tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23214421857165179842024-02-07T00:33:41.512-06:00Daydreams & Dandelionskim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.comBlogger324125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-89688256909493623522014-06-30T17:07:00.001-05:002014-06-30T17:08:57.610-05:00AnnouncementIf you follow me here, you might want to know that I'm blogging now on my "I'm a big girl now Writer Page" which is here: <a href="http://www.kimwells.net/">http://www.kimwells.net</a>. News about my upcoming novel, cover art, promotions and stuff will be there. I don't know if there will be a lot of crossover b/w this blog and the "official one". We'll see. I just thought there might be one person out there who hadn't already heard me blabbing about this. :) kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-89912676353255893752013-09-20T14:03:00.003-05:002013-09-20T14:03:38.956-05:00Facebook AddictionIt's probably a sign that you have a really terrible addiction to Facebook when you can't log on because of some kind of server glitch (it appears to not be just me) and you obsessively check to see if anyone else is having that problem. And then go to Twitter. <br />
<br />
:Pkim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-52717133291436116452013-04-27T08:43:00.003-05:002013-04-27T08:59:34.023-05:00Diet is my new four letter wordWhen I was in grad school, I gained a bunch of weight. It was way too much-- long days, lots of Jack in the Box, driving 5 hours back and forth from College Station-- all of those things added up to me being rather pudgy. And unhappy with that. So I went on a diet, lost 40ish pounds. Got certified as an aerobics instructor. Was muscled, bellydancing, and pretty fit. It was kind of easy... calories in less than calories out-- lose 2 pounds a week.<br />
<br />
Then I got pregnant.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the pregnancy's fault-- I simply stopped exercising. Yes, I was asked to consume 3000 calories a day to help the twins grow well, since twins are often expected to be preemies. I did that partly by eating a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's every day (oh Heavenly Host that was fun!)<br />
<br />
But, after the babies were born, I lost a bit, but have been up and down with that "extra 20 pounds" ever since. Last year, I decided to take it really seriously and diet and finally lose that last little bit. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRCBDKav8wbl5Asw466CpXKKge_b-LMcPf0fimNrVdeuGy-JQXhE09-nNaCdvmwNDKrG7Pez4pYtqSqvGsN_GosJ0-ex6KeKLs__WkyJvQKScRUJs1ePvqYp5PFbgQm5IV1VDDZ-9mzs/s1600/love+your+body.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRCBDKav8wbl5Asw466CpXKKge_b-LMcPf0fimNrVdeuGy-JQXhE09-nNaCdvmwNDKrG7Pez4pYtqSqvGsN_GosJ0-ex6KeKLs__WkyJvQKScRUJs1ePvqYp5PFbgQm5IV1VDDZ-9mzs/s320/love+your+body.png" width="240" /></a>I started working out every day. I counted calories like a maniac. I lost 20 pounds. Yay! Only ten more to go! (It's always "just ten more pounds," though, isn't it?) Then summer hit, and I felt it was just too challenging to hit the gym while the kiddos were home. So I gained some of that 20 back. Lost some of it again in the Fall when they went back to school. Had been trying, again, off and on, to focus on the calorie counting and really take that last few pounds off. But, this time, in spite of really working hard and doing all the things I did the last time I easily lost those 40 pounds, it was NOT easy. Those pounds kept coming back again!!<br />
<br />
But recently I realized: dieting makes me into a person who is not my best self. I can be rather petty, sometimes even mean, about other people's weight (and weight loss) when I am overly focused on calories. I've said things that I really shouldn't have simply because I'm jealous that someone else finally did it, finally got themselves through hard work down to that goal weight. I'm a bit ashamed, but you can't take that level of "mean dieting girl" back, so I own it. I have a competitive streak that comes out occasionally in places like this, sometimes unexpectedly. I may try to hide it with it being a joke, but honestly, it really is just being jealous. I wish I could apologize to one person who I actually did say something too snarky to but an apology still doesn't fix it. <br />
<br />
And seriously, it's not like I'm sticking to it enough for me to really have any grounds for being jealous. <b> It's my own "fault"</b> if I keep a few extra pounds around my middle. I like food, and I like wine, and I don't stick to going to the gym or running the way someone who likes caloric intake as much as I do ought to in order to be lean and fit. <br />
<br />
But what I've realized is this: I have a bad relationship with my body, with dieting, with food & calories. I used to not-- but then, it's easy to have a good relationship when you're skinny and can eat at Burger King every day because you're 21 and work at a high calorie burning job and walk everywhere. It's a lot harder when you have to make deliberate decisions. I LIKED eating Whoppers and I like potato chips. I like food!<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I DON'T like counting calories, and (here's one of the biggest things) teaching my 8 year old daughter that "women count calories and worry about what they eat." </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
My new resolution to stop punishing myself every time I eat a bag of chips has a lot to do with that daughter. She was asking me how many calories were in something, and I visualized the way, even at 18 when I was seriously skinny I thought I was fat and wore baggy clothes. My mother never, as far as I remember, dieted, so I don't know exactly where my own obsessions with weight came from back then. <br />
<br />
Anyway. <b>So now, I'm trying to re-educate mysel</b>f. I'm eating food, without constantly trying to count calories. I'm trying to exercise deliberately, and with a goal towards long-term health, not weight loss. I figure if I lose some weight, I'll be able to tell. But weight loss is not my goal. And, while I plan to be aware that something has high or low calories, and make conscious choices because of that, I am NOT going to not eat something that I really want, when I'm hungry, because "it has too many calories". Eat the damn bag of chips. Don't beat yourself up about it. Go running later or not, but stop thinking about food all the damn time!<br />
<br />
And I'm<b> trying to forgive myself</b> for sometimes being petty or jealous of other people who have done a better job at their balancing act than me. I'm trying to genuinely love myself, for myself. Not my skinniest self but me, the way I am, right this second-- messy hair, PJs, a little heavier than ideal, but able to run and catch up with my kids and strong as heck from all that weight lifting. <br />
