Rapier's Wit

Oh dear me! This week has been a smack in the head emotionally. Mother's Day is often such a struggle for me. On one hand, I am ecstatic to have a son who loves and respects me. He fills me with so much pride. On the other hand, losing my own mother in 1981causes me such emotional turmoil from time to time. Not often, but when it strikes it strikes hard. The other day on Facebook I shared that my final memory of my mother was that in the hospital where she spent her last days. She was ravaged with cancer and in dire pain even with pain medication. Toward the very end I wasn't permitted to visit her. However, the time I was allowed in her room she had pushed me away after I hugged her because I was hurting her. It isn't the memory I want to hold on to, but it is there. As her last child, the youngest of eight, there's no doubt she had her reasons. My siblings have assured me, while it wasn't what I wanted, it is what our mother felt was best for me ... or her. It ...

First grade was tremendously challenging for Mancub as his teacher was determined to teach him in the  cookie cutter manner she'd always used. What I mean by that is her belief was that children would bend to her will and fall in line. I am quite certain my son wasn't the first child she encountered that required accommodations yet she behaved as if he was the first child to enter her class with an Individualized Education Program. Mancub's second grade teacher fell from the heavens. She seemed to truly understand his mind and his moods. She was the kind of teacher who remained flexible in teaching lessons. Her methods were not rigorous yet her style was structured. By the end of the first quarter she shared that all the kids seemed to benefit from Mancub's accommodations from time to time.  My son really blossomed in second grade and found that he could achieve academically. He joined the Science Club. His socialization skills improved. The club had many field t...

Mrs. Rose Barton was (she has retired) the Special Education resource teacher at Mt. Vernon Elementary when Mancub first met her. She swiftly consulted with me; arranged consult with the child psychologist at the school; set up observation of Mancub for herself and the child psychologist. It was determined that my darling son was certainly mis-categorized as EBD (emotional behavior disorder) by his former school. Both professionals determined that he was not acting out and perseverating to gain control. His surroundings were setting it off and he was clearly frustrated and upset. Not an expert in the field of autism, Mrs. Barton sought out help from her colleagues and researched Asperger Syndrome. When she first approached me about the possibility my son was 'special needs' I'll admit to feeling defeated and devastated. No lying. Immediately, I pictured my child being harassed and bullied for being different. I made some phone calls to friends and family members who were ...

April is Autism Awareness Month. My son has autism spectrum disorder / Asperger Syndrome. Giggling Mancub age 4.  I truly dislike tagging a label on him. To me, he is perfection. When someone pats me on the back for being a good mother I joke that God knew I'd be raising my son alone and provided me with a child who is easy to raise. When Mancub was in pre-school it was obvious he had issues not adhering to some guidelines. Quick change of schedule or altering the food menu would cause a melt down. He never had such tantrums when we were one on one so it made little sense to me. Then again, I am a creature of habit. It was rare for us to deviate. Once, he 'lost his mind' -- their words--  when they had to do self portraits and he colored his eyes green. His eyes are chocolate brown. The teacher argued with him that his eyes were not green. They had him look in a mirror to prove him wrong. He insisted that his eyes couldn't be brown because "Mommy has g...

Lady Jane -- You will be missed This is dedicated to Maureen, Michael, Justin, Kris, Alisa, Kailey, Andrew and Ryan: Rainbow Bridge Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begi...

Sixteen years ago today I began experiencing contractions.  Since I wasn't due for another two weeks, I just assumed they were part of pregnancy.  With only one car in our possession, I drove my then husband to work at 6 AM. Unusual to all of my other doctor's appointments, that day was an afternoon visit. Having one car definitely created a crimp in our flexibility, but you do what you have to when financial constraints dictate your lifestyle. While waiting for the gate at my (ex) husband's employer, my breath was taken from me. Never had I experienced such a thing before. Oh, I had hiccup like contractions, but not one that lasted any significant period of time. Nor had my breathing been interrupted as a result.  Throughout the day I'd experienced a few more contractions. Nothing consistent. So, I didn't fret since I'd be seeing my ob/gyn later in the day.  It's likely I called upon my sister Maureen for advice.  Memories are kind of foggy.  Each time a...

To say I am an overprotective mother would be an understatement.  Being such a person has done a disservice to my son and myself.  If there was a club for being a worry wart, I would be their poster child.  When Mancub was very small I wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap before sending him out to play.  Clearly my parents' parenting style didn't rub off on me. They let us climb high trees, jump off the porch into a pile of leaves and some how we managed to remain intact. Mom and Dad may have been worried sick each time we set out to ride our bikes in a look-ma!-no hands manner down the hill just to say we did it, but if there was concern, they never let on.  My siblings and I joke that in the summers mom would lock us out of the house until it was dark.  As long as a police car didn't escort us home or no call from the hospital was received, she was content.  We learned during that time just how burglar proof our home was not.  We'd sneak in the ba...

