Barnmaven

Waiter, There's a Horse in my Lasagna

Photo Credit:  Suzanne Plunkett/Reuters 

SG and I were chatting a little about the big scandal happening over in Europe, where it appears food manufacturing plants in Ireland and the UK have been adding horsemeat to products which are supposed to contain beef or pork.  Horse DNA has been showing up in testing on supposed beef and pork products both on the shelf and in restaurants across Europe.  Burger King, Tesco, Aldi, Nestle’, Birds Eye and Sodexo, among other, have all been impacted by the fraud. 

Some officials have raised health concerns about whether the horsemeat could contain phenylbutazone (Bute), a commonly used equine pain reliever that isn’t approved for human consumptions.  Others suggest there is a risk to consumers from Equine Infectious Anemia, which in and of itself isn’t dangerous to humans, but according to officials might be indicative of other health issues with the animal and point to poor sanitation and handling at the factory, which could indicate the presence of other, worse contaminants.  Personally, I think these impacts would be negligible at best, since it would impossible for Bute to be present in concentrated in a horse in large enough amounts to actually cause harm to a person.  Now the sanitation issue could be plausible threat, since a factory that is slipping horsemeat into their beef and pork products could conceivably be cutting costs by skimping on their plant sanitation or faking test results as well.  Still, no outbreaks have been reported (yet) of infectious diseases being transmitted by the affected products.

Aside from the visceral reaction of “OMIGOD WE DON’T EAT HORSES, THAT’S GROSS,” I think the bigger issue is how the prepackaged food industry either directly or indirectly manages to blur the lines of information about where our food comes from and what it is composed of.  We’re not made to eat all these chemical additives and highly processed foods.  We aren’t mean to have a bigt helping of gluten or corn filler in our staple products.  We aren’t meant to eat bread that can be squished down to a nugget the size of an eraser and has been processed to the point that you need extra helpings of fiber just to get it to pass through your intestines. 

When most of our food is produced by subsidiaries of giant corporations much becomes invisible to the consumer, unless the consumer is willing to spend a lot of time researching who owns who and who produces what.  Boycotting anything on principle these days pretty much means you just can’t shop anymore. Anyhwere.  A couple of months ago when some companies which I’d always assumed were just great little producers of organic foods showed up on a list of companies opposing a measure in California to identify GMO products on food labels.  Turns out those companies were subsidiaries of larger corporations which had a vested interest in hiding the origins of many of their food products. 

The horsemeat scandal is just the current frosting on the cupcake of how the giant business of producing all of our food in factories is for the most part pretty bad for our health and probably our planet, but so long as its good for the company bottom line, who gives a shit?

I personally would be horrified if I found out something I ate contained undisclosed horsemeat; but I’m realistic enough to know anything at all that I eat that was packaged in a big giant factory somewhere possibly – probably? – contains things that are even more objectionable than THAT.   And I probably think it tastes AWESOME too, because big companies are very good at taking advantage of the sense of taste that when we were still wandering around the forest in loincloths led us to eat the foods that were good for us and avoid those that would kill us. 

In our house we are always talking about food and about eating healthier.  SG’s doctor wants him to eat paleo; my personal food style is to try and eat more green things, more whole things and fewer processed things, but that sweet tooth of mine keeps tripping up on the Ho Ho’s.  I’m not a Whole Foods hipster, by any means.  I think it’s a shame that the foods that are pesticide and antibiotic free are also way more expensive and that most people can’t afford to buy them.  But for fuck’s sake, if we’re going to manufacture a situation where a large portion of the population can’t access fresh food, could we at least make the stuff they can afford less toxic for them?

If nothing else, the situation in Europe is just that much more incentive to buy things locally as much as possible and to always always read labels.   And if you go to London, DON’T GET A WHOPPER AT BURGER KING.  Gross.

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Failure: I do not think it means what you think it means

I struggle with the way I keep finding myself in the place of being afraid of my own imperfections.

I give everyone else a mile - but not myself.  Somehow I don't think I've earned it.  Or even worse -- its not that I expect more out of myself than out of others, its that I have a fear of being seen failing.  And because failure is such a frightening concept, I do two very destructive things:  I apply the word "failure" to many more situations than to which it actually applies; and I will do practially anything to avoid failing or being seen by others as what I believe is failing.