<br />
Why is that so hard to do?kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-83654128302593476662013-03-06T17:59:00.001-06:002013-03-06T19:35:01.742-06:00Red Headed Running GirlThere she was. Running so fast she was lapping the kids who were walking and chatting. Ostensibly the "running club." Very few people actually running. But she was zooming, long red hair flying out behind her. <br />
<br />
Months ago, when it was still hot, she would come up to me, cheeks blazing red, sweaty, having run close to 3 miles in less than an hour. She was so proud, and made running look easy.<br />
<br />
So, little by little, I decided that if my 7 year old daughter could do it, so could I. Run. Jog. That "four letter word" of sorts for me. <br />
<br />
"I have always hated running" I said. "Ugh. Shin Splits and foot pain, no thanks!" Many years ago, a dear friend of mine tried to hook me on jogging. We went running through the cool night air of the Seattle area. She didn't have a plan, a place she was going, and she ran easily ahead of me. I hated it. The bug did not bite.<br />
<br />
My husband tried to teach me, about 10 years ago on our last serious fitness campaign. I liked it-- slightly-- better. We had this discussion about, of all things, 9/11. On that day, I saw news footage of a woman who had been shopping in downtown Manhattan when the planes hit. She was trudging, I assume as fast as she could, out of the danger zone when one of the towers came down and that huge overwhelming cloud of gray smoke and ash and burning jet fuel billowed down, enveloping her in its darkness. From far behind her, a young camera man zoomed, racing. He was carrying what is probably a very heavy camera, and I assume he had been filming the destruction as he realized the cloud was growing. He RAN. He ran past the woman. He did not get covered in dust and soot-- at least not as deeply into the cloud as the woman who could barely walk, carrying her shopping bags, her precious goods clutched in two hands. My husband and I talked about wanting to be the person who could run from the dangers. Outrace the poisonous cloud.<br />
<br />
But it still did not stick. <br />
<br />
Then, a seven year old red headed girl began running club. And I begrudgingly found a motivational app for my phone-- the<a href="https://www.zombiesrungame.com/" target="_blank"> Zombies, Run</a>! game. It intrigued me enough that I said I would try. I only promised to do it until the game was over. I could not, I said, be sure I would keep running after the game was finished. Yes, the game is super fun and I like the added humor of a game that is about the zombie apocalypse that is training one to potentially outrun the zombie apocalypse. It's twisted enough that the dark humor kept me going outside, even in the cold, for weeks. And the story is sweet, at times, and funny, and like reading a good book mixed in with cool songs that keep me moving. <br />
<br />
But what has happened, really, that has kept me running at least three times a week, has made me run more than a marathon in mileage since January, has me planning to run a 5K in two weekends with my red headed lovely daughter, is a memory, one that slowly arose while I was running. <br />
<br />
Of a red headed girl. Who was very fast, who loved to run like the wind, red hair streaming out behind her. Who was <i>ferocious</i>. Who chased the boy who teased her, and was so fast that he needed a burst of unnatural fear speed to get away. A girl who was lost to puberty, and a lazy young adulthood where a high-ish metabolism kept her thin for a long time and a lazy lower metabolism made her pudgy through grad school. <br />
<br />
A red headed girl, who I am remembering every time I go running, and find that I actually have started to love running. I love the way I feel after, the slow burn in all my muscles for the rest of the day. The accomplishment of having racked up specific mileage. Of getting to know the houses in my neighborhood. Of running just a little bit farther, to that stop sign, to the next trash can, to the park, before slowing to a fast walk. <br />
<br />
All because my little red headed girl found the one I had lost, too long ago. So when we go on our 5K Color Run in a couple of weekends, there will be two red headed girls, running as fast as we can, at least part of the time. Training each other to survive the dark clouds that are inevitable in life, but we, if we can, will outrace them, carrying that heavy load and dropping the things that are not vital.<br />
<br />
Let's go. Because we can.<br />
<br />
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<br />kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-1010017244061165692013-01-03T09:00:00.003-06:002013-01-03T09:06:54.564-06:00Love Song<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh Prufrock,<br />
you never really listened. Did you ever
think,<br />
to wonder<br />
all those days in parlors with your coffee spoons and peaches<br />
if maybe one of those lovely sirens just <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
out of reach,<br />
may have had a few silver strands in her flowing hair?<br />
(We don’t get much Clairol down here.)<br />
Maybe a few deep laugh lines beside her eyes?<br />
One or two (a gentlemen doesn’t ask) extra pounds from loving<br />
to enjoy skittering crab claws a few too many?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
No, you always look to the young mermaids, <br />
those still so new girls <br />who want to sing to men with fire<br />
still in their souls. They want the ones
who leap first,<br />
the strongest,<br />
the ones who fight hardest to swim back.<br />
All those young men ever talk about is themselves, (or their cars,)<br />
once we catch them.<br />
No wonder we drown them after one single breath of sea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
For me, I could sing, sweetly,<br />
for a man with a few regrets.<br />
A lost love, a missed chance.<br />
Perhaps a failed dream. <br />
Someone who remembers older songs.<br />
A little Classic Rock, perhaps.<br />
<br />
I might even find a reason to teach you how to swim<br />
how to breathe a different breath. To
remember<br />
lungs that filled with fluid and did not die,<br />
to live another life beneath the sea.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Human voices are not always the ones to seek.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
KAW Jan 13<o:p></o:p></div>
kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-32154531669311162642012-11-17T18:51:00.000-06:002012-11-17T18:51:19.898-06:00on killing darlingsHemingway<br />
