter (who has taught him many things, some more socially acceptable than others.)

This morning, as I helped him wipe his bottom with a baby wipe, he loudly announced, "Butt freeze!"Is it too late to buy a baby wipe warmer when your baby is almost sixteen? Maybe for his birthday . . . .

A grey day in sunny California

2008-02-20T10:13:00.000-08:00

Today is a grey day, both in weather and mood. The weather I can live with; we need it, and as a lifelong member of the Glass Half Empty and It's Probably Cracked, Too sorority, I rather like it. The mood thing, not so much.

Yesterday and today I went online to my various groups dealing with depression and bipolar. Kicked in the pants and smarting, I pulled myself up by my spandex after reading all the latest stuff, and my outlook did begin to improve. A little.

But sometimes, oh sometimes, not more than two or three times a year, I allow myself the indulgence of reading about what the world outside thinks of my son's disability. And I am reminded that for the duration of his earthly life, he will be considered less than by many. And I ache for him.

Yet while I write this, he is upstairs in the bathtub, listening to Chris Rice, making a joyful noise along with with The Cartoon Song.

Who was it I thought needed my pity? My ache?

Wait 'til I tell you about Butt Freeze!

The Purpose-Driven Life redux

2008-02-05T11:03:00.000-08:00

I've learned that many people of the Christian faith, whose reasoning abilities I respect, take exception to the teachings in the Purpose-Driven movement. Thank God.

I thought it was just me.

I mean, I would have continued not to trust Rick Warren's teachings because they have consistenly been antithetical to the practices that have produced spiritual growth in me.

But it's nice to know I'm probably not totally deceived here.

Let's Try That Purpose Thing Again!

2008-01-10T11:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I was going to write about this annoying Purpose-Drive thing in the church. (You have to read a book, and go to classes, and listen to sermons, and after all that you will - I suppose - have defined your purpose.) I got sidetracked, but now here I am to rant.

I have no objection to Rick Warren and his church. I have no quarrel with people who derive meaning from his writings. As a Christian, I have found purpose another way. It seems a lot simpler.

1. Look around at who and what God has put in my life. These are people, annoyances, job(s), children, etc. with whom/which I can practice godly principles, like maybe the fruits of the spirit or something.

2. Read the Bible as often as I can, or more often than I can ;-) Pay attention to the parts that make sense, because those are the things I can put into practice. The stuff that doesn't make sense, save for later. I'm pretty sure God will bring it up later, when my hard heart can crack enough to take it in.

Could I put that in a book and publish it and make a lot of money?

But what would I do with the money? I'd be selfish, so I guess I will stay poor.

Love,
entropic mom the dwindling genius

We're supposed to have a purpose?

2008-01-10T10:59:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of the rest of this blog, an endeavor I'm not sure I will have the impetus to continue, as I am uncertain if I will even finish this initial post. Aha! I have thrown down the gauntlet to my manic self; the challenge is accepted!

I don't know what I will say here; I hope someone will eventually read this. I have a very full life, one that is altogether different from anything I might have imagined for myself. My life includes a child, one with "special needs," a term that after nearly sixteen years I have come to dislike for its political correctness. It makes him sound as if he breathes hydrogen, or pees out of his ears.

Maybe I will say things about him here. Like, he has what's known as Down Syndrome, or more accurately, Trisomy 21. (No, he does not have three bodies; he is not some strange physical trinity.) The term Down syndrome has come to irritate me (as will all things eventually; irritability is my default demeanor) because it gives to my son's medical condition the name of a guy who I'm not sure did anything to help folks with the condition. Okay, I will research that and post on it later. For the record, I fully admit that I prefer Down syndrome to the ancient "Mongolism." (When my Precious Gift from Above* was born, an acquaintance called to tell me all about her brother, who had been Mongoloid Baby but was now a man who went to Vegas to gamble, and she was so proud. I had not the heart to say anything, except to thank her for her encouragement.)

If I continue to write this, my essentially cranky, judgmental, bitter nature will show up. And at my ripe age, I am becoming weary of myself. It's my hope that somehow, in writing, I will see myself as I am and become motivated to allow the God of my understanding to move on my heart and make me less of what I am, and more of what He is.

* My son refers to himself as a Precious Gift from Above, one of many arrows he has shot in his almost-sixteen years that have pierced my scaly dragon heart, rendering me uncharacteristically and unexpectedly tender. Sometimes. For him.

This is why I think God wanted me to have this child.

More on that later.

Happy week.