In 2007, not too long after I moved into this house, I bought horses again after more than a decade of what I think of as the 'years when I wasn't really myself.'  The horse I bought to be my 'perfect horse' illustrates beautifully another one of my more troublesome character defects:  I decide in my head what the perfect situation will be and then proceed to make it happen without making sure the steps I am taking actually match the outcome I desire.

I bought a mother/daughter pair based on little more than the shape of the younger mare's head and the discovery that she shared bloodlines with my old horse.  8 years old, never ridden, not touched at all in at least two or three years.  Sounds like a great prospect for a woman in her 40's who hasn't ridden in ten years, right?

I started doing some work with her only to quickly find out I was really out of my league.  I sent her off for professional training with a wonderful trainer, I took her to clinics, but ultimately she was the horse I could not trust. She would explode for the silliest of reasons, or even for no reason at all.  I grew fearful and nervous of her, and became concerned with the fact that I could get seriously hurt because of her.   The day I realized I could not stand to ride her I cried for what seemed like hours.   After she had a full year off of being used for anything I paid another trainer to put sixty days on her and I found someone who was interested in buying her.  I spent $700 for sixty days of training and let her go to her new home for $300.  (Never ever ask me for financial advice.)

But was it a failure?  Or was it a difficult situation that resolved successfully because in the end both the horse and I got what we needed?  She got trained by someone who helped her lose her tendency to flip her lid and a new owner who thinks she's the best horse in the world.  As for me, I got Bugs, who has done more for my skill and confidence than I would have ever guessed.

Still, I confess I thought of it as a failure for a very long time.  I felt guilty for having let that horse down, for not being the right person for her. 

This week I find myself in somewhat of the same situation. 

I have for quite some time been consumed with thoughts of my dog Lady, who passed away a couple of years ago.  She was a one of a kind dog, gentle and kind with everyone.  I wish I could imbue every family dog with her temperament, because she was perfect with children, perfect with smaller animals, perfect with people.  And I've gotten in my head the idea that I want another dog just like her.  Last fall we adopted a mastiff mix who ended up being aggressive.  After that disaster we waited a little while and then adopted a different mastiff through a rescue.   She was - is - a lovely dog, loves everyone she meets, loves going places, loves lounging, loves cuddling.  But after two months with us she went from being "interested" in our cats to wanting to eat them.  The same day she went after Tucker - he was only mildly hurt, thankfully - she then proceeded to try to eat our little dog Gizzy. 

It isn't hard to know what the right answer is -- its much easier to rehome one dog than it is five cats and a football with legs Chihuahua -- but it has been extremely difficult to come to terms with that answer.  The best answer to me would be the one where we spend a lot of time diligently working with her on her training and she becomes safe for the little animals in the house.  But for that to be very feasible, I would have to become a different person with a different life. 

 Training a problem dog takes a great deal of dedication and effort; I have the desire, but I'm terribly short on time.  If I did decide to give the time, then one of the people or the rest of the critters would have to be deprived of their fair share of time, for who knows how long.  As I write this out I am nodding my head at the inescapable logic; but it is a challenge to get my emotional self to stop telling me what a failure I am for not being the perfect home for this dog.

I can visualize what it would be like to be the person who doesn't take a poor fit as rejection or failure; but I am not that person, not yet.  I think - I hope - that someday I will be.  In the meantime I will continue to repeat to myself what a friend of mine told me what I wailed to her about how badly I had failed as an adoptive home for this dog:  "It is not a failure to do the right thing for your family and for the dog."  Knowing and feeling are so terribly often disparate concepts in this head of mine.

I think perhaps I might be less prone to these scenarios if I stopped trying to take on so much.  Of course, that's another person I hope to be some day -- the person who stops trying to drink the world from the end of a fire hose. 

How to turn the me that is overwhelmed and thinks she's failing into the me who is peaceful and OK with the way the world works, that is the ultimate question. 

