ImPerceptibility

There is something you guys don’t know about me. I feel I need to get this off my chest. So I’m going to come right out and say it. I have problems with hippies. Don’t get me wrong, I like hippies. I appreciate the long hair and flowing skirts. I like the bright rainbow colored art and drum music. I can even tolerate a tambourine or two. The hippies and I always start out well. We share vegetarianism and organic gardening. We believe in human rights, comfortable shoes, and (in theory) free love. We can share stories of a hand-rolled masterpiece that was purchased from a Jamaican guy, by a former roommate, at a Grateful Dead concert. Yes, It changed my life as well. Then I make an innocent comment like, ‘Hey, Wal-Mart has disposable razors on sale for half off.’ and that’s when things turn ugly. Mentioning the two for one deal on deodorant usually does me in. The next thing I know, I’m rocking gently in the corner and sucking my thumb. They leave in a vapid patchouli scented cloud, off to molest their next unsuspecting victim. It ain’t pretty. It’s a problem. Like oil and water, we just don’t mix. I’m not sure if I’m the oil or the water. Maybe I’m the vinegar. Or the seasoning. Maybe I should go and make some salad dressing. My homegrown, organic, non-GMO, heirloom lettuce is about ready to pick. I’m going to store it in a plastic bag.

It was like a scene from a horror movie except the spider was just bigger than the tip a pencil. Besides that it was scary. Imagine waking up to a spider slowing descending from the ceiling just above your head. Making it’s way toward your face. Trying to make you it’s bitch. My sleepy eyes went in and out of focus as it worked its way slowly toward me. I’m sure if they hadn’t been too tiny for me to see, its eyes would have been glowing an evil red. Its fangs would have been poised and ready to strike. I reached up and pinched it between my fingers. Then I looked around for others. I hope that wasn’t the scout spider out looking for a new home. Do you think the spider queen will send out a search party of bigger meaner spiders? Spiders hell bent on getting revenge for their brothers unjustified death? You never know. I’m watching my back. And my ceiling. You can never be too safe.

Good grief. Just go over there and read it. Please tell him my post scared you away from his blog. I can’t explain. My Write it - Post it policy may be flawed. It’s really warm in here. I might be getting hives.

Home was tucked between fields planted with corn or sometimes soybeans. Go-carts, dirt bikes, and BB guns. Cows mooing in the distance and naked feet run through fields and managing to miss most all of the cow piles. There were apple trees along the drive and rotten apples to pelt both the unsuspecting and the deserving. There was always the smell of gasoline and engine oil from a newly repaired engine and dust from a freshly driven road. We never did slow down. What would have been the fun?

Home was also tucked between two rivers. One tasted like salt and seaweed. The other like dirt. I swam both long before my memory can remember. I learned about love and war on their shores. Oyster shells make good bombs, unless you hurt someone. Crab pots make good forts, unless you fall on them. The sand is cold, damp and uncomfortable, unless you’re in love.

At home, big trees grew smaller as I grew taller. Grannies kitchen always had treats. A bottle of Coke tasted good even if I had to share. Green garden snakes became monstrous demons and spiders wove deadly webs between the corn. We weren’t scared. Or so we said. We had the dog and a stick to protect us. He always led us home to dinner. At the end of a long day it was the only place we wanted to go.

There were grownups that wanted to hear our stories, warm bath before bed and full round of goodnight hugs. I would fall asleep to the sound of crickets and frogs. I didn’t know they were supposed to be annoying until the trees grew too small to climb and bare feet started wearing shoes. Crab pots became work tools and Coke gave way to wine. The boys became lovely demons and girls spun their webs. But we weren’t scared. Or so we said. We had arrogance and pride to protect us. We knew how to get home for dinner. Even if it was the last place we wanted to go. We never once considered we’d miss it.

More people write about a sound, smell, or taste they find comforting or that reminds them of home at the Thinking Homeschooler Project.

Every year for my birthday I try to learn something new. Except for a couple years when the stresses of life got in the way it’s gone well. One year I learned to knit. It took a long time for that to take hold but I very much enjoy it now. Another year I bought a beginner cheesemaking kit and learned to make cheese. Ummm, homemade mozzarella is delicious. I got a bunch of bread making books from the library one year and taught myself to make bread. I now have an entire shelf in my pantry devoted to flours, grains, and seeds. I love to make bread. It’s good for my soul. There have been other experiments throughout the years. Some I’ve enjoyed and others I haven’t but I was glad I tried them all. It feels good to learn something new even if you never want to try it again.

