Rebecca Lamprey

Curiously Pregnant

“Mom, what if I get pregnant?” My sixteen-year-old, middle daughter, smiles at my frozen expression before popping a floret of broccoli into her mouth. The twinkle doesn’t leave her eye as she chews.

“Excuse me?” I ask to buy time and try to understand where this came from. This one always had questions, always surprised me with the things she came up with.

“I’m not pregnant, but I was wondering what you’d do if I was.” she explains.

Because I prefer humor, I said, “First, I think you need to have a boyfriend.” At least I would hope there was a boyfriend.

She makes a face at me but presses on. “Yeah, yeah, but what if…”

Taking the question more seriously I say, “We’d have to have a conversation.”

My daughter puts down her fork and listens avidly.

“We’d talk about all the choices you have and the difficulties each one would bring. Unfortunately, I can’t make that decision for you.”

“Keep it, adopt it out, abortion.” she recites, letting me know she is aware of her options.

“You say it like it’s so easy.” I remind her, “Keeping it means you will be a parent. We would help, but it will be your child.” She nods her understanding, but as a parent I know she can’t fully understand any of it.

My oldest chimes in, “Yeah, diapers, you’d have to change diapers.” Her wrinkled nose adds to the disgust in her tone.

“Abortion isn’t an easy fix like you think it is. It means you’ll live the rest of your life knowing, likely wondering what could have been. When you eventually have a child of your own, that decision may haunt you.”

She nods again, and again I am reminded that at sixteen she can’t possibly fully grasp those concepts.

“If you adopt the baby out, you will always wonder if the parents are good to that child. Is he or she safe and happy and loved? It is one of the hardest things a person can do, giving up a baby they’ve given birth to.”

“But, you won’t be, like, mad?” she asks, getting to the root of her question. And I realize I may have over-explained.

I sigh, “Mad isn’t what I’d be feeling. I can’t speak for dad, but for me, I would be sad. Sad that you had to make this impossible decision. Sad that you put yourself in a situation that could have been avoided.”

She smiles at me, “Don’t worry mom, I haven’t even kissed a guy yet, I won’t be getting pregnant for a long, long, long time.”

I laughed, “Don’t wait too long, I’m wanting grandbabies at some point!” I teased.

She laughed and we continued our meal. Her curiosity assuaged for the moment.

What’s Truth Got to do with It

*I definitely have certain leanings in politics, but I try very hard to keep that from my writing. My intention is to not bias the reader. If my skirting around and not making a judgement feels like an endorsement of one belief over another, that is not my intent. I simply want to get people thinking.

Driving with my husband about a week ago, I mentioned something I had seen on Instagram.

Someone had spliced together footage of different TV personalities. First, they showed them touting the necessity and, in some cases, the downright patriotism of involving federal officers in the protests in Portland, Oregon. Of course, the words they used were a bit different. Instead of protests they said things like, lawlessness, mobs, and rioting.

This was juxtaposed against footage of the same reporters wagging a finger at the government’s “overreach, entitlement, and tyranny” when federal agents were dispatched to round up illegally grazing cattle in the Bundy Ranch standoff in 2014.

My husband and I hashed out the differences in the two situations and the coverage they received. We also discussed the difficult decisions those in power have to make. I had to ask, “Do you think the people, the news stations, are aware of the massive contradictions in the way they have chosen to report the news? They way they attack one person in power then praise another for making similar decisions?”

When a person rants about people clogging up the judicial system with unnecessary lawsuits then sues their former boss for firing them. Or a news anchor who laughs at audio of a woman being harassed while calling for the dismissal of a man accused of the same thing. Do they see the contradiction, the hypocrisy?

My husband thinks then says, “Yes, of course they see it, they just don’t care, it gets them viewers and ratings.”

I choose to disagree. “Maybe not, maybe they think the situations are different enough to warrant the attack or the praise. Maybe, deep down, they truly believe what they are doing is right and valid and worthy.”

I have to say, as this year continues to eek forward, it is getting harder and harder to cling to my naïve belief that people are good and kind and want to do right. Unfortunately, cynicism and doubt are creeping in. The illusion that the people we rely on to tell us the facts are being thoughtful and honest in their testimonies is slowly fading. The idea that people tune into the news not to hear the truth but to hear what they want to hear; to get riled up or placated, feels wrong. How to fix it? How to fix a system that has so thoroughly left behind the idea of reporting in good faith, leaves one baffled. Knowing there is nothing to be done engenders a sick feeling of impotence, because the system is so broken, how could it possibly be fixed?