 

 

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The first week always sucks

Knowing what to say

The first week always sucks

Remember weeks ago when I said SG had a job offer here in our area? The start date finally materialized.  He had to wait until the holidays were over for the HR people, who are located in another state, to get their stuff together and get him scheduled for his background check, a DMV report and a physical.  The DMV apparently is slower than the social security office because after a whole month they decided to just get him started with the DMV report as a contingency.  (They also made him get a spinal x-ray - but no drug screen.  Weirdest hiring protocol I've EVER heard of.)

So he passes all his screens, gets his offer, quibbles over it for a few days, then accepts.  He finally started on Monday of this week.

While the weeks at a time of wrangling life at home on my own was a serious challenge, the upside was is that SG was also home for weeks at a time.  Home to get the kids dressed and fed and on the bus, the animals fed, dinner made, groceries shopped for and household chores done.  If a child ended up needing to be picked up at school due to illness or behavior, he was there to take care of it.  I got used to coming home to dinner on the stove and kids with finished homework every day. 

I was spoiled.  I had a househusband.

About Thursday of last week panic set in.  We had considered that this would mean drastic changes to our routines at home, but until it was staring us in the face we hadn't really thought it out in detail.  Kids going to before- and after-school care would be kids who needed to get out of bed and ready to go an hour and a half earlier than they were used to.  Dinners, especially when we wanted to create time at the end of our day to exercise, would need to be planned and cooked in advance.  Bedtime would need to be pushed up, undoubtedly spawning cries of outrage.  We'd need to plan around guitar lessons, obedience classes, homework and workouts. 

We laid out plans for meals, we bought groceries.  We identified who was responsible for what each morning and each evening.  We were the parenting equivalent of Rocky training for a fight against the seemingly unbeatable Ivan Drogo.

(What was that line of Dolph Lundgren's from Rocky IV?  "If he dies...he dies."  Yikes.)

Sunday night, groceries are bought and stowed.  Dinner has been eaten and put away and the kids have showered and are enjoying computer time before getting ready for bed.  I pull all the meat out of the fridge we will need for the meal plan I've written up for the next few days.

"Honey, there's only one package of chicken in the freezer.  Didn't you buy any?"

"No, I thought we didn't need chicken.  Do we?"

"I don't think four legs are gonna cut it."

Swap Tuesday for Wednesday on the menu plan and forge ahead.  Its only a minor setback, we're still on our feet and swinging.

So far we've dealt with:

• SG forgetting to set out all of his daily supplements and leaving the house about twenty minutes later than he planned and THEN forgetting his phone on top of it, causing him to have to go back to the house after dropping the kids at daycare
• Me forgetting to fill out Race Car Man's medication log resulting in a phone call in the middle of a meeting after I'd forgotten to silence my phone
• SG spending an hour on another day looking for his desk key, which just happened to be in his desk at work.  In the keyhole of his desk at work.
• Guitar lessons being missed
• I forgot to buy the M&M's for Race Car Man's class party
• Wednesday dinner being changed at the last minute from homemade Ginger Glazed Chicken to McDonald's.
• At least three separate instances of me dramatically announcing "I SWEAR I'm going to CUT MY HAIR OFF!"

On top of all of it, the Chihuahua has had diarrhea for three days which has added an extra half hour to each morning of changing crate bedding, cleaning the carpets with my steam cleaner, extra loads of laundry and lots of air freshener.  Because we were out of clean bedding last night we had to let the dogs sleep loose in our room.  Did I mention Zoey's favorite place to sleep is the bed?  Between her insistence on putting her big head so close to my face I couldn't breathe and SG's habit of hogging the covers I finally ended up retreating in a huff to the couch where Iwas then assailed by the cats trying to take advantage of available human real estate to curl up on.

Its only Thursday and I'm starting to feel afraid we're headed for a TKO.  Not to mention its Valentine's Day.  I'm here to tell you its a sheepish thing to give your husband his Valentine's Day card when you've spent the night in a huff on the couch.  To be honest, I didn't actually give the card to him, I just tossed it over onto his side of the bed after I finished getting dressed this morning.  I'm not usually this chickenshit, but I'm just wiped out.

