On Pyrotechnics and Not Being the Fun Parent

I was a sensitive child. I had a lot of anxiety. However, when I became a mother every worry I ever had jolted into high alert. Being fully responsible for small people who consistently and impulsively put themselves in danger was the hardest experience of my life.
Climbing could lead to stitches and broken bones. Stuffing inedible things in their mouths could lead to choking. Jumping in the pool with no flotation device could lead to drowning. As a parent of a lot of little kids, one is constantly looking out for the hazards children are blissfully unaware of. Cars. Strangers. Poisons. Fire ants. Bullies. A bone in the chicken nugget. The list is endless. Then there are the things you can't see. Viruses. Bacteria. Deadly insidious microscopic monsters. All of these things make a chill person uneasy, but they make a nervous person bat-shit looney. Alas, kids grow out of things, they learn the dangers of the world around them. They become more cautious.

Just kidding. This does not happen.

After that intense period of training and security you'd think they'd give you a break, let your overworked consciousness relax a bit. But you know what they do? They do scary stuff anyway. And lots of it.
They like moving fast. In cars, jet skis, boats, even on snow skis. They ride dirt bikes at speeds that make you want to cry. And then they crash and you do cry. Then they do it again.
They jump off cliffs into rivers, do back flips off 2nd story boat houses into the lake and swim further out into the ocean than you would ever do. They bungee jump off of bridges. They shoot guns and bows and arrows. They travel across the world to places you've never been, where you nor they know nary a soul, and there is no cell service more than half the time. They take unreliable trains and uncertain taxis. On a road trip, they stop to admire a biplane and within the next few minutes are in the clouds with a pilot whose credentials they know nothing of. They attend week long music festivals where they meet strangers. Then they go visit those strangers for the weekend.

They cannot do enough of anything you ever told them not to do. It's not danger to them, it's adventure.
God forbid life should get boring.

Once or twice a year, these offspring of mine, become temporarily crazed over their love for monstrously obnoxious fireworks. They then gather others whose adoration for explosives is equal to or greater than their own. This year it's their spouses. At this 'community outreach' you will also find a bonfire, barbecue, beer, Jim Beam, trucks named after dinosaurs, and a bunch of dogs who, like me, hate fireworks. If it sounds a little redneck, that's because it is. My husband is the ring leader of this fear-fest that they call a 'party.' The kids worship him for his generous gifts of "Death from the Sky" a giant box of TNT that promises a minimum charge of 500 Gs. Mostly, they adore him for his enthusiasm and his lack of fear. He's the FUN parent. Just look at what he got today. He didn't tell me anything about the purchase of this mother load, because he "wanted to surprise the kids."
That explains why, in his glee, he promptly texted this picture to my daughter and, in her glee, she promptly put it on Facebook and that's how I found out. SURPRISE!!!
I suspect there is another reason he didn't want to tell me. (It is easier to ask for forgiveness than agreement... or  something like that.)

I am not the fun parent. I wish I could be fun like him, but Motherhood has given me a type of PTSD. Sudden, loud noises, or certain noises in general, send me over the edge. Pyrotechnics bring back all those terrors of what might happen if I'm not intensely vigilant, or even if I am. Every fuse ignited gives me the feeling of doom. What if the fuse goes out and when someone goes to ignite it, it blows up? BOOM!What if one shoots through the crowd and not up in the sky? BOOM! What if one blows up in your hand? BOOM! Your face? BOOM! What if your clothes catch on fire? BOOM! What if the house, lawn or car catch on fire? BOOM! What if you lose fingers over what you call fun?! BOOM! It brings me back to the days of constant anxiety. The noise, the smoke, the fear. It's enough to send me looking for a dark, quiet corner with the dogs. I once read the teenagers the statistics of injuries from fireworks. Did you know sparklers could reach 2500 degrees and account for an incredible amount of emergency room visits every July 4th? They accused me of trying to ruin everything. "Why do you have to be such a downer Mom?"

"You worry too much," they say. "Everything will be fine" they say.
"Relax Mom. With no traffic, the hospital is only 35 minutes from here, and we could cut that in less than half if we take the Raptor instead of an ambulance."

Fundamentalism. No fun, just mental.

     Yesterday, a young father threw his 5 year old daughter off a bridge. A police officer witnessed the scene but was unable to rescue the child. Her body was recovered by divers in the middle of the night.  USA Today report.