I don’t have the answer, but the important thing is to try. There is no easy fix. This is something the human race struggles with. We want things simple; we want ideas and beliefs to fit inside a box. That is the reason we have stereotypes; it is the human brain’s attempt to categorize and file away information. It is the reason we have what is being called a “cancel culture” because the human race struggles to understand that people are not wholly evil or wholly good but each and every one of us sits on a continuum of the two. In order to fix what is wrong, in order to see what is wrong, we have to fight against that innate desire to simplify and categorize. Until that happens, we are going to be stuck in this confusing contradiction of attack and pacification from those who should be giving us the truth.

13 Years Old

I have a thirteen-year-old son. I know, I know. Your sympathy is appreciated. I have gone through this age twice before. I have two daughters that successfully navigated the pitfalls of this particular gauntlet. Here’s the thing, though, the girls talked.

My daughters both had no problem telling me what was happening in their world. I knew who was dating who; who my girls liked, who had picked on them and who their friends were. This was all information they offered up freely. I did my best not to get involved. I tried to listen and offer advice, not become a part of the story. I felt blessed to have the kind of relationship with my kids, where they were comfortable sharing with me.

Now it’s the boy’s turn.

Warning upcoming mommy brag. My son is awesome! He is smart and funny, and cute, but also shy and kind. To use a term my dad is fond of, he has a good head on his shoulders. He’s also a snuggle bunny. He snuggles up to me while we watch a TV show together, he enjoys playing board games and loves road trips with the family. I know, he sounds a bit like a nerd. But, he also kicks butt at Fortnight (or which ever video game is “in” these days) has witty comebacks when his friends rag on him, is a great soccer player, and like I said, he is a good looking kid.

When he reached thirteen, I was ready for the teen drama, had centered myself so that I could respond rationally when he told me a girl had broken up with him, or a classmate had been bullying him. What I hadn’t been ready for was the complete and utter shut-down of all communication. He still cuddles, he still loves road trips, but I have no idea who his friends are other than names and faceless voices I hear over the phone. I don’t know if he likes a particular girl or if she likes him. I know he isn’t vaping (because his sister keeps an eye on him) but that some of his friends do. When I ask a question, he mumbles a response that really doesn’t answer the question.

It is hard as a parent to let go of your kid, even this small amount. He is my baby, my only boy. But, most importantly, I know what others don’t. I know he is very shy, and regularly has trouble advocating for himself.

I remember sitting in his fifth-grade classroom hearing from the teacher what a good person and friend he was. We left and he started to tear up. I asked him what was wrong. He answered, “I’m not a good person.” I asked him why he would say that. His reply was that when he rode the bus to school, sometimes he would put his backpack on the seat next him so that no one would sit there. He wanted to listen to his audio book on the ride and not have to talk. It broke my heart. I explained that he was allowed to seek space for himself, that he was allowed to make sure he is taken care of too. In seventh grade he allowed all of his teachers to call him by his first name because he didn’t want to speak up and let them know he preferred his middle name. He was in parts too shy to speak up and also afraid that correcting them would embarrass the teacher.

Watching him try and navigate this trying age without seeking the support of his family is indescribably difficult. I suppose I have to have faith that we raised him right. Believe that he will take the foundation we laid and continue to be smart and kind and good. But most of all I hope he continues to know that we are there, backing him up. And, when he is ready to start talking again, we will be here to listen.

No Dogs Allowed

I didn’t want a dog. I wasn’t looking for a dog. My friend, who has two dogs, thought I needed a dog. Just like a happily coupled person is always trying to play matchmaker, she was always on the lookout for a dog I could love.

TXT: Did you see the puppy on Nextdoor? So cute!

ME: NO, I don’t want a dog

TXT: just look please! So cute

ME: Fine

She sent the link:

I should have known better!

I am now the proud owner of Harley, the great mistake.

–

Her mother was a purebred English bulldog:

Her father a malamute:

The owners believed the dogs had been kept apart. Had no idea that one night, their frisky fella had jumped the fence and had a forbidden romantic tryst with his lady love. At least, that’s how I like to believe it happened.

Harley is adorable and I can’t deny, I kind of fell in love with her. She decided early on that I was her person. She loves me with her whole heart. Her devotion is both humbling and burdensome. How do I possibly live up to the person she believes me to be?