Hey, we're still in one piece.  No one's lost a finger or gotten left behind at the grocery store, at least at the last head count.  

I'm sure we'll have this down in a week or two.  I just hope to God the Chihauahua's butt dries up.

 

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Finding my speed

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Finding my speed

My daughter is growing up so quickly.  I am starting to see her reacting to peer pressure, to worry about being noticed for the wrong reasons.  I often find myself thinking back over time and wondering if I've been careful enough with my words to help her avoid the body awkwardness that has plagued so many women.  When I compliment her I try to remember to not just say how beautiful she is (and oh, she IS) but also how loving and smart and funny and creative she is.  The time left I have to truly influence her is nearly over - very soon she'll be at that age where her classmates have far more power than her mother over her self-image and the directions she chooses to take her life.  Like most of you I have plenty of sweaty-palm moments when I realize just how powerful peer pressure can be and pray like mad that I've been the mother I want to be so that my daughter has an inner compass with a strong enough magnetic north to overcome the negativity and shallowness she is sure to encounter.

I want to be a guide for her just as my own mother was for me,  leading the way for me to appreciate the value of having outside interests and staying active. 

Riding and caring for my horses, my home and my yard do a lot to keep my body moving, but with a job that mostly involves driving a keyboard, I know those things are not enough.  Over the last decade or so I've focused more on being healthy than on losing weight, although after the kids were born I had quite a lot of extra weight to lose.   I prefer exercise that feels good, particularly yoga, but I've been aware for some time that I frequently don't pay enough attention to my cardiovascular health.  SG frequently cites a study he read which concluded that one of the biggest contributors to longevity is the one's aerobic capacity.

Now I'm no stranger to cardio.  I was a rower once, and in the sprint races your typical rower goes anaerobic within the first minute or two of a 2,000 meter race.  Rowing uses every one of the large muscle groups, so the lungs must work extra hard to meet the body's demand for oxygen.  Of course that was a long time ago and nothing I've done since has been quite as phsyically demanding, childbirth notwithstanding.

 Back in 2011 I had started a C25K running program and was in the middle of my fifth or sixth week when I managed to give myself a severe bilateral sprain.  That put me off my feet for a while - fortunately NOT during the time of year it would keep me off my horse.   Six weeks on my lazy ass helped me go soft in a way I was not entirely comfortable with, but my vow to jump back on the exercise wagon had about as much veracity as my frequent threat to sell my children to the highest bidder.  Then last summer I ended up losing a lot of weight due to severe gastric issues. Instead of encouraging me to start exercising again, all it did was give me a good excuse to be lazier than ever.  When you are like me and you keep several sizes of clothes and the smallest ones fit without even having to try hard, complaency is easy to come by.  Unfortunately, lazy eventually catches up with you.  And it has.  I haven't weighed myself since I was pregnant with my daughter, but my clothes started telling me I had one more size to go before I was right back where I was at the beginning of the summer.

I made a few attempts to restart my C25K program.  Its bitterly cold here, though, and I have little time as it is -- I don't enjoy spending an extra half hour putting layers of clothes on just to stay warm enough to suck in freezing lungfuls of air as my out-of-shape body tries to make itself jog.  Screw that.  But now what?

As often seems to happen in my life, fate - a/k/a my parents - intervened.  About a month ago my parents told us they wanted to give SG and I a wedding gift.  Yes, that's right.  We got married three days after I sprained that ankle in 2011 and they are just now getting around to the wedding gift.  But who am I to argue?  Better late than never.

They bought us a treadmill.  Not a crappy, cheap treadmill - a really nice treadmill.  Probably the nicest treadmill I've ever been on.  Its got a Wi-Fi connection and an 11 inch touch screen and will also hook up to your iPod and mix you a martini.  In fact, I think might actually be smarter than me.

The days of coming home, dropping my briefcase on the floor and pouring a glass of wine have gone by the wayside.  The New Me comes home, puts dinner in the oven, throws on my running shoes and climbs on the treadmill.  Its taken a few weeks but I'm starting to see some results.  I'm able to run two miles now, and twice I've actually run three.  Okay, maybe I didn't exactly RUN.  I am not exactly anyone's idea of a runner.  But I'm doing a nice imitation of jogging.  I'm moving and I'm breathing and its getting easier.  I actually had a hard time zipping up my english riding boots this weekend because my calves seem to be growing a muscle.