who I officially hate<br />
said<br />
"write drunk; edit sober."<br /><br />And I hate him again.<br />
<br />
Stupid man.fights<br />
Stupid boy.<br />
Stupid. Stupid.<br />
<br />
And then Faulkner<br />
supposedly said something<br />
about "kill<br />
your<br />
darlings."<br /><br />No. I will not.<br />
I cherish every moment. The sweaty<br />
sick flu virus<br />
the diapers<br />
the<br />
<br />
stupid bits.<br />
<br />
Cooking macaroni & cheese<br />
and hot dogs<br />
and pudding.<br />
<br />
Those things.<br />
Do not make room for deep<br />
poetry.<br />
But are,<br />
in them their they<br />
very selves: Poems.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-63106814811830404762012-11-17T18:38:00.001-06:002012-11-17T18:45:10.641-06:00On Being A Drag Queen, trapped in a woman's bodyWatching the queens<br />
on bravo<br />
and remebering my childhood of drag queens<br />
and YMCA<br />
at the bar,<br />
<br />
when my mama would bring me<br />
coke with lots of cherries<br />
and a man would show up in a black velvet pant suit<br />
and a lot of hair<br />
and shoes. SHOES!<br />
<br />
with eyeliner<br />
and a lot of make up<br />
and some tucked bits<br />
<br />
I am inspired to go looking.<br />
I google "green frog."<br />
I google "gay bar"<br />
I google "small southern Louisiana shrimping town where we lived<br />
in the back room and I got picked on<br />
because my mama<br />
made some "choices" ......."<br />
<br />
I get about five results.<br />
Seriously.<br />
Who gets five hits on google?<br />
<br />
Who?<br />
Oh, Ru Paul,<br />
I adore you. But.<br />
You got some splainin' to do.<br />
<br />kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-2777558207551010392012-10-08T19:36:00.002-05:002012-10-08T20:25:58.506-05:00To Want<br />
Jealousy curls up in my heart,<br />
a cat in a warm blanket.<br />
<br />
She makes herself comfortable,<br />
stretches, laps cream<br />
that doesn’t<br />
belong<br />
to her<br />
with a rough tongue.<br />
<br />
Purrs. Her fur is silky.<br />
Her claws are sharp.<br />
<br />
KAW Oct 12<br />
<br />kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-20205640812918828472012-10-08T08:07:00.002-05:002012-10-08T20:26:33.423-05:00Observation<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSLLBg7izbw-sK-HuIi0_ojaDkQBBjtxOAGNHuxypwAFS8y_jFHXfxmEk8M_LhZwyUZOo-2wjWhx2XvsVaY8q8hiGb50hsM3iOEOqksI4ylGfjOTle14A3kR3PgvX_2g-j534fApGNjA/s1600/sad-crow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSLLBg7izbw-sK-HuIi0_ojaDkQBBjtxOAGNHuxypwAFS8y_jFHXfxmEk8M_LhZwyUZOo-2wjWhx2XvsVaY8q8hiGb50hsM3iOEOqksI4ylGfjOTle14A3kR3PgvX_2g-j534fApGNjA/s320/sad-crow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Monday<br />
morning is regret.<br />
A dropped favorite coffee cup,<br />
a broken garden sculpture.<br />
The pond inexplicably empty of water.<br />
Cramps and headaches,<br />
and remembrance of one last scotch.<br />
<br />
Even the crows call<br />
in the rainy gloom,<br />
for some other day to<br />
show its face.<br />
<br />
Cold. Pull the covers back<br />
over your head, wait in the dark<br />
for a friendlier day to smile at you.<br />
<br />
Kaw Oct 12<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-43431766408166384012012-10-04T19:29:00.004-05:002012-10-08T20:26:45.609-05:00Lessons<br />
My daughter wants to learn<br />
to play the piano.<br />
<br />
It is a worthy goal; music is a path to many<br />
wonderful places.<br />
<br />
She doesn’t like to practice,<br />
however.<br />
<br />
She wrote the names of all the notes on her<br />
keyboard, with a sharpie, on pieces of tape.<br />
<br />
She wrote them wrong, and has been playing the notes<br />
a little off. E follows C which leads to A at the wrong moment.<br />
<br />
At practice, after trying, and failing, to fix the error with<br />
another sharpie, we resolved to tear away the tape.<br />
<br />
The tape stuck tight. Refused to budge. My daughter gave up.<br />
Left to play with the computer. Said “You finish it.”<br />
<br />
I think of the looks the piano teacher gives me,<br />
her suspicions of my lacking parenting skills.<br />
<br />
Like a mom trying to be good, I continued, doggedly, to pull at the<br />
shredding scotch tape. Little “plinks” and “hums” of electronic<br />
keyboard answered my efforts. <br />
<br />
It sounded like some frustrated improvisational Jazz.<br />
Coltrane, but without the theory. Or talent.<br />
<br />
I thought about my own music lessons of many years ago.<br />
How I hated to practice. How I never really did it, but<br />
was good enough to fake it. To mix with more loyal musicians. To have fun.<br />
To be in the Symphony. But always,<br />
at the edge of being revealed: fake.<br />
<br />
Remembered Tchaikovsky. The victory of the final swell of marching music.<br />
<br />
Think about hating to practice anything. <br />
Get the labels wrong.<br />
Jazz. That’s what it is. <br />
<br />
KAW Oct ‘12kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-46551141614768098142012-10-04T18:23:00.000-05:002012-10-08T20:26:56.881-05:00On Loss.<br />
I once wrote<br />
a poem for a friend’s lost marriage,<br />
the hot kisses of temptation that chased love away,<br />
she, a small horse bolting from the herd.<br />
<br />
And one for another<br />
whose lover’s kiss of betrayal<br />
landed her not one piece of silver,<br />
not one memory of comfort.<br />
<br />
There was another about my own young love<br />
and what we held close<br />
dying in the summer, unnoticed.<br />
This one was funny. It made<br />
people<br />
exclaim<br />
with surprise at its<br />
final sentence of reversal.<br />
<br />
I’ve written poems about sex, about death, about<br />
sonogram pictures. About tears<br />
about rage about tiny<br />
green lizards tasting<br />
white flowers<br />
and bee laden hummingbird feeders.<br />
<br />
You know. Innocence. Experience.<br />
That story.<br />
<br />
There are too many about Goddesses. Especially<br />
the ones that taste red fruit, find it worthy of winter.<br />
<br />
And so, trying to sit, and write about<br />
the loss of a friend’s mother,<br />
(too soon.)<br />
Trying to find comforting words<br />
something to soothe the tears, the need to push away<br />
knowledge of being the root, now, no one else<br />
above to shelter (us) from that last long breath. <br />
<br />
Only the sky, and clouds, and a moon that is still there.<br />
<br />
So. Instead of something needful,<br />
I find lost poems, like a little lint in an old coat pocket. <br />
<br />
KAW, 2012.<br />
<br />
<br />kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-57599970552513011902012-05-06T09:05:00.002-05:002012-10-08T20:27:28.378-05:00PerigeeRising, golden through the trees: the moon.