Every day we hear unbelievably heart wrenching news.
162 people in the bottom of the ocean.
A baby dead in a dumpster, her parents murdered.
Twelve men gunned down at work.
Stories that make no sense and leave our minds clamoring for answers. We ask, why? Those who believe in the biblical God tell us he has a plan, he knows better than us how things should go, his ways are higher than ours.

You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand. John 13:7

 Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely. 

1 Corinthians 13:12

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, said the Lord. Isaiah 55:8

Band aids for amputations.

He is all powerful. All knowing. He has created a divine plan. 

The LORD Almighty has sworn, "Surely, as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will happen. Isaiah 14:24

All the peoples of the earth are regarded as nothing. He does as he pleases with the powers of heaven and the peoples of the earth. No one can hold back his hand or say to him: "What have you done?" Daniel 4:35

I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion. Roman's 9:15

If we believe the literal words here, it was God's plan that Phoebe should be thrown off a bridge by her dad. God chose not to have mercy on either of them. Not the father's sickened mind nor the daughter's helpless body. He's going to do something great through it though. One day we'll all stand back and say, "Oooohhhh! Now we get it! It's all clear now! Yay God!" At some point, according to the Bible, we are going to understand that the murder of this child was in God's plan for a good purpose. Bullshit.

The one who causes our pain and plans our worst nightmares is also the source of all comfort. An abused child seeking comfort from the abuser is sick. But this is the way we are supposed to believe.  It doesn't make sense.

My problem isn't with God. My problem is with the idea that the Bible is perfect, to be taken literally and not questioned. One of the biggest issues surrounding the fundamentalist evangelical christian's idea of the Bible, is the one of picking and choosing. It's not allowed. One cannot say, "I accept this, but not this." For them the Bible is not a buffet at Piccadilly. It's a plate of comfort food and poison. Next to macaroni and cheese so good it'll make you cry, is something dead, crawling with maggots. And a cup of tea laced with arsenic. You're starving for comfort, but put off by the grotesque. The fundamentalists say if you are to have any of it, you have to swallow it all. Yet, even in the garden, which was perfection, there was picking and choosing. You can eat this fruit, but not that one.

Why, I wonder, is it so far fetched an idea that the Bible could be flawed? It wasn't written until people had inhabited the earth a long time. According to the scriptures, the Garden of Eden and Adam and Eve were the first living things God created. It was cozy and pristine. Except for that serpent God allowed in there. If God would allow deceit in the garden, why not the Bible? We are even warned biblically, to be careful of doctrine influenced by men. Is not the Bible influenced by men?

...having been firmly rooted and now being built up in Him and established in your faith, just as you were instructed, and overflowing with gratitude. See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deception, according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary principles of the world, rather than according to Christ. For in Him all the fullness of Deity dwells in bodily form, Colossians 2:7-9 

Jesus, the Bible says, is the Word made flesh. We can read the Bible in it's harshness, or we can follow the bodily form of a man who never hurt anyone. A man who did not love one more than another, a man who loved his enemies, who healed the sick, who cried in pain because we hurt. A man who would never throw a 5 year old off a bridge or allow another to do so. That is not part of his plan. We are fools to think so. The God of the Bible and Biblical Jesus are said to be the same. They are not and anyone can see it is so. Jesus said that God is love. Jesus was love in the flesh. The way God and Jesus are unified is in Love. Which is in all of us. How do we know this? Because the spirit of love tells us so. "For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God." Romans 8:14

The Bible says God is Love. It also tells us what Love is and isn't. In doing so, it tells us what God is and isn't. God is patient. God is kind. God is not jealous. He does not brag and is not boastful. He is not easily provoked. He keeps no record of evil. God rejoices in the truth. He endures all things. God never fails. 

There are verses in the Bible that contradict the above sentiments. 
God is VERY jealous, and says so. He is arrogant and boastful quite often. He is exceptionally easily provoked and he has a great big book listing the good the bad and the ugly.

How can both of these ideas be true? They can't be. Play all the brain games you want to. God can't be both jealous and not jealous, patient and peaceful, but also short-tempered and violent, a braggart who is also humble. We have to pick and choose.  If we are rational thinkers using the faculties of our powers of reasoning, we have no choice. Some like to say, it's a mystery. But it isn't. They pretend to understand. Most would never share their doubts. The naked emperor has fancy clothes on. You see them, don't you? 