Will it last?  I'm determined to make it so.   I think back to all the things I've started in my life that eventually faded away.  In context, however, I've always exercised.  Just not always consistently.   What I'm more keenly aware of now is that the older I get the less attainable fitness becomes.  Its not the weight I care about so much as longevity and quality of life.  With my arthritis and structural issues, being fit is the best way to keep myself active and pain free for as long as possible.  Its the best way to give myself a shot at being around for my kids for a long time to come. 

If ultimately it also helps to show my daughter that there's no such thing as "too old to get fit," so much the better. 

Just doin' my job.

 

You've wasted another perfectly good ten minutes reading my blog.  THANKS!

 

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The adventure years

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The adventure years

I was in the 8th grade when my mom turned forty.  A couple of years before, at the end of my 5thgrade year, we had moved out of the city to an island in Puget Sound.  On a small two and a half acre hobby farm Mom transformed from urbanite to country denizen, planting a garden, learning to haul her daughter around to horse shows and riding lessons, tending a flock of chickens and all the other sundry things that rural life involves.  The year she turned forty, Mom entered what I tend to think of as her "real" life -- now that my brother and I were less dependent, she had more time and energy to invest in the things she wanted to do. 

It started out with a daily walk and a few friends who were also interested in getting in better shape.  Before long she was race walking over 3 miles a day, entering 5K and then 10K events.  By the time I headed off to college what had begun as a daily walk had turned into overnight mountain hikes in the Olympics.  When my Mom was in her fifties she had better looking legs than most women a quarter of her age, and she had the stamina to match those muscles.

Since then she's slowed down some, but not much, not by most standards.  She takes Zumba classes a couple of times a week and when she's not Zumba-ing she goes for walks or works out to videos.

Thanks to my mom I've grown up with a terrific example of the benefits not only of exercise, but of taking the time to do what you enjoy. 

When I bought my midlife horses five years ago I think one of the last things I expected to ever be doing was to ride in a horse show again.  My years of circling a ring were a long time ago.  The last few years have been more about enjoying my horse, but what I've found is that enjoying my horse naturally leads me to wanting both my horse and I to grow in what we can do together. 

We progressed from general trail riding to mounted orienteering, then last summer we started working at cow sorting and re-learning how to ride english - and we started jumping.  Whenever I can I take my horse to clinics and events that I think will help both of us improve what we already know and find new things to try.  With the encouragement of a couple of my friends, this past weekend I entered my first horse show in almost thirty years. 

I didn't go with any pretense of thinking I'd win a bunch of ribbons.  For one, it was a schooling show, which is a much more relaxed environment than a straight-up show.  You can use training aids and you don't require formal show clothing.  Because Bugs had never been in a horse show environment I thought it would be a great learning experience for him - and it was.

I was so damn proud of that horse.  He's a big, energetic boy, very forward and all GO.  I usually have to wear him out a little bit before he can become smooth and relaxed.  Saturday was no exception, but we had a great judge and he was very generous with providing feedback and suggestions.  We entered eight classes - and came home with eight ribbons.  Even a first place ribbon, but I take no pride in winning the Novice Western Horse class with only three riders, one of them about seven years old on a Bashkir Curly horse named Peaches. 

I do take pride in how far my horse and I have come together.  He teaches me and I teach him, and together we are having great adventures.  I'm way closer to fifty than I am to forty anymore, but thanks to my Mom I know that I'm really just in the early part of my adventure years.  Mom knew it before I did -- there is no age limit on discovering something you love to do. 

Many of the women I encounter on the trail and at clinics and other events are my age and older.  Some have been riding their whole lives; some discovered riding after their kids grew up and are getting as much time in the saddle as they can.  One woman who I met at a clinic is in her 70's, still active and still riding.  I want to be that person -- the one where all the kids on the trail ride go home and tell their friends about:  There was this lady on the ride that was like 90 years old. 