<br />
A bride revealing herself slowly, shy, peeking.<br />
We stand and <br />
we stare. Like children, <br />
we are moonstruck, <br />
never having seen <br />
something so magical before.<br />
<br />
<br />
Remember that,<br />
people still cry, fight, die, shun, include, live, breathe, exclude. <br />
<br />
All these same old battles return to us again and again. <br />
this never ends, this longing to know, to feel, to share.<br />
<br />
<br />
The moon again reminds us that we are <br />
only this, <br />
small, we are only ending, finite. <br />
And yet, we are always here.<br />
<br />
<br />
We can see each other, sometimes, but not touch, not know. <br />
<br />
<br />
And we envy the moon. <br />
<br />
<br />
KAW may 12kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-74832284621139417822012-04-27T19:35:00.002-05:002012-04-27T19:37:46.482-05:00Maia's storyMaia found out how to type a story into a word processor today. This is the story she then wrote: <br>
The cat who is missing a tail.<br>
A cat was missing a tail who wanted it back. Then it realized it was under a spell. So, it was going to be hard to get it back. And he went to get it back. He went and bumped into a forest that was on fire! <br>
The cat backed up. He looked behind him. In a tree, he saw a knight’s clothes. The cat put the knight’s clothes on. The knights’ clothes fit! And the armor was strong enough to go through the fire. And the cat will not get hurt. And the cat can go right through, and went on.
<br>
Soon…The cat was so hot. And then, the cat saw a lot of water, and they were shapes! Two kinds of shapes! A triangle, and a circle. He ran to a circle. Then he jumped off very fast! The water turned to ice. Then he jumped to the triangle; the triangle did not turn to ice. Then he looked over he saw a enchanted forest. His tail must be there! The cat must get past the puddles! So the cat jumped only on the triangles. And then the cat was at the enchanted forest. And went off. He went by some bouncy mushrooms. Then the cat bumped into a giant mushroom. It had a mouth. It opened it. The mushroom was so big, the mushroom is going to eat the cat!
<br>
Will the cat get away? The cat ran for its life! The cat saw a knife. The cat ran to the knife! The cat gets the knife, throws the knife at the mushroom and kills it! And that was the guardian of the cat’s tail. The cat puts the tail on and when he opens his eyes the cat is home.
<br>
THE END.
<br>
<br>
Damn. I am totally impressed. She's not even 7!!kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-48488561793291372482012-03-03T16:07:00.001-06:002012-10-08T20:27:41.094-05:00Dandelions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV8RA3eMeYOmP1zdw4G0JTECkZgnYruHELfTKg5KAPt9JZjlAMHp8CPjbmpiqZnM79nE6-wIa3NqEM-KtyJ_iZmA4fi4SBvSZxLSlwtNX_oRcED7McRNP-WRh9_GFdyYZ0YZ8ZpX7qeaE/s1600/dandelion3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV8RA3eMeYOmP1zdw4G0JTECkZgnYruHELfTKg5KAPt9JZjlAMHp8CPjbmpiqZnM79nE6-wIa3NqEM-KtyJ_iZmA4fi4SBvSZxLSlwtNX_oRcED7McRNP-WRh9_GFdyYZ0YZ8ZpX7qeaE/s320/dandelion3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
She brings me dandelions<br />
every time she sees one.<br />
The yellow ones,<br />
especially.<br />
<br />
This little girl,<br />
this small goddess, small<br />
star<br />
her heart so large so kind.<br />
<br />
She writes books which she <br />
illustrates <br />
herself.<br />
<br />
She fights <br />
back when someone is mean.<br />
Meows like the fiercest cat you've ever met.<br />
Extends claws that catch.<br />
<br />
She shivers in her sleep <br />
when she has a bad dream,<br />
curls up like a bean next to me. <br />
<br />
I want to pull out anything that scares her, but<br />
know those things will make her even stronger.<br />
<br />
Dandelions grow everywhere. <br />
Lion's Teeth...<br />
She brings them to me, and for that, <br />
I can never, ever<br />
be anything other than amazed.<br />
<br />
KAW March 2012kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-38623343768683907722012-02-21T15:32:00.001-06:002012-02-21T15:42:27.336-06:00Opinion timeWe are going to paint our house, exterior. I'm going to post pictures and let you all vote on your favorite color scheme. :) <br />
<br />
Here is what the house looks like now: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURSYEHuoC_47CzeRCy5Odwqx9ID3nTRqJMur2WYHMsX3oJzv3QSz9YTif8vkoMkK36fDYzIxdbTpzzG-o65sToKBL2tMmJKD7rok5UKeHEQ_rVnTqBX6Be5nps3YJQ-c8SrEtpdIUpH4/s1600/house4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:center; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="218" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURSYEHuoC_47CzeRCy5Odwqx9ID3nTRqJMur2WYHMsX3oJzv3QSz9YTif8vkoMkK36fDYzIxdbTpzzG-o65sToKBL2tMmJKD7rok5UKeHEQ_rVnTqBX6Be5nps3YJQ-c8SrEtpdIUpH4/s320/house4.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ha ha. Just kidding. I wish! Below is actually my house, with lovely snow on it... not a good picture of the house, I know, but as good as I can find right now:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjun4QhD6s5p2AGqbWEpGH4il-RS9mlRli8meVKyxhElAXwNZ8iXCxxS5FfnDCii4qTtKox81ssxCfoEqErGHw-FaCH8ZzDsSArtCWzltGaDLSwQN_aCE-CdZIb2_mSCZ0k0yHQPaXf6gw/s1600/snowy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjun4QhD6s5p2AGqbWEpGH4il-RS9mlRli8meVKyxhElAXwNZ8iXCxxS5FfnDCii4qTtKox81ssxCfoEqErGHw-FaCH8ZzDsSArtCWzltGaDLSwQN_aCE-CdZIb2_mSCZ0k0yHQPaXf6gw/s320/snowy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is OPTION ONE, as close to my house as the virtual painter will let me get:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8015k06xU-Ep9ZrjvSbQ0UeYWjp1cAOBYUf7Z3YBgQejR94Xh9mPN_0Z86epYrFNaWgJlkzoCOoJGZI6JZLnsxZ3UoyHOTQJ7GeE-kzteh_-4ppaKUPb9Ke4uM7LJmU4FSgm-wCA5N4/s1600/house+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="241" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8015k06xU-Ep9ZrjvSbQ0UeYWjp1cAOBYUf7Z3YBgQejR94Xh9mPN_0Z86epYrFNaWgJlkzoCOoJGZI6JZLnsxZ3UoyHOTQJ7GeE-kzteh_-4ppaKUPb9Ke4uM7LJmU4FSgm-wCA5N4/s320/house+one.jpg" /></a></div><br />
