Go Ahead—Sprinkle That Sh*t Everywhere

We Heaglers appreciate a little sparkle in our lives. OK—maybe a lot. It shows up in all sorts of places. In this house, the tooth fairy leaves a little sparkle with a dollar bill under a pillow. The garden fairies once brought a jar of sparkly Goblin Repellent when we were overrun with goblins. Those same fairies later unloaded a dump truck of sparkly fairy dust on a mischievous Elf on the Shelf. It’s been rumored (and I will neither confirm nor deny) that I showered my Yearbook Club kids in glitter as part of a celebration for a job well done. The kids and I even sprinkled glitter around our new house before the new hardwoods were laid so we’d know for sure there was a hint of sparkle (and maybe a bit of magic) in this house—even if we can’t see it. We do love a little sparkle. A little everyday magic.

A few years ago, I wrote a blog post about suffering from depression and in that piece I wrote about the feeling of hanging by a thread. A wonderful friend responded by telling me that she liked what I’d done with the thread I was holding onto. She wrote, “It’s multi-strand and colorful, with a hint of glitter.” Her comment touched me deeply and made me really think about that hint of glitter, my love of a little sparkle...a little magic. And I realized that the hint of glitter my friend could see in that thread I sometimes cling to was simply a glint of “me” showing through, even in my darkest times, even in those times when I've felt practically invisible.

I started writing this blog last week. I intended to segue from this opening about a love of sparkle and belief in everyday magic to my excitement at finally finding my spirit animal—a toy bunny whose packaging proclaims, “I poop glitter!” Seriously—I couldn't make this up. See for yourself: Moxie Girlz Poopsy Pets

In my head, the piece was hilarious. How could it not be? Did I mention the glitter-pooping bunny? But I just couldn't make it work on paper and I wound up posting nothing last week (and beating myself up about it). In retrospect, though, not being able to draw a straight line from crippling depression to a glitter-pooping bunny is pretty understandable.

I planned to revisit this piece Monday night after work. And then I heard the terrible news that Robin Williams had taken his own life and a toy that poops glitter no longer seemed funny at all.

I've read a lot about Robin Williams, depression and suicide over the last few days. I cried imagining all too vividly his struggle, and winced witnessing the shock and naked grief of those who loved him. At the same time, I've been encouraged by the conversations happening about the devastation of depression and the need for open dialog, understanding and accessible treatment. And, as is frequently the case for me and countless others who suffer from depression, I turned inward, and did a lot of thinking. Which led me back to that thread, the one with the hint of glitter, to which I all too often find myself clinging.

So many of us cling to that thread. Too many. But in every single thread there is a hint of glitter—a glint of the true beauty of that person shining through, even in their darkest moments. Is it possible that the most sparkly threads are also the most slippery? The most difficult to hold?

If Robin Williams was clinging to a thread, the hint of glitter that shone through—that piece of him that we could all see—was positively luminous. It will continue to shine, in his body of work, in his children, his wife, all who loved him and the countless lives he touched. I hope his tragic death will remind us to hold on tightly to our own thread and seek help when we feel our grip slipping. That everyone we meet is fighting a battle we know nothing about. That nothing is more important than caring for one another. And that kindness doesn't cost a damn thing. We really should sprinkle that shit everywhere.

Which I suppose brings us full circle to the glitter-pooping bunny. I’m so glad I managed to work my way back to my newly-discovered spirit animal. Somehow I think Robin Williams would have approved. Maybe even laughed.

Rest in peace, Mr. Williams. Thank you for the memories and for your truly brilliant hint of glitter.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: in the US, call 1-800-273-8255 or visit
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce Que C'est

Lucy walks in her sleep. Talks too. The other night she wandered into my room as I was brushing my teeth and I could tell she was sleep-walking. When I told her to go back to bed she shrugged nonchalantly, said, “OK – as long as there aren't any more people to stab,” and casually sauntered back to her room.