I was excited to show her off. We went for walks and visited new places. Everyone oooh’d and aaah’d over the cute puppy. A woman told her husband they had to get one.

“She pee’d on the couch this morning.” I told them, giving the husband some much needed ammunition to fight back against the adorableness.

At ten weeks she stuck her head in a wasp nest and was stung multiple times on her face and body.

–

At fourteen weeks she ate something off the ground at the local high school and ended up ODing on marijuana. When a dog ingests marijuana they lose control of their bladder, become disoriented, and collapse. It is terrifying.

At sixteen weeks she began vomiting non-stop due to a vaccination she’d had that morning. At this point the doctor at the emergency vet knew me by name.

When it came time to start trimming her nails, we discovered she is terrified of the nail clippers and freaks out whenever they touch her paw. The vet has refused to trim her nails due to the traumatizing effect it has on her. We pay in pain and suffering, and claw marks.

At six months we found a large pile of vomit. Upon further inspection I found a pair of my daughter’s underwear made up the bulk of the vomit. Our puppy/money-pit eventually ate and then vomited up ten pairs of my daughter’s underwear. At the same time, she was kicked out of puppy daycare due to her contracting mouth warts. (Apparently, it’s very common in puppies, but still.)

We noticed at about seven months, that her eyes were bothering her. They were swollen, itchy and red. The vet diagnosed allergies and prescribed steroid eye drops. It got worse. The vet diagnosed a rare eye problem that they had not seen before and prescribed antibiotics due to her scratched cornea, then a follow up of steroids. It did not work. From that point on we were in the veterinary office at least once a week for eye care.

After months and months we finally got referred to a specialist.

After a ten-minute exam by an ophthalmologist this was the outcome. Our pup has three problems with her eyes. She has a second set of lashes that are growing inward and laying on her eyes. Her lower lids are rolling in and the fur is rubbing on her eye, and she has “follicular conjunctivitis” which cannot be addressed until the first two are fixed. She will undergo surgery next week. Then we will begin the process of figuring out what she is allergic to. I just bet it’s going to be the cats!

Whoever tells you having a dog is cheap, easy, no sweat. They are a scam artist trying to pull a fast one on you. Resist! Or you might end up like us.

In debt to our ears and totally blessed!

Harley Quinn: aka Harley-Bo-Barley aka Harley-kins

Lots of Laughter and a Little Patience

I work in the special education department of an elementary school. As an instructional aid I have held multiple positions working with children with varying levels of need.

Several years back I was working with a child who tested me on a daily basis. Most teachers will tell you they don’t have favorites, that they love all their children, and we do. But we all know that there are those kids you feel more protective of, or you enjoy interacting with just a little more. Conversely, there are those kids that push your buttons. That know just how to max out your frustration levels. This was one of those children.

We were walking back to her classroom, when she suddenly stopped moving.

“Let’s go.” I encouraged, “Mrs. M is excited to see what you did today.”

She instead looks right at me and, never breaking eye contact, sits down in the middle of the hallway. I held out my hand for her to grab so I could help her rise, “Mrs. M told me, she hopes you get a star for today so you can earn extra recess Friday. Let’s get you back to class so you can get that star.”

She looks at me, a smile curving over her mouth, lighting her eyes. “You can’t touch me, you can’t touch me.” she sing-songs, fully aware I want her to go back to class and that I am powerless to make her go. “You can’t touch me; you can’t leave any marks.” she continues singing. Her head sliding back and forth as she taunts me.

Here it is, the moment I’d been dreading. I start to sweat. I see a class leaving their room. They’ll be walking by in a moment on their way to lunch. I wonder what that teacher will think, knowing I can’t get this kiddo back to class. I have another group starting soon, I have to get back. Will her teacher be wondering what’s taking us so long? It takes seconds for my mind to flip through a rolodex of options. I already reminded her of her star chart, I already mentioned her favorite teacher waiting in the room. She continues to stare at me as if saying, “It’s your move.” I close my eyes and take a breath, calming my racing heart. I remind myself the other teachers will think nothing of it, we are all in this together and we all know how this job can be.

I look down at the girl and what she said hits me. I sit down, cross legged in front of her. I lean in and whisper, “I would never hurt you. I care about you and would never hurt you.”

