wskrz's Open Salon Blog

To my son Alex on your fourth birthday

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 23:09:29 -0400

Today you turn four years old. It’s quite a fun time for you. It’s a time that you discover the wonderful world around you and how you fit into it. I've always loved watching you encounter your world with fascination and amazement. Whether it's the wind blowing through the leaves or a grasshopper hopping around, seeing the world through your eyes always makes it look different to my own.

Birthdays are always a time to look forward to the many things that you will achieve, but it’s also one of those times that we look back at where you’ve been (you’ll get used to this eventually. It’s something sentimental us parents like to do, usually with a little tear in our eye). The past four years have been like a roller coaster ride for us all. Somedays, it’s a thrill ride filled with laughter and surprises. Sometimes, it’s full of twists and turns and it’s scary for everyone on board.

So humor me. I’m your mother. I’ll probably end up embarrassing you a little here (yeah, get used to that too), but allow me to reminisce.

You were born at 8:30 pm, squawking like a little bird. I had been in labor all day long and I was tired and thirsty, but after nine months of anticipation, sore backs and preparation, you were finally here. I couldn’t wait to hold you, all wrapped up like a little burrito (and almost weighing as much as one of those Chipotle ones).

I’ll be the first to admit – the thought of being in charge of a little squalling, squirming person scared the crap out of me. I’d never had any experience with kids. Heck, I’d never even babysat before. Sure, taking care of cats are one thing. But they’re pretty self sufficient. They can feed and clean themselves and other than the occasional hairball and shredded sofa, there’s not a lot of stress. You needed us to do everything for you. It was a lot of responsibility that, quite honestly, no parenting book can ever really prepare you for.

You grew. You slept. A little. We made some mistakes (that happens. Get used to that too) and learned from them. From your first smile when I woke up in bed to see you in the morning from your bedside crib to your first steps in front of an audience on Thanksgiving Day, you’ve grown in front of our very eyes. Sometimes it seems as if you were growing up so fast. Other times, when you were crying and screaming or waking up in the middle of the night, it seemed as if you couldn’t grow up fast enough.

There were days that you drove me crazy. I’m sure I drove/drive you crazy too. You’ll learn that there’ll be a lot of that to come in the future. There were days when you got tired and cranky and were ready to make life miserable for everyone and there were days when your smiles and giggles lit up the room. I learned to make the best of those days and put them in my reserve, so I could savor them on those bad days.

On your first birthday, we had a big party with family and friends. You oddly didn’t want anything to do with the cake (which was fine. Daddy and I ate it instead) and we learned that you really didn’t like party hats.

You’re still not too crazy about them.

There was one milestone that we kept expecting that never came – your first words. Along with the lack of speech came the tantrums, which we later learned were mostly from frustration from not being able to communicate your needs. Oh, those tantrums. They’d last for hours sometimes, leaving you, and us, in a sweaty, sobbing mess.

We got concerned. We went our doctor who recommended getting some tests done. We tried some therapy sessions through Early Intervention and on the suggestion of your therapists, we decided to have you tested for Autism.

There were forms, questionnaires, quizzes and tests. We took you for a morning long session with experts so they could conduct various tests with you. Then we were told to come back in a week for the results. That was the longest week of my life.

At the end of that week, we came into an office, sat down and I took out my pen and paper, anticipating that I would be writing notes and asking questions. When they told us that they were going to diagnose you with Autism, all the questions I had were forgotten. I had nothing to say. The paper in front of me was blank. I literally felt like the dreams and aspirations that I had for you before you were born were melting off of me right in that very room. Suddenly, life had taken a quick turn for all of us.

I quickly learned, however, that although you had a diagnosis, you were still the same little boy that I had when I went into the room. You were still the same loving, joyful child. That never changed. You were Alex. Still. You may have been diagnosed as being Autistic, but you were determined, whether you knew it or not, to not make Autism determine who you were.

So we had a choice. As with any label, we could let it make you who it wanted you to be, or we could fight it. We chose to fight with sweat and tears. Sometimes your tears. Sometimes ours. But with a lot of speech therapy and occupational therapy, you fought.

Sure enough, on October 8th, 2007, you spoke. You spoke! You said “dada.” Sure, it wasn’t me, but I didn’t care. You spoke.

And like your speech therapist said, once the words would come, they would come in a flood. We would write each new word you came up with on a white board with pride. It was like we were keeping score.