That's a chocolate brown, with swiss coffee trim & black shutters. (Lincoln cottage black, thank you very much.) <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now OPTION TWO is gray:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfLYfpUdVHkmT5A7Gogr1l9yjg2BthP3cv15IYRa8q-jqGAeqcAWlxCDZk5hCRP5pyyKsAZsREoLEbP6PDL72tCT9DMKw2de7XJ2X5_kZo-nzn3XdcKKmqI-5WHkOXlQJUGSobOTjs4o/s1600/house2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="233" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfLYfpUdVHkmT5A7Gogr1l9yjg2BthP3cv15IYRa8q-jqGAeqcAWlxCDZk5hCRP5pyyKsAZsREoLEbP6PDL72tCT9DMKw2de7XJ2X5_kZo-nzn3XdcKKmqI-5WHkOXlQJUGSobOTjs4o/s320/house2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Same color trim, shutters & door. <br />
<br />
What do you think? My house, now, is too blah beige. I hate the lack of contrast in colors, and we already have the shutters, so they will not be hard to add.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-9332430695201927512012-01-08T09:55:00.000-06:002012-01-08T09:55:03.519-06:00Seen, not heard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizve2So6DkidMkeU30uI89Y_i6932Ybpe6xUZq3mu0QUKnCCgGqjnWcL6oDlmENarPrntG_MMWswKUhhoHf-wVfpSvkSjdIGhfy1emgtSSg-m_wzuObW4F6hw8utM7Rujrxkw8zvHlS-E/s1600/librarianShush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="220" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizve2So6DkidMkeU30uI89Y_i6932Ybpe6xUZq3mu0QUKnCCgGqjnWcL6oDlmENarPrntG_MMWswKUhhoHf-wVfpSvkSjdIGhfy1emgtSSg-m_wzuObW4F6hw8utM7Rujrxkw8zvHlS-E/s320/librarianShush.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So, because of a conversation with a friend who is trying to find a church where she can take her kids & focus on the church, not parenting her kids constantly, I was thinking of the old phrase "children should be seen and not heard." <br />
<br />
Honestly? <b>What a load of crap.</b> This phrase has <i>got</i> to be a holdout from the days when middle to upper class folks all had nannys or servants who took their noisy kids away, and they saw them only on special ocassions, dressed pretty and told to be good. When people had a relationship with their nanny and/or maid and/or whatever you called it that was like what people should have with their mom and dad. <br />
<br />
We took Sean & Maia to church this Christmas eve. We haven't really been to church since they were babies because the last time we tried, Sean was completely wigged out by the giant pipe organ. Too loud, too many people, too much. So we had skipped that Easter service (about two years ago now) and gone to the Riverwalk instead. <br />
<br />
So on Christmas eve, we tried. Sean got a laugh when he "hooray"ed the bell choir and thought that was awesome, so kept making the "hooray" noise, even when it was time to not. Dad had to take him away. They had a good time driving around looking at Christmas lights and chilling while Maia and I stayed at church. <br />
<br />
You know me-- I have about three minutes of tolerance for people staring at my son when he makes noises. He cannot help it, and I see every little glance, every frowny face, every whisper of "if he were my kid I'd whip him." You can glance at me once or twice, and then, if he's still making noise, yeah, it's STILL US. Thanks a lot for playing. And then I lose all concentration on whatever it is I'm supposed to be enjoying and focus only on every noise we are making, every wiggle, etc. I honestly am trying, usually, to keep him calm & quiet. But people don't notice that, they simply notice that their movie is not in perfect silence. I honestly wonder, sometimes, what it sounds like in their houses. It must be really, really quiet for our little noises to bother them so freakin' much. <br />
<br />
And it really pisses me off that it's usually old ladies giving me the evil eye the most. Seriously woman? You're trying to imply that your kids (if you had them) were always perfect angels, who never made any noise, and we are just so rude to impose upon your perfectly orderly life for thirty seconds. What a load of crap. If one happens to have a naturally chill, naturally quiet kiddo who likes to be still and quiet, then consider yourself the exception. Usually, they want to do something FUN. And sitting quietly in some uncomfortable place, listening to some guy rant about something that doesn't make sense to us is NOT fun. (Why is it, actually, that we adults think it's fun? Maybe we've all been brainwashed....)<br />
<br />
We have kids in this world for a lot of reasons. But mostly, we want to express our love for each other, to see a reflection of our spouses, our families, our love of humanity. And people, I hate to break it to you, but KIDS ARE NOISY. They don't know "the rules" and they sometimes can not hold still for five minutes. It doesn't mean they deserve to be hit, or punished. It means that you, the adult who is supposed to be intelligent and educated, need to chill the furgh out and remember that you were a kid too, and you probably wiggled. You probably made noise. You probably laughed too loud and cried when you were sad. You probably got bored easily. You might have danced when you were happy about a special food or a special something. <br />
<br />
We should, as a general rule, not expect kids to act like grown ups. We grow up too fast as it is. Enjoying life should be what we do. <br />
<br />
No one should be "seen and not heard." Using our voice and expressing our likes and dislikes should be what we all do. Yes, polite society should learn that there is a time and place for quiet. Yes, we need to teach our kids to behave in public situations. But we should also cut parents (and each other) some freakin' slack when it doesn't work. We've all been there. I know when the doctor's "appointment" is thirty minutes + past what it was supposed to be I want to scream and yell and roll around on the floor, too. <br />
<br />