She looks unconvinced. I block out the other people and quickly dash off a text to my partner that I will be late for the next group, then I just sit with her. I know she likes My Little Pony and I ask who’s her favorite. “Apple Jack.” She mumbles looking at me from the corner of her eye.

“I like Rarity.” I say and she looks up, her eyes wide.

We start to talk. She’s testing me, trying to see if I really know anything about My Little Pony. I answer correctly and she smiles. We chat and then I say how cold the floor is and stand. She stands too. I start walking slowly, my body turned toward her as we continue to talk about My Little Pony. Outside her classroom I lean down and tell her I enjoyed talking to her, that I hope we can talk more tomorrow. She tells me she is going to color a picture of Rarity for me. Gasping in surprise, I tell her I can’t wait. I open the door for her and she walks in. The teacher catches my eye and we nod to each other.

I close the classroom door and race down the hall, chuckling because now I’ll have to do some research on My Little Pony. Walking as quickly as I can, I end up only two minutes late for my next group. Smiling, I sit behind my desk, “Hey, guys, how’s your day going so far?”

I wish I could say that everything was great from there on out, but it wasn’t. There were good days and bad days. Days where I didn’t handle it as well and needed to call in reinforcements, but ultimately it was about meeting the needs of the child when she needed it. That morning she needed someone to be there for her, outside of the confines of learning she needed someone to take a moment and talk to her about what she liked. Sometimes she missed breakfast and just needed a carton of milk from the cafeteria to set her right, sometimes she went back to class, no problems at all. I have to admit, I may have done a little celebratory dance on those days. She always had me guessing and was never an “easy” student.

I’ve had kiddos with severe trauma that are incapable of feeding or caring for themselves. I’ve worked with kids that struggle with social interactions, and I’ve tutored kids that are struggling in classes and meet the criteria of a child with the pattern of strengths and weaknesses that qualify them for special education services.

My husband is always mystified at how I handle this work.

“Don’t you just want to scream, yell, hit something?” he always asks me. I get similar reactions from friends, “I don’t know how you do it.” I’ve heard time and again.

But, here’s the thing. No, I don’t want to yell, scream, or hit something. What would that solve? How would that make anything better?

How do I do it? That’s a trickier question. I can’t say for anyone else, but I cannot do this job without patience, that is key. If the pandemic has taught us nothing else it is that teaching kids is hard work and patience is absolutely necessary. But even more necessary is humor.

Many times, as educators, we are left with only two options, laugh or cry, and nine times out of ten, I laugh. Finding the humor in a situation takes a willingness to understand, process, then let go. The situations that are out of our control, the times we did all the right things and still we failed to get through. They would haunt us if we couldn’t find the funny and laugh.

In the year to come, as we try to forge relationships with students via computer screen, I don’t know exactly what to expect. What I do know, it’s going to require a little patience and lots of laughter.

Only Human

A little over a year ago my co-worker mentioned he was looking for a kitten. His son wanted one and he was going to surprise him.

“My daughter’s friend is giving away kittens.” I told him, excited I could be of help.

He seemed excited too and we set it all up. A few days later I drove to my daughter’s friend’s house and collected the small tabby fur baby. I drove her to the school where my co-worker was waiting outside. That moment, that first moment when he opened the carrier and reached in, the anticipation, fear, and joy mingled on his face, was tear inducing. Then he pulled out the small mewing creature and his face lit up.

If you haven’t seen pure joy before, I highly recommend it. The smile that could not be dimmed, the rapid speech as he tried to say all the words. The kitten was meant for his son, but that little girl already had him wrapped around her paw.

–

It was one of those moments that you know will stick with you. A truly sweet, happy memory you can look back on and smile. It warmed my heart, just to be able to be a part of making someone else so happy. I wished I could do it again.

A week later, my son’s tutor mentioned a group she used to volunteer for. A cat rescue that needed foster families to take in kittens until they could be adopted out to new homes.

A short family meeting later and it was unanimous. We are on our fifth (possibly sixth?) kitten family now. They are all different, some sweet and loving from the start, some taking their time before they fully trust us. We have had one foster fail. My daughter and a kitten just bonded so completely it would have been cruel to separate them.

–

It is not easy, there are frequent litter box mishaps, food issues, and a continual struggle to keep the little ones away from the dog. Those little heathens have torn apart my furniture and tormented our cats. But when you place that small warm body into the arms of its new mom or dad. The light sparks in their eyes and you know. We get to be a part of making a family just a little more complete, and that feels amazing.