Eventually, we stopped keeping track. We just couldn’t keep up. The words were flowing so quick and so much, the whiteboard was retired. With your ability to talk came fewer tantrums. Now that you could communicate with us and you weren’t stuck wanting to say something but not knowing how, things became so much brighter for everyone.

It’s amazing how much you’ve grown just in the past year. You’re going to preschool now and your knowledge is growing every day. You’re learning more about the world around you and I can’t tell you how much that excites me. The world is a very exciting place and I can’t wait to show you more.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.

Love, Mommy.

My kid's gonna win Survivor! Oh. Wait.

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 19:09:50 -0400

Immunity in every box?! Is the necklace made out of Snap, Crackle and Pop?

I was running through the grocery store, as all mothers do, on one of those blessed trips sans kid this morning and I decided to take a trip down the cereal aisle. You know, Where Tantrums Happen. ™ It’s the best chance I have to see what’s on sale without having to cave into pressure to buy what’s not on sale while my son holds my eardrums, sanity and my reputation in the community hostage.

Of course, I noticed the above. Personally, I hate Cocoa Krispies. If I want to drink chocolate milk, I’ll do so. But to sell a cereal with an added sugar content of 40% (“Here, honey. Let me save you the trouble. Have the sugar bowl for breakfast. No, don’t worry about the spoon. Just stick your face in.”) just sends my mothering sensibilities into a complete tailspin.

But now, Cocoa Krispies is now offering to support your child’s immunity! That’s right, parents. In a flu season of uncertainty and fear, Kellogg’s has decided to get your attention to try to get you to buy their cereal the old fashioned way – by scaring you.

From a marketing standpoint, it’s genious. We parents have had our anti-swine flu and cold meters turned to hypersensitive the past few months thanks to the media and whenever we see certain code words like “immunity,” some of us are sure to jump right on it. Little Johnny and Julie can now fight swine flu with bowls and bowls of immunity boosting Cocoa Krispies! Nevermind the sugar rush, kids! Keep eating and fighting those nasty germs into oblivion!

This is not the first time that Kelloggs has added dubious claims to their cereal boxes. Earlier this year, they ran afoul of the Federal Trade Commission for claiming that their Frosted Mini Wheats were “clinically shown to improve kids’ attentiveness by 20%”. The FTC slapped Kelloggs hands, saying that those claims were “false and violated federal law.” In fact, the study that Kelloggs quoted on their boxes showed that the children who ate the cereal for breakfast averaged just under 11 percent better in attentiveness, by comparison, and that relatively few were nearly 20 percent more attentive. The claims were ordered removed from boxes and Kelloggs was ordered to provide more substantive proof for their cereal box claims in the future.

Makes me wonder how long before the Special K hits the fan with these immunity claims.

Of course, you can claim immunity in a number of ways. Eating good, well balanced meals is one way. Making sure that kids get lots of exercise is another. But for a cereal company to claim in big, bold type that it helps support my kids’ immunity when they’re only providing 25% of his RDA of vitamin A,B,C and E with 12 grams of sugar from a ¾ cup serving seems a bit of a stretch. Especially during a time when swine flu fear is so rampant.

But if they want to help my kid win Survivor so we can get a million dollars, I’ll start buying the stuff by the truckload.

The wiener takes it all! A photo essay

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 15:09:50 -0400

Cue the Chariots of Fire music!

Denver had its 2nd annual Long Dog Derby, a fundraiser for the Colorado Dachshund Rescue, at its Oktoberfest festivities this past weekend. The two are a natural pairing as a celebration of beer, polka, brats and wieners on the run.

The ears were a-flyin’ during the multiple heats and various age groups, all for prizes and bragging rights at the local fire hydrant.

Now, those of you who know me here know I’m a cat person. I’ve got three cats at home but I’m not adverse to slipping a few Milkbones to my neighbors dogs. However, I’m pretty new to the whole world of competitive wiener racing. I had no idea how contentious it could be and serious people took it. There’s a lot of trash talking at the starting line.

And sometimes, it’s almost like a wrestling match. Some dogs dress up in costumes to intimidate their fellow competitors.

Some competitors have pre-race rituals, like tension relieving tummy rubs. I’m sure this is Usain Bolt’s secret to his world record titles.

And the squeaky toys. Don’t forget the squeaky toys.