Anyway. This isn't about me-- nothing in particular happened to inspire this rant, but I challenge us all to be heard, sometimes. Not just seen. Having a voice, having a will of our own, is an important lesson. And I'd rather have kids running amok in my house, turning it totally upside down, every single day of the week. And if I forget that lesson as my children grow older and quieter, I hope someone smacks me.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-80729087751057373432011-12-21T18:26:00.003-06:002011-12-21T18:32:15.198-06:00Commercials<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbrPxKtgDLtDFMiFFrRTIm8AFNvTVELGXKyhz7i4g7U-HIJOlDFAsuaJG7iphcYWMgc6gXR64fVe1XveJhFfQGPmzPIuJhsasHzTb35Njn4I1tJl8TQ8nofisZIStub8G6CpU0z2Jtrg/s1600/dancingB.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbrPxKtgDLtDFMiFFrRTIm8AFNvTVELGXKyhz7i4g7U-HIJOlDFAsuaJG7iphcYWMgc6gXR64fVe1XveJhFfQGPmzPIuJhsasHzTb35Njn4I1tJl8TQ8nofisZIStub8G6CpU0z2Jtrg/s200/dancingB.gif" width="160" /></a></div>So for some reason, this note will not publish to my friends' feeds. I wonder why? I'm trying again by posting it to my blog.<br />
<br />
So my kids have always been happy watching Nick Jr, upon which they do not show commercials (except maybe for other Nick shows, but not for STUFF.) Lately, though, they are too grown for the channel. <em>Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, Max & Ruby, Olivia</em>-- our staples for years-- just not cool enough for my big kids. Sigh.<br />
<br />
Now, Sean wants "Cartoon Network". Maia just wants to watch things like <em>Spy K</em>ids (movie) and/or Alvin & the Chipmunks or <em>Mr. Popper's Penguins</em>. (And dear <em>Spy Kids</em>, thanks for teaching my aspie the phrase Butt Head. Love, Me.)<br />
The problem with Cartoon Network is that they show a bajillion commercials for CRAP. Tub Goo that makes your bathtub into a swamp (I suspect it's some kind of gelatin...) faux Build A Bears, those stomper slippers... etc. <br />
<br />
And on Cartoon Network they have this lovely little thing: <br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ub1vmLCvspE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>It's funny. I actually kind of like it. But add repetetive song to kid with Asperger's and imagine someone waking at 5 AM singing this song over and over again. Yeah. FUN!! (NOT). <br />
<br />
And dammit, Barnes & Noble, I liked going to the bookstore because Yeah, I had to fight off a few book related toys, especially with Maia, who wants every stuffed animal on the planet. But now I have to fight an entire Freaking SECTION of toys before I get to the kids books. Toys they WANT NOW and MUST HAVE OR THEY WILL DIE!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Le Sigh. Le Wah. It's the battle of the modern parent, and I understand it, but I long for the innocent days of Nick Jr, and being able to blithely pretend that all those crappy toys out there did not exist.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-44929867397302913432011-10-02T07:37:00.002-05:002011-10-02T10:28:45.717-05:00Fall<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the morning is cool</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the grass is wet</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">summer has let go, finally. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the sunlight is somehow slanted</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">its intensity simpler, soft.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I dreamed of small mice hiding. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Of water rising and covering everything. </div>Of my mother, and planting trees.<br />
<br />
If there are any fairy tales in this,<br />
they are the kind that do not end with an easy moral.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutcxjuys5dsypkkL2ymaeDq8yEQjtjrEjVu4uMFaRfuVwz_yyCWoLxlU4F9cJ-UkzwAQrfhb2RWSiBS5tQ_Dl_gnNMoV22NcpbAo7sFt0oUkMpQpJjsItlk73tSqvcxp55GOpO4B5igE/s1600/feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutcxjuys5dsypkkL2ymaeDq8yEQjtjrEjVu4uMFaRfuVwz_yyCWoLxlU4F9cJ-UkzwAQrfhb2RWSiBS5tQ_Dl_gnNMoV22NcpbAo7sFt0oUkMpQpJjsItlk73tSqvcxp55GOpO4B5igE/s320/feet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Kaw Oct 2011</div>kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-68239912212710163592011-07-12T09:29:00.000-05:002011-07-12T09:29:20.574-05:001988I am not in this picture.<br />
<br />
That girl is not me.<br />
<br />
I've met her, but she never likes me, at<br />
first. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, I grow on her.<br />
Sometimes, not. <br />
<br />
I am probably still at home,<br />
obligated. Eternally third place.<br />
<br />
I still look for signs that you miss me.<br />
Find none. <br />
Why did I never notice, before?kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-73622603250163425652011-07-12T09:14:00.000-05:002011-07-12T09:14:19.743-05:00UndoneIt sneaks up on you<br />
the tiniest of moments<br />
the smallest of acts.<br />
<br />
and there. again. a broken heart.<br />
<br />
the summer heat, the green shade,<br />
the cool splash of water against your skin<br />
<br />
but all this and nothing <br />
else<br />
all this is loss, again.<br />
<br />
it's been an entire year of cruellest Aprils,<br />
falling hard into beauty but finding you are not there.<br />
<br />
Still. <br />
Not there.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-17028507413121992652011-07-09T08:52:00.000-05:002011-07-09T08:52:52.161-05:00ContentmentThat is my word of the day. Sitting on my back porch deck under the oh so green canopy of trees that are filled with happy songbirds, my kids playing nearby, the cat flipping his tail in challenge to the boychild who just avoided an annoyed kitty cat scratch. It's hot, but every so often there's a slight cool breeze. I've had one coffee and plan to get another soon. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9BlYrDjobBX1JGhEo0FGF-3rjteySBpz3Cyc4EdhzBLwnIpchHtmeThsa8zfKBf3OKS2d2OV-rNdlPe92hY00sR1116sJg85I0yraVPIgs8jFAU4bzcntUEdFBA3IasTWSnSRHr2EIw/s1600/backyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN9BlYrDjobBX1JGhEo0FGF-3rjteySBpz3Cyc4EdhzBLwnIpchHtmeThsa8zfKBf3OKS2d2OV-rNdlPe92hY00sR1116sJg85I0yraVPIgs8jFAU4bzcntUEdFBA3IasTWSnSRHr2EIw/s400/backyard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Our yard is pretty well screened on all sides by jungle-y vegetation-- a very large clump of bamboo, some vine-draped trees, a neighbor's very tall hedge. In spite of being in a neighborhood known for small, close-together yards, we have quite the estate back here-- trampoline, pool, kid fort, my plucky fish ponds. At certain cooler times of the year (or, as now, in the early morning) there's just no place else short of being on a white sand beach that I'd rather be. <br />