Thinking about this put me in mind of the Friends episode where Phoebe is trying to prove she can be altruistic. To perform an act that helps someone else but not reap any benefit from it. Simply put, being unselfish.

Is this even possible?

People don’t do things unless there’s a reward, however small. There are extrinsic rewards; pay for a job well done, an at-a-boy from the boss, recognition of your peers. Then there are intrinsic rewards; joy from helping others, satisfaction at cooking a good meal, pride in accomplishing a goal.

As Phoebe finds in the episode, altruism is hard if not impossible to come by. After all, human beings are essentially part of the animal kingdom. As animals, nature has hard wired us with positive and negative reinforcement. A natural operant conditioning model that rewards us with pride, happiness, satisfaction and so on when we do something right. Nature also removes our good health and general wellness when we don’t exercise, eat poorly and so on. Sex, feels good and continues the human race, food tastes good and it keeps us alive. If we don’t bathe, brush our teeth or exercise we have tooth pain, disease and bad feelings. Granted, without a manual, we as human beings took quite a while to figure that one out! (I wonder if that says something about the efficacy of a negative reinforcement model!?)

Back to the kittens. Am I being good and kind hearted when I foster and adopt out kittens? Am I being self-interested, searching out the high I got from the first time? Probably a little of both. I love giving back but I do get something out of it. Does that diminish the act, or does that just mean I’m human?

The Talk

My husband and I have always been open with our kids. If they have a question, we do our best to answer it. That goes for sex too. If they ask, we will answer. Of course, we always make sure the answer is age appropriate, but we never shied away from the topic, never made it a taboo subject in the home. This resulted in a very strange and uncomfortable, but also amazing conversation a few years ago.

This is pretty much how I remember it happening:

– – – – – – – –

“Hey babe what’s up?” I answered my cell, already aware it was James, my husband calling.

Are you home?”

”Yeah, why?”

“Carson called she wants me to pick her up at Chris’s. She sounded upset, said she needed to talk to us. . . both of us.”

“How upset?” I asked

“Crying.” my husband was succinct in his answer.

Alarms went off, “Is she safe? Did something happen? Maybe I should go get her, I’m closer.” Mamma bear was coming out, full force.

“I don’t know, she just said to pick her up and that she needed to talk to both of us.”

“I’m gonna call her.” I tell him. We both had an inkling what this was about, we didn’t even need to discuss it, we knew.

“Okay, tell her I’ll be there in like thirty minutes, I need to finish up here first.”

“K, bye.”

Hanging up, I quickly located her in my recent calls and touched her name.

“Hey mom.” was her teary answer.

“Hey hon, are you okay? Are you safe?”

She laughed, which only made me grit my teeth. I’m worried about her and she’s laughing.

“Yes mom, I’m safe.” Can you actually hear an eye roll?

“Well, what do you expect?” I said exasperated, “My 17-year-old daughter calls, crying from her boyfriend’s house, saying she needs to talk to us? What am I supposed to think?”

“Well, I’m okay, I just need to talk to you.”

Why do teenagers have to be so flippin mysterious all the time? “Alright, dad will be there in thirty and I’ll be here waiting.”

“Sure mom, love you, bye.”

Ah crap, I thought as I disconnected the call, my daughter and her boyfriend had been going out for about a year now. I was pretty sure I knew what this was all about. Trying to calm myself with menial labor I did the dishes and had started folding laundry in the master bedroom when they finally came in the door.

Carson’s face was blotchy from crying and she didn’t look like her usual, confident, me-versus- the-world self. She slumped into the room and collapsed across the bed sending matched socks and underwear flying. Too curious to care, I jumped right in. “Alright, we’re both here, what did you need to talk about?”

She pushed herself up to a seated position and I sat next to her. Both of us were cross legged on my side of the bed her dad lying across his side of the, bed facing us. “Well. . .” she hemmed and hawed a bit using her fingernail to pick at an embroidered flower on the comforter, tears starting to trail down her face.

When it seemed like she wasn’t going to speak my husband, never one for waiting, asked, “Do you want us to tell you what we think it is?”

She looked relieved, “Yes.”

“We think you had sex for the first time and now you’re freaking out.” She started crying in earnest but at least this got her talking.