But when it’s time to race, a hush descends over the crowd. The tension in the air is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The racers get into their starting positions…

Everyone holds their breath as they await the starter’s gun.

And they’re off! With lightning speed, they tear up the Astroturf on their way to glory! I had to use a high speed camera to catch these flashes of ears and fur as they ran at supersonic speed.

Sometimes, in the heat of competition, a dog forgets what they’re doing there and balks at the starting line. Unfortunately, it causes all the other dogs to stumble and forget too and they return to the starting line in confusion. It’s crushing to dog and owner alike.

But to those that cross the finish line first go the spoils and the honor and the wiener, sorry, the winner, is declared!

And the reward of that beloved squeaky toy is received.

For those that didn’t win, there’s still the loving arms of their owner and a scratch behind their ample, dangling ears.

When the races are over and the prizes are awarded, the field goes quiet and the shine of fame glows on each winning dog.

And for those that didn’t win, there’s always next year.

Parenting my parents

Tue, 4 Aug 2009 16:08:18 -0400

A long time ago, when I was 16 years old, I volunteered in a nursing home. Not wanting to be singing old 40s tunes and serving ginger ale during bingo games, I wanted something more challenging. I chose the infamous Third Floor. This was where the advanced Alzheimer’s patients were and where they died. I learned a lot there. I learned about one Russian woman’s life as a masseuse and about another woman who was a teacher for a one room school in a small farming community.

I also learned a lot about the structure of families. Nursing homes aren’t very happy places, to be honest. Third Floor certainly wasn’t. Some families would come when their parent was on death’s door and have a vigil until they passed on. Sadly, in many cases, no relative showed up at all. Those were the times where I came in, sat down beside the patient and was the one who sometimes held their hands when their breathing was labored and the fear in their eyes was so evident. It wasn’t how 16 year olds would want to spend their time, sitting with old people who were dying, but it gave me a special peace knowing that I was there for them when they needed someone. Anyone.

So now that I’m in my late 30s, I’m suddenly finding myself in a very heartbreaking and frustrating situation and this time, it’s hitting much closer to home. I’m in the position where I’m parenting my parents. It’s hard when our parents age and need more help with things. What’s worse is when there’s a huge distance between us and those we love that need our help.

I have a three year old son who is the apple of my eye. I have a wonderful husband and three cats. I’m lucky enough to have a nice house in a nice neighborhood with great neighbors who look out for each other and I count myself very graced with some good friends.

And I feel guilty to have that, because it’s something that my parents don’t. And dammit, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The house they live in is where they were planning to grow old in and retire to in their golden years. The house is paid for and was paid for with hours of shiftwork that my dad spent in a dirty and hot steel mill. He worked extra hours to make sure that when he retired, he wouldn’t have a mortgage hanging over his head. He didn’t want to have to rely on anyone for help. That’s just how my dad is.

Sadly, not only did he pay for the house with the 12 hour shifts, he paid for it with his health. His back is shot. He can’t walk for long periods of time without a lot of pain. He’s retired now, while my mother works in a donut shop and is the only income for the family.

I guess the first hint of the quality, or lack thereof, of the neighborhood that my parents live in came four days after we moved into the house, 15 years ago. We were starting to move in slowly, box by box, before the movers came with the furniture. So when my parents called me at work the day after my dad and I had put on the new deadbolt lock on the door, telling me to come home right away, there was no way I could have imagined what I would find.

The new lock was sheared right off the door. The few things that were in the house were either scattered on the floor or gone. My cat was hiding in the closet and wouldn’t come out. They took my dad’s old Amiga computer, a box of stuff that included my dad’s camera, a can of pennies and my almost full bottle of shampoo (WTF?). The bastards had stolen all the stuff my parents had just brought into the house so they must have been watching and waited until they left to break in. Worst of all, they did something to my cat while they were rummaging through our stuff. The cat was never the same after that day.

What hurt even more than the things that were taken was what was taken that you couldn’t see – trust. My dad’s trust was shattered and that was the point that he became a prisoner in his own home.

We never went out at night. Never went out for dinner. A house alarm was installed. My dad rigged up a camera at the front door to start recording whenever the doorbell rang. The windows were always covered. I don’t think my dad has ever had a good night’s sleep in that house because every little sound on the street would have him looking out the window to see what was going on.