I thought, “Huh, that was disturbing,” and turned to tell someone about the utterly creeptastic thing Lucy had just said while gallivanting about in her sleep. I think I actually said out loud, “Holy crap, did you hear what she...” before it dawned on me there was no one there to tell. (For a split-second, though, I waited for a reply…just in case.)

Upon realizing I had no one with whom to share this wonderfully-creepy experience, I did not burst into tears (admit it—you thought that’s what I was going to say). But I did stop and give consideration to the fact that apparently I now talk to myself and fully expect a reply. Yep. I gave that some serious thought. And yes, I considered the very real possibility that I may be straight-up crazy. While I kicked around that somewhat-uncomfortable idea it occurred to me that for the majority of my children’s’ lives there has been no one there for me to tell when the kids have said or done something fantastic (or horrendous). No one to turn to and say, “Holy crap! Did you see that?” So maybe my talking to a non-existent life partner (and fully expecting a reply) is nothing more than wishful thinking and not necessarily a rapid descent into Crazyville…right?

I felt pitiful for a few minutes before it hit me: I do have someone to tell when my kids say or do something fantastic (or horrendous). I have you. (That’s right. Sit with that thought, my friends. Are you just a little scared right now?) My village. Virtual and actual. As life partners go, y’all pretty much rule.

So…Lucy is talking in her sleep about stabbing people. It was Pirates vs. Zombies week at camp last week, but still. This is me turning to you and saying, “Holy crap, did you hear that?” Quick. Someone hold me.

My daughter may be a psycho killer, but our little chat here has made me feel better already. I love my Village People. 

Perfectly Floppy Bacon's Grand Re-Opening: Oh How I've Missed You

Hello, blank computer screen. Oh how I've missed you. (And you too, PFB readers!) Here's what's been happening.

As you may have guessed, the cue-the-orchestra, slow-motion-running-into-each-other’s-arms, Lifetime-Television-for-Women Happy Ending to which I referred in my last post turned out to be an entirely different kind of movie. Oh sure, it was still Lifetime-Television-for-Women-worthy, just not with hearts, flowers and an earnest rock ballad. This particular movie was more of a tears, heartbreak and bad country song kind of movie. Not to worry—it’s nothing I can’t work with. I just needed a minute (or six months, as it were) to make some kind of shaky peace with it and to be able to say it loud without too much pain, shame or blame (or a lot of ugly crying). Hence the radio silence. Thank you for your patience.

So here we are, the kids and I. We've picked ourselves up, moved yet again (five times in ten years—probably not a record, but a crap-ton of moving nonetheless) and adjusted our expectations. Because that’s what we do. That’s what we all do, right?

We were presented with a wonderful opportunity to live in our friends’ investment property for eight years and we jumped at the chance. Rent-control until the kids are out of high school! It’s a game-changer for us. And to top it off, we even get to oversee a remodel and make it a place we will truly love living for those eight years. The location is perfect and the kids are enjoying the independence of being able to walk to the park, friends’ houses and plenty of places to eat and hang out. Provided no one reports me to Child Protective Services for letting my kids roam the neighborhood unattended like...well…kids on summer break, I may just start believing that we are the most fortunate family ever. Of course, having the most amazing friends ever helps immensely. We Heaglers are some kind of lucky. Truly.

I know it’s been a while since we've talked, so now that you’re all caught up(ish), I thought I’d let you in on a couple of things that are on my mind (in no particular order):

• I think we Heaglers need a dog. According to the Seattle Animal Shelter, Hayden thinks it would be cool to snuggle on the couch with me: Click here to check out Hayden! Thoughts?

 And speaking of snuggling on the couch… 

• Does anyone know if there is an online dating site that caters to gracefully-aging (okay, okay—maybe just “aging”), estrogen-deficient, single-mom types? Hypothetically speaking, of course. These are just things I wonder about.

And finally, it seems only right that I should end this grand-re-opening post with a classic, PFB over-share. So, in other news...