“Okay, yes, we did it like twice, once a few weeks ago and once last week.” she paused, “But now I’m having really bad pains in my stomach, like I’m being stabbed and it’s not time for my period, I’m even bleeding a little. We looked it up on-line”

“We?” I interrupted.

“Yeah, me and Chris.”

Surprised, I said, “Continue.”

“So, we looked it up and it said all these scary things and Chris was crying and saying how he ruined me.”

I was the one rolling their eyes this time.

She was getting really worked up now and I cut in. “First, did you use condoms?”

“Yes.” she answered not looking up from the flower she was demolishing having picked out about half the threads that made up the stem.

“Okay, well you’re on the pill.” I looked at her sideways, “Have you missed any?”

“No.” she answered with a little more spirit, “I set an alarm, I take it every day”.

“Good, then the chance you’re pregnant; wait, that is what you’re worried about right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, chances of that are slim to none but I’ll get a test for you so you won’t worry about it”.

“Thanks mom.” she said sounding relieved and finally looking up at me.

It was strange hearing this. I had really been hoping they wouldn’t do it yet. She had promised me she wouldn’t have sex until she was 18 and like an idiot I had believed her. Until this guy, she had shown no interest in that sort of thing. Her selectiveness giving me false hope.

My husband, unable to sit still any longer, got up and grabbed some clothes before going into the attached bathroom. He left the door cracked so he could still be a part of the conversation. He started changing from his work clothes to sweats and a tee shirt while calling out, “You’re gonna be fine hon.”

This really didn’t seem to be phasing him. She smiled, relieved.

While I was horribly disappointed and sad that my baby girl, my oldest child, my first born had done this terrible, wonderful, awful, amazing thing, I knew that I needed to do more for her.

I had recently watched a TED Talk* about the dichotomy of male and female enjoyment of the sexual act and what exactly defines intimacy. It had talked about empowering women to seek their own pleasure and not be content to simply not be hurt or embarrassed or scared. As I talked to my daughter, I realized I also needed to empower her. I asked, “Have you seen each other naked?” Crazy question right? I mean they had sex, of course they saw each other naked.

“No” she said sounding scandalized and blushing to the roots of her hair.

“What!” I practically yelled. “How do you have sex and not. . . wait,” I held up my hand. “Don’t answer that.” I took a deep breath, “Did you enjoy it?” I finally asked after debating in my mind how to phrase it or if I even wanted to know the answer and deciding to just go for it.

She shrugged her shoulders, “Kinda.” My eyes widened, kinda? Freakin’ kinda? I love my daughter and even if she is, to my way of thinking, way too young and not ready for this, I believed I would have wished something much better for her than “kinda” for her first time. Seriously, kinda? I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Let’s make a plan,” I finally said. She looked alert and ready to hear what I was going to say, like I’m suddenly the sex guru or something. What has my life come to?! “Do you feel that maybe with this big freak-out you might not be ready for sex yet?”

“Oh yeah.” she answered. “Big time, I CANNOT be pregnant at sixteen.” Her horror was real, but while her words were just what every parent wants to hear I knew that the damage was already done, it was going to happen again, but the sentiment was nice.

“How about we take this in stages?” I said. She sat in rapt attention as I counted off on my fingers, “First step, why don’t you two see each other naked, really no point in having sex if you can’t even look at each other naked.” She nodded.

“Second step, don’t do it again until you’ve figured out a way, together, that you can enjoy it, and this part is important, as much as he does. And third, please consider doing other things, there’s using your hands.” She nodded again. “Or your mouths.” I purposely pluralized mouths so she would recognize that that needed to go both ways.

Now she screwed her face up in disgust, sex is no problem, but the thought of oral is just too much for her. “Eeeewww! That is sooo gross. I could never mom.”

“Seriously! You’ll let him have sex with you but god forbid you use your mouths?” I took a breath, “Fine, fine some people have a problem with it I guess. But just know it is an option that won’t end in pregnancy.”

“Alright, alright.” She uncovered her ears. “I get it.”

I looked at her sadly and said what was in my heart. “I love you sweetie, and I am so happy you felt you could come to us with this,” She smiled. “But, while I sound all cool and stuff you have to know that I am kinds disappointed”

She looked down the tears starting to fall again, “I know mom, that’s what was so hard, I wasn’t crying cause I thought you’d be mad, I was crying cause I knew you’d be disappointed, I knew you wanted me to wait.”