When I pulled in to the horse show on Saturday morning, just me and my horse, I felt a little out of place.  I didn't know anyone there.  SG would be arriving later.  My friend Debbie was nowhere in sight.  I filled out my entry form, paid my fee, got my number and put the final grooming touches on my horse.  While I was standing outside waiting for my first class to be called, who should drive up but Mom. 

How apropos that the first person to show up and offer support at my first show since the late 1980's was the woman who taught me that life begins in your forties.

Thanks, Mom.  I love you so much.

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Girl things

Pig Wrestling

My mother likes to tell people stories about how, when I was small, it would take five adults to hold me down at the doctor's office if I was about to get a shot or a blood draw.   The fear still lingers, but I have learned to willingly submit, even when I know its going to make me feel nauseated, break out in a cold sweat, and probably fall over.  (This is why I'm more than six months late for my six month dental checkup, why I hate to see my doctor even though I love him and why I frequently turn pale when my father takes his blood sugar or gives himself an injection.  Urp.)

My children have inherited my fear of shots.  Amazon Girl outdid me by miles during her preschool years, though she's much better now.  At her most recent checkup she needed four vaccines.  I requested they give her two and have us come back for the others -- I don't like having that many done at a time.   She sat still for them, but she was super mad at me - I didn't realize when I made the appointment that she would need shots and therefore didn't warn her ahead of time.    After I bought her a treat to compensate for her suffering, the lightbulb in her pointy little head went off and now I'm bound by contract for a trip to the ice cream parlor when the next two shots are given.

Race Car Man, on the other hand, still requires far more than a bribe.  He came home early from school yesterday.  Rather, the school nurse called and said to send someone to come get him right away as he had appeared in her office with pinkeye.  Joy!  Cue the dark thunderclouds and Wagner, because any condition that requires the application of anything - particularly in something as sensitive as an eyeball - falls unti the category of Things That Are Traumatic.

The pinkeye doesn't look like its a raging case. so I opted not to bother the doctor and dug out the antibiotic drops from the last round of the dreaded eye crud. I showed him the little bottle and asked him to stop what he was doing so I could put some into his eye, which immediately resulted in screaming so loud you'd think I'd set the little bugger on fire.  I quickly decided that rather than engage in a wrestling match, I'd try again later.  'Later' turned out to be a text to his dad as he was on his way to pick the kids up:  I'm sending some drops for _____'s eye.  He wouldn't let me put any in."

Ex:  So he hasn't had any yet?

Me.  No.

If dead silence on the other end translates tone, I'm pretty sure he's plotting his revenge.  I deserve it.

I don't blame it entirely on the autism, but I will say that having a child with sensory issues makes certain things much more difficult.  Pills, for instance.  He can't swallow pills.  Or at least he thinks he can't swallow pills, which is pretty much the same thing.  Textures are another thing, but the absolute worst is anything that requires him to submit to something being done to him.  The dentist, the doctor, a sliver in the finger or a scrape needing to be washed out -- all of these things require the person attending him to have cat-like reflexes, the ability to lift and secure the equivalent of an 8 armed chimpanzee and the patience of Job.  I still recall the first time the nurse at the doctor's office wanted to take his blood pressure.  When we finally got his fingernails pried out of the ceiling tiles we gave up because it was a sure bet any reading we got at that point would be abnormally high.  Mine was, at any rate.

My good friend whose son not only has an autism diagnosis but also has a congenital heart defect deals with this but multiplied by an easy thousand.  I not only don't envy her, whenever her son has to go for tests or a procedure I want to give her a trophy and a bottle of vodka.  They make it through, and so through our small challenges do we.   

Its one of the harder aspects of parenting for me, that situation when I have to ask my child to tolerate something that hurts or causes them discomfort, especially if I'm asking them to deal with something I can barely deal with either.  Do you suppose that if we'd had an inling that parenting came with an honorary degree in greased pig wrestling we might have at least had a moment or two of doubt about the whole thing?

Knowing what to say

If you can explain to me why I am having such trouble writing lately I will give you a prize.  It would be an ephemeral prize in the form of gratitude, but it would be a really great big mess of gratitude.