Fundamentalism is causing pain and suffering all around. The literal adherence to scriptural texts combined with a spirit wishing to please God, gain his rewards and escape his punishment, is destructive. It destroys the freedom to choose good over evil. It hardens the heart, making mankind's differences reasons for division instead of unity. It fools people into choosing law over love. It is time for us to  be brave enough to ask  hard questions and to stop pretending that the answers we've  settled for are good enough.

Whatever is good

This morning I was disheartened to see a news story posted by someone on Facebook.  The photograph highlighting the article is of a pretty blonde woman with a battered face sitting  on a hospital bed. Her hair and face are soaked with blood. The title of the article reads:

Couple beaten with chains by Muslims on Christmas Eve.

According to the news source, the incident happened in Copenhagen, Denmark. The article has been shared 52,000 times on Facebook from this one site alone. It is featured on numerous sites. Most of them clearly sensationalist, exceptionally fundamentalist christian or simply anti-muslim.  Here are some red flags regarding the story's accuracy.

1. The boy mentioned as the initial attacker is said to be muslim. There is no information confirming this. Why?
2. The attackers are named as "Somali" youth, but no one was caught. How is it known they were Somalians? Do Somalians have some sort of distinguishing marks?
3. The couple, Nanna and Mads, were on their way home with his family. Nothing is mentioned about anyone in the family defending the boyfriend or getting attacked.  No one in the family is interviewed about what occurred. What did they do, stand and watch or run away?
4. The attacker was on a bicycle, but got off, somehow got a bottle and hit the boyfriend. Then "Suddenly several came up from a basement". Weren't they outside on the street? Where was this basement? Under a manhole?
5. The report was given by the bloodied woman to Ekstra Bladet. Who is this? A reporter in Copenhagen committed to truth and justice? Nope. It's the name of a sensationalist tabloid in Denmark. Sort of like The Star here. A hallmark of the tabloid is a naked woman on page 9 of every issue. A tradition since 1979. High brow news source right here.

    The human mind has deciphered DNA, navigated to the moon and back, and eradicated deadly diseases. It has incredible power of reasoning, the ability to analyze the most complex ideas and make sense of them. Skills most people are too effing lazy to use! The fact that people read stuff like this, suck in a shocked gasp and without hesitating, hit "share", infuriates and distresses me. False reporters carelessly spread the slop of hate and fear and all the hungry hogs run and suck it all up. Every little rancid morsel. Gorging themselves so fast they don't even realize how much shit and dirt they swallowed along with all. 

In order to get to truth, one must question. We ask Who, What, Where, When and How? But not many pigs at the trough are going to look at the farmer and say, "Did you get this at Whole Foods or are you giving us garbage again?" The main reason? They have an appetite for garbage. Filth and rot is what they crave. They're nourishing their minds with excrement. Because they like it that way.

The comments left by people under this article give me a feeling of hopelessness. They are mean, hateful, ignorant, violent. 

"Far cry from a peaceful religion....The goal of a Muslim is either you become Muslim or you die!"

"TIME for another religious war Europe stand against these Muslim dogs ..fight fire with fire where are the men of europe your people are being attacked by sand dwellers hell bent on destroying your civilization..FIGHT BACK."

Reply · Like · 278

"As long as you continue to let these muslim cockroaches live in your country and do as they please, this will always happen, exterminate them all"

Reply · Like · 18 

"The joys of diversity. Thank you politicians. It's just a shame though that more such joys aren't visited upon the politicians who made the choice to subject us to multiculturalism."

"They all need to face either mandatory deportation or summary execution; they will never change..."

"Reply · Like · 27 · 

• 
  

  "pffftttt for mandatory deportation.. they should know the consequences of this violent religious hate crime before they cross our borders. I don't want to pay to send them "home", i'd pull the trigger on an execution for free..."

  Reply · Like · 23 · 

  a

I want to believe we are getting better at accepting and loving one another. I want to believe we are striving to find our common humanity. I know many are, but reading these folks words makes me realize how far we have to go. Ironically, many of the people making these nasty comments claim to be christians. Christians whose Bible tells them in Philippians 4:9, Therefore, my brethren, those things that are true, those that are honorable, those that are righteous, those things that are pure, those things that are precious, those things that are praiseworthy, deeds of glory and of praise, meditate on these things.