I’ve been having problems this year. My birthday is coming up next month and I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to try. There were a few options but none seemed quite right. I was thinking I could take a class in something I already knew and get better at it but that didn’t seem right. I am supposed to learn something new for my birthday. My birthday is only once a year; I can take classes anytime I want. It was really starting to bug me. Then last week, we went to Jamestown.

They have a re-created Native American village and we were having fun learning to prepare hides, grinding cornmeal, watching the chickens, and learning how to cook corn soup in clay pots over coals. It was interesting but I was more interested in the grass baskets. I liked the way they felt and the way they smelled. The woven patterns seemed so complicated but unassuming. In a way, they reminded me of every person I’ve ever loved. I couldn’t stop myself from picking them up and seeing how they were made. I was still thinking about them when we went to the fort and also when we boarded the boats. I stopped thinking about them when we got to the gift shop. Good grief, there must have been a hundred screaming kids in there. But they came back to mind when I saw a basket making kit. It was for children ages 10 and up but I figured I was definitely in the up category so I bought it. They weren’t the same types of basket. The kit was for the wide reed type baskets and I really like the grass baskets. It’ll be a good start.

I’ve looked through the directions and I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to figure it out. I think it’s one of those things you just have to do. So I’ll be doing it before long. When I get a free day and feel adventurous. Wish me luck!

It wasn’t what I wanted.

In no way was it what I wanted. But I held firmly and demanded it to be mine.

I’m not sure why, other than because I could.

Now I have it. But I still don’t want it. Making it mine made it change. Now I want it like it used to be.

Did I try too hard.
I guess I don’t know a good thing.
Maybe I like the bad.
I don’t know.
I don’t think I ever will.

It just wasn’t what I wanted. Now it’s mine.

[I’m not sure where this came from. I wrote the first part a long time ago and the last part a few minutes ago. And here it is. I did drink a rather large glass of Coca-Cola today. that might explain it.]

I looked over at the couch and saw my oldest daughter working on her math paper. Then I realized I was looking at my youngest.

When did her legs get that long? When did her pudgy baby hands stop being pudgy? When did she stop moving like a little kid? When did she start looking like a big kid?

Where is my baby? Where did all that time go? Where did the tears in my eyes come from? Where did I put that box of tissues?

When I first became a parent the biggest question I asked myself about spanking my children was, why should I? Perhaps you have an answer but it better not be because Jesus said so. I’m not buying that load of crap. The bible says you shouldn’t eat shellfish but I’ve seen you at the Red Lobster praying over your dinner. You’re not fooling me.

When my oldest was about two someone asked me if I spanked her. I was hurt and offended by the question. Why would anyone think I’d do that?

“I’m intelligent enough to manage a two-year-old without beating her into submission” I snapped back. Looking around I saw the faces of other parents. Some with children older than mine, some with grown children and I saw guilt and regret in their eyes. It reinforced my views even more.

The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Children do not stay children forever. How do you explain to your twenty-year-old that they were so bad you had no choice other than hurting them to make them behave? How can you justify teaching your children that they deserve to be hurt when they make a mistake? If you should never hit your kids when you’re angry, what kind of person hits their kids when they have a clear calm mind? How will you feel when your kids are hitting your grandchildren because that’s the only thing they know to do?

The fact of the matter is you do not have to hit your children. Some parents say you should spank young children if they try to run into the street or are doing something dangerous. I found that my panicked scream and firmly explaining the danger worked just fine. It was my job to watch them anyway. They were too young for that responsibility.

Some parents say spanking children makes them more responsible. I disagree strongly. Spanking removes any personal responsibility. You were wrong, you’ve been punished, go play. Instead try, you were wrong, go make it better, go play. Having them fix their mistakes builds responsibility. Spanking gives them an easy out.

But what about when kids are out of control and won’t behave at all? The few times that happened to me have been when I’ve expected too much from my children. If you mess with their naps, food, or comfort levels they go ballistic. They’re not adults. If it’s obvious they are tired, hungry, and over-stimulated don’t drag them to another store so you can get those new shoes on sale. Call it a day and take them home. Next time be more considerate of their needs and plan your day better. Yes, it will probably piss you off but you’ll get over it. You’re an adult. In a few years you’ll be the one whining to go home while your pre-teen tries on just one more shirt.

So far, I’ve managed to get through every single problem some parents say justify a spanking without spanking my children. It wasn’t easy and there were times I seriously questioned my decision. There were times I was so frustrated and angry that I almost hit them when I didn’t want to. But, I didn’t and I won’t. I don’t think I could say that now if I hadn’t made a firm decision from the start about not spanking.