I keep starting drafts of posts and abandoning them.  I have all these thoughts rolling around in my head.  I write great long pieces in my head in the car on the way to work and then forget them by the time I get home at night.  There's so much going on right now - a big project at work that came to fruition last week, SG starting work, new therapy and challenges with the boy, dealing with an 11 year old who by all known measures has begun her teen years early, integrating a new dog and a new kitten into the mess of insane that is our household...we really are gluttons for punishment and there's no way I know how to be any different.

I have been feeling ambivalent lately about writing about ...anything.

Autism.  I feel often that I am completely out of my league when it comes to autism in general.  My son, I know him.  When I look at him and listen to him I don't really think about autism, I just think about him.  I find myself caught up in avoiding thinking about autism entirely.  I never wanted to be part of a movement of parents advocating for their kids -- I just wanted to be  a parent.  Some of my online network of parents blow me away on a regular basis with the articulate and passionate way they write about their children and autism.  When one asks for advice on any particular matter the responses are wise and thoughtful and show just how much these moms and dads have immersed themselves in the pool of autism knowledge.   I feel like I know absolute shit about autism.  And even worse, there are times I just wish it would go away.  I want to just enjoy my son and let him teach me the ways he needs me to help him navigate the world.  On a daily basis, though, I get snapped back to reality by a phone call, a meltdown, a sensory struggle or a particular behavior.   I'm ashamed of my desire to just pretend that our daily life is normal, but I'm also keenly aware that I don't want to sound like a person who is seeking attention or sympathy because of my son's autism.  My son is special, not because of his nontypical brain, but because of who he is.  His autism is not a terrible thing or a burden.  All parents have things they do for their children, taking him to therapy or helping him when he's having a struggle is no different than any other parent taking their kid to a doctor's appointment or soothing them when they aren't coping well.  Except that it is different, but I don't want to feel all special snowflake about it.

As you can see, I am conflicted about this issue.  I am conflicted about a lot of things.

I'm conflicted about this project we just finished at work, the end of which is the start of something new and very wonderful but also means a lot of change and I like my life the way it is.  We have spent months on this deal, weekly team meetings and conference calls and integration sessions and loads and loads of homework and writing processes and SOP's.  When the doors on the box opened for the first time I felt like we - my coworkers and our business partners - had given birth, except the kind of birth where it doesn't actually hurt and there's no blood and no poop.  It was a difficult pregnancy in that we had to plan for things we still couldn't yet visualize -- sort of like how you wonder which one of you your baby is going to look like.  There were and still are some unknowns and some things we just have to plan around when we get there.  I've gone through the gamut of fear, resentment, acceptance and finally a place of peace where I know that of all the options my company had for growth and change this was the absolute best choice.  The planning part is done and now the doing part happens, and it means just as much work - if not more - but different than what we've been doing so far.  Change for me is simultaneously hard and easy.  I like the walls of my little box quite well, thank you.  But I don't always mind if the view out of the window I cut into the side of it changes from time to time.  Eventually we all must come to grips with the fact that the old box is the wrong box and we have to move into a new and improved box. 

This post is a good representation of one of the main issues I have with writing.  There is the voice I think I have and there is the voice that I actually have, and there is the fact that I don't want to write about any one thing all the time but there are times when the obvious thing to write doesn't want to come out of my fingers or is something I can't put out on the internet.  Its not a blog about horses or parenting or relationships or autism or politics or feminism or living in the sandwich generation.  Its a blog about ALL of those things.  If I was actually writing to make a living the kids and I would be living in a cardboard box under the freeway, because everything I have ever heard about making a living on the internet is all about "creating your brand."  I don't have a "brand," I just have stuff I feel like writing about, you know?  I don't have a fancy house and I can't do crafts to save my life.  

 There are times when there isn't anything in my mind when I sit down to write, despite having driven home with a perfectly visualized finished piece in my mind.  When it comes time to commit the words to the screen, they don't sound right or look right or I can't find the right way to start or end them. 

Maybe I should get a catchy phrase to use at the end of every post.  Be like Tom and Ray on Car Talk.  You've wasted another perfectly good ten minutes reading my blog.  Then I thank my producers and turn off the feed.