<br />
It's been a wild and crazy ride the last few years. Things seem to be settling down a little bit, and I'm hopeful that we can continue to have moments like this of being purely happy with where I am. kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-86682303515289453322011-06-22T14:42:00.000-05:002011-06-22T14:42:14.839-05:00Autism Moment # 54,738It happened again. And I'm kind of venting, kind of mad, and usually, I don't complain about this but today I've just had it! I have a sick stomach after I really meant to have a nice, fun lunch with my kids, who deserve to do fun things, too. We hide in our backyard almost every day. <br />
<br />
For years and years, we did not go out to restaurants. Sean's behavior would be so unruly, with him making his "stimming" sounds and needing to jump up and wiggle and sometimes his joy at hearing his voice echo so he will repeat a sound over and over again rather loudly, that we just stayed home. <br />
<br />
But in the last year or so, he's gotten to where we <em><strong>can</strong></em> venture out to restaurants that are "family friendly." We do NOT go to quiet, intimate dining places with hushed whispers & creamy white tablecloths and wine lists longer than an old style yellow pages phone book. But we do go to places like Olive Garden (which he loves) and burger joints. And often, I plan our trip there to be just a little past peak lunch time, so it's not crowded. It's just that it is NOT predictable when a day will happen that he is NOT quiet, like he can be. <br />
<br />
Today, though. We stopped at an old favorite for summer school time that is on our route back & forth the school where Sean is in summer school, kind of across town. Herby K's is a one of those "character" places with awesome food but not so fancy atmosphere-- sort of like you've gone over to your friend's house and are sitting on their patio (in fact, the part where we like to sit is quite literally the patio of an old house that has been "plastic-ed" in and has AC and plants everywhere and a very long communal picnic bench where everyone sits next to each other, regardless of whether you knew them a minute ago.) <br />
<br />
I haven't been there in a while, but I LOVE their gumbo. Sean loves that they have sodas in the old fashioned small green glass bottles. (Maia also loves the gumbo, and the kids' menu which she can color). We stopped in, got a seat "above" the crowd-- sort of the balcony benches, so, sort of apart from everyone. I was semi relaxed because the place is noisy, and no one usually gives us a second look. And usually, because Sean loves it so much, he's kind of on his best behavior.<br />
<br />
But this group of people who got there a few minutes before us, a group of maybe 8, caused the "happened again" moment that makes my stomach clench and me to no longer enjoy my lunch out with my good kiddos. <br />
<br />
Listen: this group was not quiet themselves-- telling loud jokes and letting their very young kiddo play with a fork, then laughing at her when she stabbed herself in the face (?!) and--seriously-- not taking said fork away from the child until she did. it. again. So it's not like they really had any room to throw stones from their glass house. I wouldn't have even cared to notice except that the fork stabbing behavior happened after the below mentioned issue, so I was very hyper aware of them. (Andrew tells me I shouldn't let it bug me but it Just Does.)<br />
<br />
But Sean was happy, and stimming a little bit. This means he was happily jumping up and down to look at the restaurant from our "porch" high perch rather than sitting still on the bench. And he was eating sugar packets (yes, he spilled one down on the ground before I realized what he was doing, since I was setting up Maia with a game to keep her occupied.) The only person who really should have cared about that was the waitress, who knows us as regulars, and to whom I apologized & tipped well. <br />
<br />
The sugar dropping is when the "turning around to stare at us" started. The mom (maybe in her mid to late forties) of this group of several young women literally turned fully around FOUR times. Without, mind you, meeting my glance but just to look in our direction (which was not exactly a normal place for her to have been looking, given that it was only us, and we were up and in a corner away from her.) <br />
<br />
And it's not like he was being THAT unusually loud. They also nudged each other pointedly a couple of times when he was making noise, and said something in each other's ears. If he's really being wild, I leave, even if it's a noisy place. But seriously-- we have a right to be there too. <br />
<br />
I had to restrain myself (and the inner b*tch that comes from my loud, sometimes obnoxious upbringing) from saying "He has autism-- what's YOUR problem?" or "rudely stare at special needs kids much?" <br />
<br />
I mean, seriously. One look at us would be all you really need to establish that yes, he is behaving a little more wiggly, a little louder, than your average kid. And I am (apparently) letting him. (Although sometimes I think that I am even more annoying to those around me with my attempts to correct him with "Sean sit, Sean behave, Sean don't be so loud").<br />
<br />
Because it's impossible to stop him. Imagine talking your cat into doing a few of the "normal" tricks your dog might be perfectly happy to perform and you've got the difference between an autistic and a "normal" kid. <br />
<br />
Get your cat to fetch, or maybe roll over a few times on command. That is how it is to talk Sean into sitting still, and not stimming a little bit. You don't have to turn around repeatedly to ascertain that yes, it's <em>still</em> us, the only other group in the restaurant with you, making all that noise. (And let me repeat-- they were very loud themselves!) <br />
<br />
This is one glimpse into our world, folks. It's something that families with autistic kids go through all the time, and I do understand the "neurotypical" person's reaction. We are a bit odd. Yeah. Granted. But didn't your mama teach <em>you</em> NOT TO FREAKIN' STARE?! <br />