I hope that one day all parents will take the time make that decision. I hope that all parents make that decision with a newborn in their arms, when the choice is obvious and not wait until their two-year-old spits peas in their face. It makes it a lot easier to make the right choice.

You can add your opinion or read other opinions on Spank Out Day and/or The National Day of Prayer at the Thinking Homeschoolers Project.

[Note: Something from the unpublished archives. I’m not sure when I wrote this but I’m guessing it was about a year ago because I was playing with a Shrek toy and Shrek the Third came out last May.]

“You aren’t much older than yur kids are yah?”

I looked up so see who said it and my eyes settled on the lumpy figure of an older man. He was sitting by the window near the drink fountain. The way he slurred his words and the splash of mustard down the front of his shirt made me think he wasn’t exactly sober. The TV show I’d watched about a serial killer that rode the railroad came to mind. We were near a railroad. I sized him up and decided he was most likely harmless.

“I’ll let you think it if you want.” I told him and smiled. We went to order our meals.

The memories of my days as the youngest mom on the playground came back to me. Moms my age were at work. The older moms (my age now) would quote childcare books and recite their parenting philosophies while I played with my kids. I always wanted to join them, but they would make me feel bad because I didn’t know to mix juice with water, or I refused to sit my kids in front of videos designed to increase their IQ. Dora and Bob were good enough for me. I had returned all the parenting books I was given, except the medical reference, and bought Dr. Seuss. At first I felt like a failure. For quite a while I was sure my kids would be totally screwed up. Then I became silently arrogant. I had thoughts like - Yeah, my kids aren’t fat, I don’t have to mix their juice with water. If my kids were as dim witted as that one, I’d be worrying about increasing their IQ as well. My kids are fine just the way they are. I started going to the playground in the evening when the fun moms and dads were there. The ones that laughed instead of shook their heads when I tripped while pushing the merry-go-round and went tumbling across the mulch.

I made myself stop thinking about that. That train of thought was not worth riding. Just in case the serial killer thing had some merit, I made sure we sat on the other side of the room. He left shortly after that but I didn’t see him leave.

I was too busy shooting trivia cards out of the head of a Shrek figurine. I was wiping ketchup off the face of my youngest. I was giving my daughter the mom face because she was slurping her drink on purpose, and I was resisting the urge to slurp mine back.

That drunk serial killer might not think I’m much older than my kids, but I’m doing alright I thought as I wiped the drip of ketchup off the front of my shirt. I’m doing alright.

I saw him. He was sitting on the other side of the room watching the game. There was something about the way his body moved. The sound of his voice. The softness in his eyes. I wanted him. I wanted to press my body hard against his. I wanted to hear him call out my name. I wanted to love him until he begged for mercy. I wanted to own him.

I stood against a wall drinking my rum and coke and watching him. He eventually looked up and noticed me. His eyes caught mine for a few seconds then with the guarded glance of a man that didn’t want to offend, he carefully checked out the rest of me. A little shiver of pleasure went through me when our eyes met for the second time. The look in his eyes mirrored my own. It was a look I haven’t seen for quite awhile. I’d almost forgotten. Suddenly feeling a little shy I looked away.

He looked back at the TV screen but he was only half watching the game. I turned to get another drink, a shot of confidence. I could feel him watching as I walked out of the room. My hips swayed just a little more than usual. I shook out my hair then glanced over my shoulder. Oh yeah, he was watching and he was liking it.

I returned with my drink and sat down beside him. We discussed the game but our hearts weren’t into it. Another drink and a short conversation later I reached out and lightly touched his knee. He tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear and his hand stopped just below my chin. I saw some uncertainty. I took his hand and kissed it. He leaned in closer to me. I don’t know how long we kissed because there was no more time.

I hesitated slightly as seventeen years, two kids, and some promises disintegrated. Another empty glass and I was young again. There were no mouths demanding to be fed. No laundry waiting in the hall. No mortgage payments, grocery shopping, dentist appointments…

The empty glasses on the table were a memory when he pressed me against the wall. I pressed back harder, pushing him against the opposite wall. He moaned softly when my hand went down the front of his pants. I’m not sure where we left our clothes. I fell asleep listening to the sound of rain on the roof and his heavy breathing. There were no regrets, only a feeling that I was more alive than I have been in a very long time.

I listened as he showered. Content happy sounds were echoing off the bathroom walls. He was smiling when he came in to tell me goodbye.

“I have to go. I’ll miss the train.”

I smiled and shook my breasts at him.

“I’ll try and come home early” he promised then paused for a second at the door. “We haven’t done that like that since…”

“The old green couch” I told him.

I heard him singing love songs as he walked out the door.