“Eighteen.” I said, giving her a nudge and a smile. “You promised.”

She smiled a little through her tears, “I know mom and after this I probably won’t have a problem waiting ‘til then”.

I held up my hand, “As much as I wish it were true, I’m a realist, I know you won’t, but please take what I said seriously. I think you need to take some steps before rushing into this again.”

“I know, love you mom!” she threw her arms around me and we hugged tight. “Hey!” my husband spoke up “What about me?”

“Eh, your all right too” she teased him, leaning over to give him a hug and then leaving the room.

My husband and I looked at each other from across the room. We spoke at the same time, our words over lapping “Ho-ly shit!”

*by Peggy Orenstein: What Young Women Believe About Their own Sexual Pleasure

Dear Extroverts:

I am an introvert. Not the kind of introvert that doesn’t talk to people. Not the kind the movie industry portrays as shy and unassuming. I like people. I like talking to people, hanging out, being friends. I would just prefer to do it from the comfort of my own home. I guess you would call me a homebody, but that doesn’t really get across my overwhelming anxiety ridden need to stay home.

–

I have enjoyed the memes about introverts preparing for this our whole lives, or the ones letting all you regular folk know, you’re in our world now. My husband (a diehard extrovert) often comments, “I bet you’re loving this.”

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In all honesty, yes, yes, I am loving the lack of anxiety that I felt on a daily basis. I enjoy not having to medicate and breathe and think positive thoughts at all times. Yes, I enjoy not feeling like a freak when I say, “No thanks, I’d rather stay home.”

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But anxiety doesn’t like being put on the shelf. Anxiety isn’t going to sit there quietly and wait until the world re-opens and it can have its fun again. New things spring up, small things that blindside you when they cause a panic attack.

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I fear the day working outside the home starts back up. I fear the day we all return to what we knew, and life moves on. Don’t get me wrong, I also look forward to the day we as a people can no longer be scared. That we can no longer fear for the health and safety of ourselves and our loved ones. But, on a personal note, I also fear it.

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In order to live a normal healthy life where I was a mother that drove carpool and went to work everyday and took the kids to soccer and walked the dog and went on date nights, I had to have a finely honed system. One thing built upon the next. Take the kids to school, followed by going to work, followed by a trip to the gym. If one building block fell, if I couldn’t successfully navigate through one, I had the next goal to get me back on track.

After four months at home my whole system has hit a reset. When work starts up in September the anxiety will be fierce. When I have to take my son to soccer I will sit in the car and have a panic attack. When my husband wants to eat out, I will pop an anxiety pill before we leave. The system will comeback to me, the alternative is not something I want to think about. I will get back in the groove, battle the anxiety and be successful once again. But while introverts are “loving this” we are also fully aware there will be a price to pay when it is all over and we have to join your world again.

Adventures in Craigslist

This weekend we cleaned out our garage. It happens every spring. We spend the fall and winter rushing out to the garage and dumping whatever it is we don’t want in the house. Shivering with cold we don’t care where we put it before scurrying back inside. I have to admit, I love this time of year.

This year I knew we had quite a few items that we wanted to try selling. Normally that would mean Garage Sale! But, in the current climate we thought not. So, craigslist…

I posted a box of CD’s, over one hundred and fifty for ten dollars. I listed each genre of music, but was unwilling to compile a list of all 150.

A Craigslist customer insisted I create a list of all the CD’s, alphabetized and separated by genre! Not a request, a demand. Another Craigslist customer asked if they could send me a google code to prove I’m legit.

I posted an old car that had been sitting in the driveway. I priced it very low due to the fact it was stalling out. I was clear in the ad that it was having issues. The Craigslist customer begged, “Please hold it, please, please, I’ll be right there! It’s perfect! I definitely want this car!”

I must have priced it well because I had seven to ten other offers for even more than I asked, but I held to my word, and waited over an hour for this guy.

He arrives and proceeds to say things like, “Well, I’m not sure, it does stall.” (Yeah it does, like I told you it does, and priced accordingly.) “I think it might need new tires.” (It didn’t. We replaced the tires less than a year before.) He ended up low balling me and then giving me shit for not taking it.

Another person sent, “Can I send you a google code to prove you’re legit?”

I posted a stereo that plays tapes and CD’s.

A charming customer sends me this, “I’ll only take it if you give me all the 150 CD’s with it. I don’t want to pay what you’re asking so reduce it by half. I’m coming now so you better be ready.”