• It has recently become abundantly clear to me why nature did not intend for puberty and menopause to exist in the same house at the same time.

Discuss amongst yourselves and we'll talk more later. Now that Perfectly Floppy Bacon is back, we’ll have plenty of time to explore these riveting topics. Yay?

That's All For Now

 I’ve lived out loud since 2008 or so. Really loud. First on Facebook, and then in my blog—I’ve shared it all. The good, the bad, the horribly embarrassing, terribly sad, hilarious, magic, tragic and even the appallingly ugly. I’ve told you all about it. In real time. Parenting successes and epic failures. Bankruptcy, losing a business, then a house.  A lifetime of clinical depression. Yep. I told you about that too. And I told you about the fairies in our garden and elves on our shelves. Snowmen who wear sundresses and kids writing “I love you” in the dust on the end tables. There’s precious little in my life that’s gone untold in recent years.

I even dragged you through the muck of an on-again, off-again, can’t-live-without-him, love-of-a-lifetime relationship, from rocky start, through a heart-wrenching break-up and finally to the cue-the-orchestra, slow-motion-running-into-each-other’s-arms, Lifetime-Television-for-Women Happy Ending. You cheered, you cried, you bought me a drink, you mailed me a bunch of panties, you offered to kick him in the shins and you cheered again.

You’ve stuck with me through it all. I couldn’t have asked for a more kind, caring and generous community in which to live out loud all these years. I hope I’ve returned even a little of what you’ve given me.

But as much as I’ve truly loved living out loud with you—sharing my life and having a glimpse of yours—I need a minute.  I just can’t let you look at me right now. I can't. I hope that makes some kind of sense.

Please stay in touch. E-mail me. Call. Tell me about the good things in your life. Let me help when things go wrong. Show me your pictures. Keep me in the loop.

I'm here. I care. And I'll see you soon.

Motherhood is a Choice

“Motherhood is a choice you make every day to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own. To teach the hard lessons. To do the right thing, even when you’re not sure what the right thing is. And to forgive yourself over and over again for doing everything wrong.”  -Donna Bell

I used this quote as my Facebook cover photo recently. It speaks to me. It rings true. Motherhood simply cannot be understood until you are face-to-face with a human being who came from inside your body. A human being for whom you would do anything, endure anything and sacrifice everything. A human being for whom you would go to any lengths to protect, nurture and teach.

I think the “putting someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own,” comes almost instantly. It’s instinctual. It’s primal. All the amazing moms I know do it without thinking.

The “teaching the hard lessons” part is a bit more difficult, but I've been working on it. Just last week I kicked a gum wrapper from the hallway right back into the kid’s room from whence it came. I did so not out of apathy or utter laziness, but in the spirit of teaching the difficult lessons of responsibility and self-sufficiency. Honestly—that’s why. I swear.

“Doing the right thing, even when you’re not sure what the right thing is,” gets a little dicey. And it only gets worse as they get older. If your kid’s plans for Halloween fall through and he’s disappointed, do you interfere in a way your kid specifically asks you not to if you know your interference will result in new plans and your kid feeling included? Yeah. You probably do. Is it the right thing to do? Who the hell knows?

I think the hardest part, though, is the, “forgiving yourself over and over again for doing everything wrong,” part. Also last week (the same week I kicked trash from the hall into a kid’s room and stuck my nose entirely too far into another’s business) I gave in to Lucy’s pleas to carry her to her room at bedtime. She’s a 90-pound human being at this point and as such, carrying her anywhere is no easy feat. Add to that the fact that she wanted to be carried upside-down and it was a tall order. But I eventually agreed. As I heaved her down the hall towards her bedroom, however, I stepped on her long hair, practically snatching her bald in one painful spot. After many tears (and countless apologies from me), she finally calmed down enough to speak coherently: “At least this will make a good entry in the Bad-Mommy Olympics.” That's my girl. She had obviously forgiven me, making it just a little bit easier for me to forgive myself. This time.