This song was part of a program encouraging adoption. "A Home for the Holidays" was a presentation lead by Faith Hill to honor The Dave Thomas Foundation . When the singer/songwriter Michael Franti told his own story about being adopted, it brought a flutter to my heart. Then, as he sang this beautiful song there were snippets of children awaiting adoption ... children who've been in over five homes in a year's time. That's when the tears really began to flow. The lyrics of this song are simple; yet, they speak volumes. He's managed to put to verse what I feel in my heart about close friendships that simply cannot be defined or labeled. Merry Christmas.

I look forward to birthdays not for the presents or the joyful singing in various keys. Those are undoubtedly perks of aging. No. It's the cake, but not technically the cake. Give me the frosting. I always ask for the corner piece that's thick with butter cream. If there's a frosting floral arrangement it's even better! When all the pieces are cut and the ribbon of icing remains on the cake plate you can bet I'll be taking a fork, spoon or hell, skip the utensil! I'll just slide my finger along the rim of the plate and plop that glob on my plate. I dream of cupcakes piled high with frosting. The wax paper wrapped cake part is merely a vessel in which to deliver the creamy, sugary goodness to my pie-hole. Yeah, I know. I'm gross. I wouldn't do that finger picker-upper around anyone but family. It's not like I lick the plate. mmmm mmmm mmmm. I eat the cake simply because it's attached to the frosting. Today we celebrated all the summer b...

It all started with taking Mancub and his friend, K, to their freshman orientation. Once I dropped the boys off I head to the luxuriousness of the laundromat. Awww I see you turning green over there. Envy doesn't look pretty on you. The place was packed with dames gray with age, which reminde d me that my roots were in severe need of attention. One of the ladies was a snappy dresser in her fashionable jeans and tailored blue and white striped shirt. The old girl even had her collar popped! She curses like a sailor which caused me to giggle to myself as I filled the top load washer with my dirty duds. Her companion is hunched over and requires a cane, but the rapport between them is a hoot to overhear. She shuffles about much like Sophia on The Golden Girls. While I'm far from being as old as those gals in the laundromat, I was reminded that aging doesn't require you to lose your pep or give up the spunkiness of youth. You just have to be careful how high you kick up...

When someone wishes me happy Mother's Day in May, I smile and gush a little over the joys of being Mancub's mom. There's no denying that I feel I was born to be a parent. Little did I realize when I became a mother that I'd fill the role of both parents. Mancub's father and I divorced in '99 and, for the most part, I have carried the load of taking care of business. They'd spend time when I was working on weekends, but if I wasn't working Mancub was with me. Financially it all rests on my shoulders, as well. So, in 2005 we packed up what we could carry on a plane and moved to Illinois. Mancub's father didn't follow as hoped or tentatively planned. He packed up what he could carry in a van and moved to Texas. Since that time there is little visitation and periodic communication. Mancub welcomes any and all that he can get from his dad. Yes, when he isn't looking I roll my eyes and try not to gag. It's trivial to me, but monument...

Yesterday was a fabulous success. I have no idea what the financial tally ended up being. The success comes from family coming together to walk for such a brilliant cause: Relay for Life: American Cancer Society. Our team, Hunger For a Cure, was one of 150 teams. I overheard that our local event increased the team number by 30. Now I know why it was nearly impossible to find a reasonable parking spot. Walking isn't a problem until you're toting a big, honkin ' metal Coleman cooler full of ice and water bottles. OK, so I didn't actually tote it. I pulled up near the main entrance and my nephew Michael met me at the gate. During the opening ceremonies, former American Idol Season 7 contestant Luke Menard performed two songs. His family is local to Kankakee and he is also a cancer survivor. Everyone felt blessed to have him present. He played guitar and sang two songs. My mind is completely drawing a blank, but he sang compassionately and beautifully. I was on th...

The eve of Easter was spent blathering online while imbibing in pomegranate martinis. First, martini glasses are just stupid. They look great if you're in a hotel bar or social butterflying at a party provided you aren't walking around. Martini glasses are perfect slosh makers. No thanks. I'll take mine in a beer mug. The upside is less refills. I didn't drink enough to be coerced into any lascivious activities. Yes, I know it's all very sad to those of you who have vast social lives with people of the flesh variety. Don't give me your lectures. I used to possess a healthy social life. Then, I moved back to Illinois. What people also don't understand is that I'm beyond apathetic in regards to meet and greets. I'm not getting into it now. I was home. I was drinking. 'Nuf said. I had no issues waking on Easter Sunday. Me and my heathen self didn't suffer a hangover. Sleeping in, however, was relished. I did awaken around 4 a.m. ...

Like 30 bajillion other people, I have become mildly addicted to Facebook . Go on and criticize. My friend Sherry thinks my "dicking around" on FB is the cause of my lapse in posting on my blog. There might be some validity in her statement, but not all is lost. No matter what excuse one uses for being on FB -- I'm reconnecting with long, lost friends; it's my family's way of communicating; inane quizzes created by barely literate people rock my world -- we're there and no one seems immune. Much to the dismay of the younger people who believe the world belongs to them and us old folk are just sitting around watching Murder She Wrote dvds and waiting to die, we are joining en masse. Get over yourselves. Without us, you wouldn't have a basement to live in, junior. I digress. One of the many applications available on Facebook is called Living Social . It should be called Living Social; Demented and Sad, but Social. What this app (it's how cool Face...