People were bossy, rude, and some were down-right mean!

And what’s with the code thing? Is this a thing? Every item I posted got one. The first guy went round and round with me, so the second time I got it, I simply texted back, “No.”

They asked why. I responded that it doesn’t work and is a waste of my time. They tried to explain how it wasn’t a waste of time.

My question is, if the code is meant to prove I’m not a robot I think that our exchange did the job and no code is necessary. They disagreed. In the end, I think next year, I’ll just Goodwill it.

Anna

In a small town nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Valley a young girl sat on the edge of her bed contemplating her place in the world. As she had only lived eleven years, she didn’t have to think for very long. She knew she was eleven, she knew she was sitting on her bed. She knew she was the oldest of two children. Her mother worked long hours as a nurse and her father spent most of his time either in front of the TV or working on cars in their front drive. At school she was neither popular or unpopular. She had friends and didn’t get picked on so she figured she was in an okay place, socially.

Her hand smoothed the surface of the worn quilt her grandmother had given her for her ninth birthday. The soft blue and green pattern met and retreated across the plane, giving the impression the two colors were dancing. She had suffered a stroke last year. Her beloved Nana could no longer speak or walk, but Anna knew her Nana was still in there, was still aware of what she said.

Nana was now living in an assisted care facility twenty minutes from her old house. Anna’s mother encouraged her to visit, but Anna inwardly cringed at the idea. The foul smells that wafted from various rooms, the yells and screams that could be heard randomly throughout the building, put her on edge. The whole experience scared her, then she would feel guilty. Her Nana was stuck in a bed, unable to move on her own. How could she leave her there without anyone to look out for her? It was then that she would get on her bike and ride the mile and a half to the home, grit her teeth and spend an hour or so there, brushing Nana’s soft white hair, putting lotion on her hands, or reading to her from one of her favorite books.

Falling back on the bed, the girl lay, looking up at the fan. The slight breeze blew across her damp face, cooling her quickly. Shivering she raised a hand above her head. Squeezing one eye shut she moved the hand to cover one blade then another rotating over and over attempting to cover every fan blade even knowing it was a hopeless endeavor.

“Anna! Hey, Anna!” the shout was punctuated by heavy thuds against her door. Dropping her arm, she closed her eyes pretending she could close out the sound of her little brother just as easily.

“Aaaannnnnnaa.” His voice had turned pleading and she knew tears would soon follow.

Sighing, she rose from the bed and yanked open the door. “What?”

Her five-year-old brother tapped her knee, turned and ran, shouting “You’re it!” over his shoulder.

Anna stepped out, making sure to shut and lock her door before she took off after him. Sam loved to play tag. He reminded her of those dogs at the dog park that spent the whole time trying to get the other dogs to chase them. He just loved running from someone.

It concerned her a little, was he destined to always be prey? He seemed to take to the role naturally. Sam was the easiest victim she’d ever seen, he always ran and told, or cried. Even her parents had noticed this, reminding Sam, almost daily that he should just ignore it or walk away.

Let’s be clear though, it wasn’t like he was being tormented. If a kid next to him said their drawing was better than his, Sam would take it as a personal insult, crying and hiding for the rest of the day. Anna blamed her parents for this. After struggling to have her they were told they couldn’t have any more kids. Then, six years later, their miracle was born. They doted on him, no one was allowed to say anything negative. Even the word “No” had been banned from the house. So, of course, when their “little angel” began school, he was completely unprepared to meet a world that didn’t always wear kid gloves.

Anna could hear him giggling in the front room. She knew Sam was hiding in the TV room, probably behind his favorite overstuffed chair. Instead of taking the direct route through the kitchen, she turned and went through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom she shared with her brother. Anna came out in Sam’s bedroom, just across the hall from the TV room. She tip-toed across the scuffed but clean wood floor and found her brother kneeling behind the armchair. He continued to giggle and peek out at the kitchen doorway. He was completely oblivious to her standing two feet behind him.

“Tag, you’re it!” she shouted as she tapped his shoulder, “No tag backs.”

Sam jumped and spun; his arm outstretched to tag her before her last words registered. “Hey, no fair!”

Anna smiled triumphantly and sauntered away, knowing she was safe from tags for at least the next half hour. She made her way to the kitchen, wondering if there were any yogurts left in the fridge.