Supposedly, the Copenhagen police confirmed the attack. If this was big news in the city on Christmas Eve, it stands to reason there would be reports in every Copenhagen news source for the next several days. I could not find it in any of the reputable papers. Out of the 13 I searched, it showed up in only one other than the tabloid above. The other paper, the Jyllands-Posten, is the same one that printed the cartoons making fun of Muhammed in 2005, causing a tremendous uproar. It is described as a popular paper with inserts tabloid-like in nature. It has a history littered with anti-immigrant and anti-muslim commentary.

I don't know what happened to Nanna and Mads. I wasn't there. I don't know who provoked what nor what followed. I have no idea who hurt them. But it doesn't seem anyone else does either. We have only one person's account of the incident. I'm sorry it happened. It's a terrible thing for anyone to commit violence against anyone. However, speculating and spreading false information fuels the flames of racism and bigotry, breathing new life into fires we've been fighting to put out for decades. 
While searching the newspapers, I tried many words in the search bars. I wanted to be as thorough as possible in getting the story straight.  Nanna, Mads, attack, Christmas Eve, Muslim, Somali. I found the story only once. In one of the more respected Copenhagen newspapers I also found this:

Muslim's Christmas invitation goes viral

Honorable. Precious. Praiseworthy.

When should we begin to meditate on these things?

Chicken of the Dark

On an early morning walk I was startled by a chicken. I was taking the driveway toward the river when the silence was shattered by a loudly squawking, erratically running mass of feathers with legs. Zig zagging and darting, flinging the dead leaves behind it, it was making a frantic attempt to escape a coyote. The coyote was so intent on its prey it didn't notice me. It caught the chicken in its mouth, clamping right over the bird's back. Then it saw me and stood stock still for a second. The chicken was still too, shocked and terrified, its legs sticking out stiff as sticks. I am the kind of person that catches flies in my hand to let them out of the house. I have compassion for the smallest of bugs. I even have compassion for the ones that sting and bite. I abhor killing and suffering. If something is in distress I'm going to rescue it. But on this morning, my desire for a dramatic photo suddenly overrode my compassion. I went against my nature and instead of attempting to save the chicken, I took pictures of its demise.

 I still feel guilty because I didn't attempt to save the chicken. It's possible I could have. I saved a chipmunk from a cat once. When I ran at the cat and screamed NO! loudly, the cat dropped the chipmunk and ran off. I held the chipmunk in my hands and thought it was dead, but it was only in shock. After a while, held against my warm chest, it revived and scampered into the woods. Recently, in the middle of the highway, a robin was standing on the dividing yellow lines. It had it's mouth open but wasn't moving. I think it must have flown into a car or been struck somehow. The traffic was bumper to bumper. I opened the door, picked up the bird and drove home with it in my lap wrapped in the lower portion of my sweatshirt. At home I gave it some water and held it like I did the chipmunk. Half an hour later it sang and flew from my hand into the sky. I have saved many creatures. I once brought a frog back from the dead. No lie. You can ask my son. He was there. The feeling of rescuing something is buoying. Like being a miracle worker. I could have at least tried for the chicken. Instead, I, savior of the helpless, became the opportunist throwing compassion to the wayside. I snapped the photos and the coyote bolted toward the woods to devour the poor bird. The pictures aren't masterpieces. They're morbid. You can see the chicken in the death grip and you can see its feathers flying off as it tries to free itself. I hate those pictures. They make me feel bad.

I realize this is ridiculous. It's the NATURE of things. The coyote's gotta eat too. I get it. I still hate it.

I eat chickens all the time. I just don't kill them myself. My hands don't wring any necks. I haven't been anywhere near a Tyson plant. I am not guilty. I am a kind, compassionate person dammit! All I do is buy a featherless, skinless, boneless, piece of white protein nicely packaged on white styrofoam. In that package at the grocery store, it doesn't resemble the animal it is, the sentient being it was. Not at all. I can tell myself it had as much of a life as a potato. I don't want to think it lived in a cage, force fed. I don't want to think it had babies that it cared for, perhaps loved. (Do chickens love? Dogs do. Can't chickens? I have a friend who had a pet turkey. It would run excitedly to the car when she got home, just like a dog. Anyone who knew her and the turkey's relationship would say it loved her.)
Had the nameless thing on the styrofoam tray suffered? Had it felt fear or pain? I'm certain the coyote's chicken was afraid. I saw it in it's eyes.