I’m hopeful the “over and over again” nature of the “doing everything wrong” will eventually make forgiving myself easier. I’m only 12 years in to this Motherhood thing and I still have a lot of years ahead of me. I think the “forgiving myself” part might come in baby steps. 

As a side note, when my love of this quote led me to research its author, Donna Bell, I discovered it can be attributed to (a) a New York bakery owner, (b) a Florida newscaster or (c) a Romanian-born porn star. Is it wrong that I hope it’s the porn star? If it is (wrong), I’m going to go ahead and forgive myself for that. Baby steps.

All That I Cannot Say

I've often been asked why I write so personally about my life. People have, at times, wondered why I would lay open my life, my heart, my very soul for all the world to see. I've been asked more than once, “You're so talented. Why don’t you just write something else—like fiction?” I’m never really sure how to answer that question. People seem to think that writing is writing and if I can write about my own life I can surely make up a life to write about. But it just doesn't work that way. At least it doesn't for me. I write so personally about my life because once I started doing it, I had to.  I needed to.  But now when I cannot write about what’s on my mind and in my heart, it’s painful. Emotionally, physically, spiritually painful.  And believe it or not, as much as I share, there is much that I simply cannot.

Years ago a Facebook friend told me that she followed my posts like she would follow a favorite author. I was taken aback. I had no idea why she cared what I had to say, but I was flattered that she did. And I was inspired to write more. I began writing stories about my life as a single mom, my kids  and the occasional bad date and posting them as Facebook Notes for those on my friend list. Eventually a blog was born.

I’m ashamed to say I haven't cared for this blog-child as I should have. I haven't done what is needed for it to gain stature and readership. I haven't done what is necessary for it to become self-sufficient, or dare I dream…profitable. I've failed time and again to follow through with opportunities to advance it towards becoming a book. I've simply written. That’s all. And even that I've not done reliably, letting this blog-child sit silent for months at a time on more than one occasion. I've given in to the silence during the parts I cannot write.

I've been thinking about why I've not tried harder to somehow form this into a book. The answer is pretty simple: because it’s not a book—it’s life. Technically there’s a beginning and an end I guess, but even those elements are shaky. I have no desire to write about “the beginning” and let’s face it, “the end” will only occur when I’m…well…unable to write. The "plot" meanders and there's no discernible story arc. And my drinking, cursing, multiple divorces, questionable parenting and constant teetering on the brink of financial ruin illustrate that character development is limited at best. It’s not a book—it’s life. Messy, chaotic, erratic, unpredictable and confusing. It is at once mundane and exhilarating, hideous and heart-breakingly beautiful. It’s life, not a book. At least mine’s not. And given all the parts I cannot write, it would be a book with a lot of holes anyway.

I've also been thinking about why anyone wants to read about this life of mine. Why does anyone care what I have to say? I think that answer is simple too. It’s not because I’m extraordinary—quite the opposite actually. I believe it’s because I’m not. I’m someone you know. I’m your best friend who’s been divorced three times. I’m your brother-in-law raising an autistic son from a previous marriage. I’m the barrista at your coffee shop who had to file bankruptcy.  I’m the mom who’s terrified she's somehow “blown it” raising her children. I’m the girlfriend who fears she's unlovable. I’m the employee scared of losing her job. I’m the girl you see walking by, taking teeny-tiny steps and cursing the pencil skirt that seemed like such a good idea. I’m everyone. I’m you.  I believe that’s why you read—and I’m so grateful that you do—because it’s comforting to feel like you’re not alone. And because you read, I don’t feel alone either.

I’m going through a hole in my life right now—a part I can’t write—and I’m afraid I've once again given in to the silence (and just when it probably seems I would have so much to say). It just goes to show, things are rarely exactly what they seem. But because it hurts—it truly does—to not write what’s in my heart, I will try harder to find the parts I can share. Because even if I can’t write what’s right on top, I can probably write what’s been shoved over to the side or squished underneath. I will try again tomorrow to find one of those parts and write something good about it.