And there were a lot of sounds. The neighborhood is not the best and since my last visit, has gotten much worse. There’s graffiti and gang tagging everywhere. I saw at least three drug deals on the corner, in broad daylight, while I was there for a four day visit. Just the other night, there was a stabbing on the corner, apparently over a drug deal gone bad. It had gotten to the point that while I loved my parents, I hated visiting them. The guilt packed in my bag for my return trip over my life back at home was heavier than I could carry.

Everything has it’s limit to what it can hold, however, and finally, that limit that my dad could take has finally been breached. It’s happened rather quickly and it’s gotten to the point that if my parents could move out of their house tonight, they would. The neighbors are dumping garbage all over the place and into my parents backyard. The cops have been called next door at 3 am for fights and domestic violence issues so many times that they’ve lost count.

It’s not the way they should be living their lives. Or anyone, for that matter. So they’ve given up. The house is going up for sale and they’re moving out as soon as they find an apartment. The house will be sold empty in "as is" condition. So while many people my parents age are planning their retirement and are looking at what they have (or what’s left, after the economic downturn) of their retirement savings, my parents will be losing the only tangible thing they had – their house. They’ll be living off the halved pension my dad earned in the steel mills, which would have been bigger if the mills hadn’t closed and the pensions plundered and the minimum wage my mother makes at the donut shop.

I’m hoping to help my parents move out, even if I can only help for a week. They’ll need the help. They don’t know how to organize movers, how to sort through their things (and mine) to organize everything and they don’t know what needs to be done when moving. I have a lot of experience in that, since my husband and I have moved nine times in the past 13 years. They need help lifting boxes and cleaning the floors, especially given my dad’s health. They need guidance with leases and with movers and realtors contracts. They need to make lists of stuff to keep and they need to make calls for stuff they need to get rid of.

They’re going to need a shoulder more than a hand. Their retirement dreams have become a nightmare and the next few weeks are going to be extremely stressful and emotional for everyone. I am glad that they will finally be moving out of that hellhole though. I'd by lying if I didn't say that I've worried about them and their safety for the past 15 years.

Still. They’re my parents. I don’t want to be like those kids that were never there for their parents at the nursing home, especially during those times when they were needed the most.

They've been there for me. And I will be there for them.

The Bash in Boulder - pictures from the OS gathering

Mon, 3 Aug 2009 00:08:49 -0400

Oh, hell yeah.

We OSers sure do know how to party.

So y’all that weren’t in Boulder this Sunday at the big OS gathering….you missed a really good party.

Just so you know how much fun was had by all, here are some pictures to make you wish you were there.

(Well, and we missed you. Next time, you must come.)

It was a gorgeous day for an outdoor get-together. Clear, sunny and in the upper 80s. Perfect weather for sitting outside in the shade of a tree, swinging in a swing chair with a cold drink in hand and with the company of friends.

There were lots of laughs and lots of discussion. And of course, lots of food. There was more food to come later (drool inducing food pictures to follow).

Our lovely hostess, marytkelly, was so awesome to put all this together. She opened up her beautiful home to us and was so gracious and entertaining.

Just a sampling of those who attended - Pretend Farmer was there with her contagious laugh and quick wit.

Dynomite was hangin’ with us in the treehouse.

And Trig Palin with his son and soon-to-be-friend, one of Mary’s dogs (whom I can’t remember the name of). Seriously, this dog just loved Trig.

Even my son, Alex and my husband Matt came later in the afternoon after Alex’s naptime.

Alex loved Mary’s place. The treehouse was so much fun for him to climb and he loved the dogs. Duke was his favorite. Turns out that Duke had a special thing for Alex too. When Alex would drive around in the little battery car, Duke would bring him tennis balls for him to throw (see behind Alex).

Alex now wants a dog. We’ll have to have the “not until you can help take care of and clean up after the dog” talk later.

A few people did dare to ride the zipline from the treehouse. Trig made sure that we saw London, France and, well…

And Dynomite almost took the zipline into the neighbors yard.

Did I mention the food? Not only can we OSers party, we know how to eat.

And with the esteemed JD manning the grilling duties, bellies were happily filled.

And oh yes. Of course.

Sadly, I couldn’t stay for the whole party (kid bedtime duty called and I promised I’d be back home for bathtime) but I had a fantastic time all the same. Big thanks to Mary for such great afternoon and it was wonderful to meet so many of my fellow OSers.

Let’s do it again sometime.