The reality, whether I like it or not, is I participate in the mass murder of chickens every day because I buy and eat them all the time, fueling supply and demand. Even if I'd saved that chicken, I've participated in the demise of thousands. My ideas of being the good savior would be lies. If I spent an hour in a chicken processing plant I'd probably never eat it again. But I'll never do this. I don't want to see what it's like in there because I'm sure it's horrific. So I comfort myself with the delusional potato theory, because fried chicken is the best thing to eat on this whole freakin' planet.

 I am aware most people's brains don't bang at these things so hard, but it brings me to think about things we rationalize the same way. We want what we want, even if it's at the expense of something or someone. The unfair treatment of something or someone we consider less than ourselves is fine as long as we are getting something we desire out of it. The way we do this, this rationalizing that pushes our discomfort of the reality of things to the far back recesses of our consciousness, this bothers the hell out of me. The truth that I possess these traits and know it should be enough to make me change it. What shames me is my weakness and lack of will power to just do the right thing.

 Similarly, every social injustice has, at its core, selfishness and a lack of empathy. A refusal to look into the darkness.
Slavery. Segregation. Sexism. Inequality. Inhumane treatment of any living thing.

Billionaires with 4 mansions and a private leer jet don't want to share the money they earned with the homeless and hungry. Because they've never known the darkness of being homeless or hungry.

Americans who earned their right to live here because their mother's vagina was in the right place at the right time, tell poor, fearful immigrants to take their kids and get out of our country. Because they've never known the darkness of being a poor, fearful immigrant.

Those who can afford a private concierge doctor, (yes, that is a real thing) aren't worried if others can't afford health care. Because they've never known the darkness of being sick without health care.

Those who will rape and wound our forests, mountains and rivers for profit. Because they do not know the darkness of a place stripped of its beauty and healing powers.

On and on and on and on. We don't see real change because we don't want to think about and understand the dark things. If we had to spend a day living as the one's we take advantage of, the world would be new the very next morning.

I wrote this post this morning. Mostly to work out things in my own head, not so much for others. As providence would have it, as soon as I finished I saw the video featured in the post in my news feed and added it. The story was on the front page of the NY Times today.

On the way home from visiting my grandmother in rural South Carolina this summer, a truck delivering chickens (I assume to the slaughterhouse) stopped next to me at a light. I was forced to look. And smell. Their condition was sickening. The undersides looked like the one's in the Perdue farmer's hen house.
I think it is time we all dare to start looking at things harder than we want to.

In retrospect, I think the chicken killed by the coyote lived a far better existence than the ones pictured below.

Radical Soul Food (Because post annihilation appetites are a bitch.)

   

Friends, I have wonderful news! Our biggest problems, 1) what to give our family and friends for Christmas and 2)how to survive the coming zombie apocalypse, have been solved!
We, the one's with sound minds anyway, are fully aware that while Kim Kardashian is distracting the universe with her giant butt and full frontal nudity, Obama is hard at work creating Ebola riddled zombies deep in the center of Mt. Ararat. Using Noah's Ark as a make shift lab, he is single handedly plotting the world's annihilation. Day and night Kenyans patrol the perimeter protecting not only these evil doings, but also his birth certificate. How can people just stand around talking about health care, homelessness, global warming and fracking for God's sake?? Fracking? What the fricking frick is fracking anyway? Just another liberal scare tactic that's what! Same as global warming! Stupid tree huggers. Trees were made for making guns, gun cabinets and baseball bats, not oxygen! Why are we wasting time yakking about clean air and water and the microscopic genes in corn kernels! Stop talking about GMO's idiots! We need all the corn we can store up! Grow it as fast as you can and fill the storehouses! The end is coming and when it does, I for one am going to be needing a lot of mother fucking nachos!
Speaking of end times and food, prepare to be amazed by the perfect gift for those who have everything. This year all of my loved ones are getting the Times of Trouble food supply tote designed by Jim Bakker, master of intelligence and creator of gastronomic specialties of biblical proportions. 
                                                   