I really hope you’ll want to read it.

Kindness Isn't Complicated

During Autism Awareness month there are all kinds of autism stories in the news. The numbers catch people’s eye and bring much needed attention. One in 88 kids diagnosed with autism is startling. More kids being diagnosed with autism this year than with AIDS, cancer and childhood diabetes combined is shocking. Autism research receiving less than five percent of the funding of other, less-prevalent childhood diseases is appalling. The numbers grab your attention, but I hope you will look beyond the statistics and see the very human stories that are tied to those numbers.

A Facebook post circulated the internet recently about a girl with autism and her sister and a wonderful experience they had at a restaurant when they sent back a "broken" (cut in half) hamburger that the girl could not tolerate. The staff at this restaurant replaced the hamburger free of charge, but more importantly, showed incredible kindness to this family in the process.

I remember all too well the “hamburger issues” we had when Ben was younger. His motor skills were questionable at best and any hamburger would invariably get pushed off the bun while he ate it. By the time Ben reached the middle of the burger he would require a new bun because he simply could not tolerate a bun that no longer covered the meat. Like the girl in the Facebook post above, his hamburger was “broken,” and Ben loved a hamburger, so it was distressing for him. So many times I requested a new bun (for which I was perfectly willing to pay) and received objections, attempts to talk Ben out of it and even admonishments that he was too old for such foolishness. Never mind the exaggerated eye-rolls and unkind comments spoken in voices loud enough for us to hear when I would carefully tear the new bun to precisely fit the half-eaten hamburger.

The Facebook post about the girl and her sister ends with: "MacLean has since read the hundreds of comment from strangers on her Facebook post, many of whom admitted they have never thought of something like that when encountering a screaming child at a restaurant. Her hope is that the next time they see a kid being a little different they might just think, "Maybe they have autism; maybe there’s something a little more than meets the eye.”

I think it’s wonderful when awareness causes people to stop and think and possibly treat a family dealing with autism with kindness and respect when they might not have otherwise done so. But I can’t help but also think, "Why should it matter if that screaming kid has autism or not?" Why can't we all just be a little more kind to one another regardless of why it’s happening?

I spoke to a room full of sorority girls at the University of Washington earlier this week and part of what I talked to them about was about raising awareness about autism. I told them a story about a social faux pas Ben made in Kindergarten and how his Kindergarten classmate didn’t think much of it. I told those girls that it has always been my goal to stay ahead of the curve where that same classmate, five years later, witnessing Ben’s social screw-up would look at him and sneer, “Whatever, you weirdo,” and recount the embarrassing incident to other classmates or even via social media. Staying ahead of that curve is not easy and I haven't always been successful. But what if raising awareness would allow parents to stop worrying about keeping their kids with autism ahead of that curve and instead simply focus on raising healthy, happy, successful kids? What if we all were just a little more kind?

Ben’s sister, Lucy, turned 10 recently and we wrote birthday messages to her on a poster labeled, “What I Like About Lucy.” Ben wrote: "Lucy, What I like about you is your sense of humor. Your personality makes everyone smile. I also like your determination, whether it's begging mom to get you some really cute boots or take you to Maine, or trying to hit a softball. But what I like most of all is your heart and kindness. You try to make people laugh so hard that milk comes out of their nose after their dog died or they watched the movie, P.S. I Love You. You're the best sister or friend anyone could ever have in their craziest dreams. Happy Birthday. Love, Ben.”

Many kids with autism have difficulty understanding intent or intuiting emotions. But it seems Ben recognizes Lucy’s kindness just fine. What he likes most of all about Lucy is her heart and kindness (it’s what I like most about her too). I believe Ben can see that just fine because kindness isn’t complicated.

It’s simple. Be kind to a person with autism.

Or better yet, just be kind.