My family is so vast that it's really difficult to pull us all together at one time. So, the holidays are usually comprised of a few. In our family, few is a relative term, mind you. With 10 kids (spouses or significant others), grandchildren (I lost count) a solid 20 means a few. Typically though, it's those of us who live within reasonable driving distance to Grandma's casa. The attendees aren't a guaranteed bunch, but food a'plenty and merriment is certain. I was terribly concerned that the ice storm that hit us on December 18 would deter travelers. Negatory! The Illinois and Indiana dwellers made it safely to Plainfield on December 20. My (step) mom is the hostess with the mostest. It's always a relaxing, easy going time when we break bread there. Something very calming exists when I walk through her front door. I guess it's home. We all exchanged gifts -- letting the little ones have their run first. My nephew G is a toddler and he was so excited for ...

Everyone has a theory or tale about Santa Claus. He is most often thought of as the Coca-Cola creation. It doesn't matter where you're from. You all have had your variation on the fat man in red. There's never been a question that the jolly old fella is generous and resourceful. I, on the other hand, had the honour of living with Santa Claus. Oh, I had no idea at the time. I never spied the red velvet suit. Nor did I get a tickle by the mass of snowy white beard. I never had reindeer doody duty, either. The following story was written by my father. He submitted his theory on Santa Claus to our local newspaper, The Kankakee Daily Journal. I'm unable to give you the exact date (Maureen would know.) I can recall him sitting at our family dining table lamenting over the proper way to honour his perception of Jolly Old St. Nick. His glasses perched on his nose; looking over the top of them as I tromped about disturbing his train of thought. He'd say very little, b...

My mother's laugh was infectious. She possessed poise and beauty; yet, underneath lurked the pain of a child who lost her mother at a young age. Beneath the bobbed strawberry blonde curls was the mind of thoughtfulness and intellegence; a woman who longed for motherhood. She attained motherhood eight times over. I'm the youngest of her brood. The "caboose" of the Family Rapier. Today marks the anniversary of my mother's birth. She left this earthly place in June of 1981. For many years I struggled with anger. I now understand that it was easier for me to hate her for leaving me. It made the pain seem less excrutiating. For years I held on to the aspects that were negative. I was scarred. Today, I remember my mother for the many loving things she did. People felt important and loved in her presence. I miss her terribly. I miss the way she gave Christmas an extra cozy touch. Music always filled our home. Whether it be good times or bad, a song could b...

So, in the post right down yonder I said that today was a day where I'd observe people being kind and compassionate out in the wild of day. Meh, I didn't get much observation time in beyond watching chemicals drip into my sister's body via I.V. I arrived at Casa Maureen around 11:00 a.m. After petting the dogs and exchanging in a little chit chat with Kris, we departed in the cold, rainy muck of the day. We made a drive-thru side trip for a bite and an eggnog shake. Sis was craving one and knew after the chemo treatment she'd be too sensitive to the cold to enjoy one (a side effect of this particular treatment is hypersensitivity to cold.) I'm unsure when we arrived at the Loyola clinic, but the ride up took about an hour --sissy chitty chat time. More sissy chatter in the waiting room. They were readying things up for the drip, drip, drip. The same male nurse I met the last time I took her came to get us. His name is Craig or Greg. I'm bad with names, but he is...

November 24 marked the 1 Year Anniversary of WILDHAIR . I honestly didn't realize the exact date I first embarked on this blog. Prior to blogging on blogspo t, I had been writing and posting on Myspace. My hope by writing on blogspot was to gain a greater readership by broadening the spectrum. With over 12,000 hits, I suppose that wish came true. Although, the appeal of my writing hasn't caught on like wildfire. I admit I am not a writer, but I do relish putting my thoughts and perspective out there for others to peruse. While looking back at my posts for some inspiration, I read a memory that was amongst the first posted on WILDHAIR . It fits in with an earlier query about the traditions we honor each holiday season. Many of our family traditions unfortunately died when my mother passed away. It's sad, but our emotions and minds had become as scattered as the locales of my siblings. New people were brought into the fold and new traditions began. It is, by no means, a jab a...

All day I haven't been able to get Schweaty's Balls out of my head. I blame Not A Mean Girl . On plurk, she informed us how she'd been up until 2:30 a.m. making various candies. That includes peanut butter and coconut balls. To which, I replied in that plurk "Schweaty Balls?" On NAMG's blog post for today, she talks about how this exhausting tradition is what gives the holidays meaning. Without all the candy making there'd be an element missing. She inquires as to what traditions we hold dear around the holidays. I had to really think hard and I still came up with only one reply: I show up for dinner and drinks when invited. Pretty stellar stuff, huh? My childhood memories always involve traditions or expectations put forth by my mother. Every Thanksgiving our family alternated being host with our aunt and uncle. I preferred going to their house because 1) it seemed like we were really going somewhere even though they only lived across town 2) my cousin h...