 Jim knows what's going down right now and he's looking out for us, because you know, he loves us and the tote sells for $3,000. That's a bargain though, because it's five years worth of food! Five years I said! In one bright green plastic crate made in China are all the delicacies you need to eat like a king. Peel off the sticker, use a sharpie to label it "Christmas Ornaments", and put it in your basement. No one will know the difference! Disguising it will keep you from having to share with those people who were too little, too late. I know, I know, Jesus said share and love your neighbor .....blah blah blah. Look, it sucks for them, but in the End Times all the rules are gonna be different. Read Revelations if you don't believe me, or watch The Walking Dead. Think about this; zombies gotta eat too. If we're going to expect the reward of getting to stab them through the eye sockets and slice off their rotting limbs, we're going to have to make some sacrifices. I, for one, do not want to miss out on that. When this happens you're gonna need food. Thankfully, the Lord has provided. 


Not only does the Times of Trouble Tote come with 273 desserts, it is perfected with such delights as Tammy Sue's Fudge Brownies, Fern & Raleigh's Pancakes and End of the World Biscuits you can smother in...wait for it... End of the World Gravy! All we'll need is a little boiled squirrel and we'll have Heaven on Earth! All the stupid people, those who don't watch wealthy backwoods televangelists spouting doom, along with most of the liberals (because they have no guns), will be dead. God won't even have to deal with all the work of that tiresome Rapture thingy, he can just sit back, relax and enjoy watching us slay the undead! And we'll have enough nachos to share with him!

Refreshingly, there's no mention of GMO's, high fructose corn syrup or gluten in these meals. Don't you just get sick of hearing that nonsense? Time to celebrate and sing Halelujah!!!
 The best part of this plastic treasure chest of life giving goodness is, even if that stupid global warming stuff had any science behind it, the ice cream never melts! NEVER! I don't know how they created this stuff, but I'm thinking if you cubed old dish sponges and saturated them in Elmer's glue flavored with Kool Aide, you might be close. Pure, plastiky, gummy deliciousness, like the film on top of an old can of latex paint. Nom Nom!! Astronauts thought they were advanced, but their meals can't hold a candle to the culinary perfection Jim Bakker learned in the prison dining hall. Please be forewarned, there is already an 8 to 12 week wait time because of high volume sales right now. Get online and buy this before, as Jim solemnly tells us, "Do it while there's yet time." Waste nary another moment, in a twinkling of an eye that gravy could be ate up and gone! Get your bangin' End Times party box now!

Jim's other survival items for sale include a canteen kit, clothing and even enemas! Nobody needs their corpse killin' mojo hampered by slow plumbing, am I right? The man has thought of everything! However, if you buy Jim's special Black Bean Burger Buckets, I'm thinking you can probably bypass the enema.

Now y'all don't pussyfoot around! Catch up on all the ways to kill zombies in this dope video by Carl Poppa before the grid goes down! (Extra long screw drivers make excellent stocking stuffers, wink wink ;) 
Down there in our dank, sunless bunkers, free from zombies, big government, common core and mandatory childhood vaccines, we'll be safe and sound reveling in glory and delicious munchies! Not a thing to worry about! Except maybe, diabetes.

Merry Christmas and God Bless!

Bittersweet

     Target has six aisles of Halloween costumes and decor out already. I don't need a thing from that section of the store, but I found myself wandering through it anyhow. It drew me in with lights and glitter and battery operated doormats that scream when you step on them. I wasn't the only one. Walking down the costume aisle was a girl of about nine years old. She had her hands clasped together and tucked under under her chin, dreamily gazing at the tulle and polyester princess gowns. My kids remind me all the time that I am not supposed to talk to other people's children. "Mom, you're a stranger. Kids are not supposed to talk to strangers." I do it anyway. It's too hard for me not to. "Do you know what you want to be for Halloween?", I said. She looked up and smiled. "Oh, yes. I'm going to be the mean queen from Snow White and the Huntsman. I have my dress already. It's black and has gold sparkles all over. It's so pretty! Now I'm just looking for a crown."
"That sounds great", I told her. "Sometimes the evil queen is not very pretty. But that one is. You'll be perfect!" She gave me a big smile and then said, "Do you have children?" "What will they be for Halloween?". "Well, they are mostly too big for trick or treating. They are not little anymore." She looked sad for me, which made me sad for myself. I hate saying those words. I feel as if there is a stone in my stomach whenever I say them.  There is such finality in them. It's over. You will never see them like that again. They are not little anymore.
     When they were little I didn't think they would ever be grown. Some days seemed so long. I was always tired, always pregnant or nursing, always pulling someone off the counter top or table, always finding a sippy cup under the sofa with coagulated stinky milk, always trying to get home before the toddler fell asleep in the car seat and got just enough rest to keep him from taking the 2 hour nap I needed him to take, always in the kitchen, in carpool, in the doctor's office, in the grocery store, or the laundry room.  I fell into bed most nights only to have to get up for someone during the night. In public places people often asked, "Are they all yours?" Yes, they were all mine. And then, "Enjoy them. They grow up too fast." Older women told me that all the time. I didn't believe them. It felt to me it was going to take forever for them to be independent. But at some point time picked up speed. We got busier or distracted. Change crept up on us like a cat in the grass. Sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I haven't been asleep, but it feels as if I just tucked them in bed smelling of baby lotion and warm skin and they came down the stairs in the morning men and women. To be honest the younger two are not men yet. But they are not little. I am trying hard to not to treat the youngest as if he is a baby. All his siblings say I do. But it is slipping like oil through my hands. He is the last one and now I am painfully aware that it happens when we are least expecting it. That cat in the grass. This time last year his older brother was just a boy. In a few months time he got braces, facial hair and grew 4 inches. He is taller than me. His voice is changing. It is deeper with intermittent squeaks of the surrendering child breaking through in mid conversation. In a few months he gets his driving permit.
The baby does not have long before the same metamorphosis occurs. None of us can stop it. The stone in my stomach feels heavier.
     I wonder to myself why it is so hard. Do I feel I did a poor job? Do I wish I could have a do-over?
Yes. Sometimes. But only if I could get one with the knowledge I have now. I am happy with the people my children have grown to be. They are funny, smart, compassionate and tough. I like them. I enjoy my three adult daughter's company. We have a blast doing things together. The boys are sweet to me most of the time and make me laugh with the things they talk about. They have become comfortable  talking about all matters of things. I like the conversations, their ideas and thoughts about the world. I feel the kids are close and will take care of one another as the years pass. That's my greatest comfort, if something should happen to me, by which I mean death of course. There's a lot to be happy about.
Still. I'd like to have another day just to hold them, give them a bath. Snuggle up and read a favorite story. The ones that have been in the attic for years now. I'd gladly play Barbies or Legos or Candy Land. I have more time for that now, ya know? I'd look them in the eye and tell them what wonderful people they are going to grow up to be.  We could watch Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin and go trick or treating. And they would give me all the candy with nuts, because that was before they discovered nuts were good, and especially delicious covered in caramel and chocolate.

'Save: to stop (someone or something) from dying or being hurt, damaged, or lost

When I was 13 I saved a life. My father usually got one week of the year off work and he took it in summer when we were out of school so we could see my mom's parents in Arkansas. Comfortably crammed into an orange VW van with pom pom fringed curtains, were my mom, dad, younger brother and sister, our two German Shepherds, our luggage and a cooler of sandwiches and drinks.  A fourteen hour pilgrimage to the tune of  Jimi Hendrix, the Allman Brothers and Lynard Skynard on 8 track. The ritual began with my dad getting us all up around 3 or 4 in the morning. Groggily we stumbled to the van with our pillows and blankets and fell back asleep rumbling down the highway in darkness. Even though staying overnight in a motel half way through would have made the trip much more tolerable, they were not willing to waste a day of that precious week, nor the money to do so, so they always drove straight through. The summer of 1979 was an exception.

I can't remember if it was car trouble or my dad was tired, but for whatever the reason, he decided to split the trip in half and pulled into a Holiday Inn. The motel had a pool and we were excited. We didn't have a neighborhood pool at home at it wasn't very often we went swimming in one. It was still sunny and warm even though it was late in the day. The pool was packed. Kids were everywhere and moms and dads were lounging in the chairs with books and magazines. There was a diving board with kids lined up dripping and shivering, waiting for their next turn. I remember the laughter. So much loud laughter.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue and the pool was clear and clean. The splashes made by canon balls, illuminated in the late afternoon light, exploded like bursting golden fireworks. The board made its reverberating 'boy yoi yoing' as if it were giggling along with the kids. I was waist deep, getting used to the cold of the water when I saw him, or rather, part of him. I could see the top of his head, just a small clump of pale blonde hair at the crown. His arms were flailing around above him and the clump of hair thrashed back and forth in the water like reeds at the edge of a flooded river.
Was he playing? The jerking was unnatural. He moved like a marionette operated by a 2 year old. I felt a sharpness in my chest that I did not recognize yet, because I was young. Now, I know that sharpness as Fear. The specific Fear that is married with Confusion. Together they produce Panic which is often the predecessor of Despair. The sharpness is inside you but caused by what is outside you, and it tells you something terrible is happening before you are sure what it is. There were people all around but no one seemed to see him but me. He didn't come up for air. He had been under too long. I had been moving toward him while expecting to see a mother or father come near. Someone had to be watching him. Someone. He was little. His arms moved slower, then weakened and dropped. First one, then the other. He sank slowly, his little arms crossed crookedly across the top of his head.

 I got to him as fast as I could. I was still no deeper than my chest. I hooked my hands under his armpits  and was not prepared for his weight. I had to use all my strength to pull him up. Then in an act of hopeful desperation he jolted underneath me and clamored and clawed up my torso nearly dragging us both back under. Water is what I see when I think of the moment he came to the surface. Water flooded out of his mouth and nose. He vomited what seemed like gallons and gallons of water. His legs wrapped around me and his arms squeezed my neck. His fingernails dug into my shoulders. He was literally holding on for dear life. He coughed and gagged a long time, his face splotchy with jagged purple patches. And then he cried. He cried the most horrible gut wrenching sobs. I felt his terror in my bones. Not one person seemed to notice. No one came over to see if he was okay. No one claimed him. He was not more than 4 years of age. I whispered in his ear comforting words. It's okay. It's okay now. I walked out of the pool with this convulsing boy clinging to me, sucking in each breath as painfully as if the air itself were riddled with tiny pieces of shrapnel. I took him to my mother. She tried to help but he would not let go of me. We asked him questions. "Honey, is your mommy out here?" Can you show me your mommy or your daddy?" He couldn't answer. He just sobbed. I don't know if he was in shock but he couldn't talk. While I held him my mom walked around the pool asking people, "Do you know that little boy over there?" Finally in the line of giggling children at the diving board a couple of kids claimed him as their little brother. "Who is watching him?" my mother asked. "We are." She asked where their parents were and the oldest girl, about ten years old I guess, gave her the motel room number. They didn't even get out of the line. We walked through the pool area and parking lot and took stairs up to the second level of the motel. I never put him down. We found the door and knocked. Then we knocked some more. And then some more. Finally a big man answered the door with a woman standing behind him. She stared at us over his shoulder. Neither of them smiled nor greeted us. They seemed torpid. Almost empty. My mom asked "Is this your little boy?" The man sort of nodded. She told him what happened. Neither of his parents showed any emotion nor did they say a word. Someone took him from me. I don't know why I can't remember which one it was. I just remember the separating of him and me. He screamed. They shut the door without saying thank you or anything. My mom was disturbed, but I wanted to call the police. She told me we had done all we could. He would be fine. Some people are just strange she said.

That night I lay awake because I knew I had not really saved him. If I was truly going to save him I was going to have to steal him from his wretched family. Who was going to take care of him? Who would watch him the next time he went swimming? Or played too near the street?  Who would comfort him when he was hurt or sick? Who would be there when he was desperate? I spent the night hours deceiving myself that I could hide him in the back of our van. No one would notice him in the lumpy pile of dogs and blankets.

We left early in the morning as usual. It was dark. I was exhausted and I was afraid. I knew there was nothing I could do but I felt guilty for leaving him. Out the van window I could see their motel door on the second floor. As we drove away I watched for him to come out. Something made me think he might come running after me. I watched until I could no longer see the hotel lights.

From time to time I think of him and wonder. I wonder if he is alive and happy or if being neglected made him mean and miserable like it does to so many. I wonder if he remembers being pulled from the water. I wonder if he was afraid of water after that. I wonder why it was me, out of all those people, to be the only one who saw him drowning. And I wonder why the drowning can't always have that one person who's there to save them.