<br />
That many times and you're attempting to shame me for my child's "bad" behavior. You're giving me that look because you think I should "do something" about his noise, his quirky wiggling, his looking at you for more than a second. His yelps and odd noises. <br />
<br />
All I ask of folks is this: anytime you see a parent (whether they are neurotypical or not) with a kid that is being "unruly" in your judgement, bite your tongue. Don't stare. If you really are curious, ask. Some parents would get mad, but some are willing to explain. I get so tired of telling people "he's autistic; he's not trying to be bad". I think if it were a more physically obvious disability, adult people wouldn't make such a big deal about it. <br />
<br />
Look somewhere else. You don't have to ignore us (eye contact is just fine, just like with any other human being you encounter in a friendly situation.)<br />
<br />
The person you are staring at might be the "clueless jerk" you think they are who is oblivious to their child's behavior or it's quite possibly YOU who is being a little clueless and ruining someone else's lunch, or judging them without enough information. I know that since I have had an autistic kid, when I see a mom or dad who has a squirmy, yelling kid (of any sort), nowadays, I just leave them alone. I mind my own business. Because I don't know WHAT it might be, and I also know that she/he might be just ignoring something they could fix or they might be picking their battles and worrying about the stuff you can fix over the unchangeable nature of their child's life. <br />
<br />
You have no idea how nice it is when Sean is acting a little wild and no one stares at us, and people just go about their own lives and I don't feel like I have to apologize for my family's existence. <br />
<br />
Okay. Rant over. Sorry for being so crabby about it but since I didn't want to make a scene in the restaurant, I am writing to the universe in the hopes that this message gets through to at least one person who might think about acting like this woman did today. Just. <br />
<br />
Don't.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-50267261848199033462011-05-20T08:40:00.001-05:002011-05-20T08:49:19.002-05:00Music of my wayward youth: AKA What About Prom Blaine?!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvnfB2ztas4xxaREo1Fzh8EoHP_juokrE67C1G0Qp1uz-HiBN-XzyFp1fcr-Ah0Yo3FxYJcNjy4K77QEETASqJgkx3sA-P7VMFX409E8AZxIhyphenhyphensvRjgmaBJB2wdCqnZW9xixCt3oWMsk/s1600/Pretty-Pink-Ducky_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvnfB2ztas4xxaREo1Fzh8EoHP_juokrE67C1G0Qp1uz-HiBN-XzyFp1fcr-Ah0Yo3FxYJcNjy4K77QEETASqJgkx3sA-P7VMFX409E8AZxIhyphenhyphensvRjgmaBJB2wdCqnZW9xixCt3oWMsk/s320/Pretty-Pink-Ducky_l.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>There is this radio station on the XM satellite that plays "First Wave" music, which is essentially the stuff we listened to if we were slightly "alternative" back in the 80s. I didn't LOOK it, but I so felt it. I was listening to a song that they were playing this morning and it made me think of the soundtrack of that time period. <br />
Back then, I was prone to heart wrenching crushes on people that I would never tell them about. I wrote poems and secretly sent them to the crushes and was really kind of shy. I stayed that way for so long and I think it's kind of funny now, but there were guys who probably had crushes on me and why didn't they ever approach? I don't know but it was kind of lonely.<br />
<br />
I was in drama, and French club, and never had money to do fun things even though I had a serious job, too. School was way too easy, and yet, I still made Cs sometimes because I didn't bother doing the work. I loved being in band but it didn't exactly make me the coolest kid, and I never got invited to the fun parties for some reason (I so would have gone, by the way).<br />
<br />
I think I identified most with the Molly Ringwald character in <em>Pretty in Pink</em>, and yet I would have dated Duckie instead of the rich guy. <br />
<br />
Songs by Psychedelic Furs, <a href="http://youtu.be/S2R3FJyT1rc">http://youtu.be/S2R3FJyT1rc</a> or Simple Minds, <a href="http://youtu.be/CdqoNKCCt7A">http://youtu.be/CdqoNKCCt7A</a> (there's a reason this is my phone ring tone) or the Cult <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8I8mWG6HlmU">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8I8mWG6HlmU</a> throw me right into a <strong>nostalgic tailspin</strong>. Sigh. It makes me want to write bad Emo poetry right. this. second. <br />
<br />
Also, Charlie Sexton. Oy, oy oy!! <a href="http://youtu.be/uCRtHVEroQ0">http://youtu.be/uCRtHVEroQ0</a> I'm all verklempt. And for some reason, speaking Yiddish. <br />
<br />
But the point here is that for some reason, this tone, this sound, these bands and songs are how I hear my high school years, my young adulthood. Yes, somewhere in there is Bon Jovi & Duran Duran and even Janet Jackson (one of the first albums I ever listened to nonstop was her Control album.) Also, Prince plays very heavily on rotation, but somehow in a different way. <br />
<br />
Anyway. I kind of feel like putting on some Esprit clothes and wandering around a mall listening to my Walkman playing cassettes now. Or maybe just remembering a time when that's what we did.kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-57331337050630519592011-05-03T15:44:00.000-05:002011-05-03T15:44:59.871-05:00The Siren Gets a HaircutReally. She couldn’t explain<br />
why<br />
it was such a relief<br />
to spend fewer hours<br />
combing through those<br />
salty green tresses<br />
with starfish combs<br />
and pinning<br />
it up with mother of pearl pins.<br />
<br />
This short<br />
<em>sassy</em><br />
bob with bangs<br />
made her head feel<br />
light.<br />
<br />
She seemed to think more<br />
clearly.<br />
<br />
Like, for example:<br />
why waste so much time<br />
singing sailors<br />
into the rocks?<br />
<br />
Maybe, instead, she could<br />
read a book<br />
write some poetry<br />
take a lover<br />
who didn’t<br />
drown immediately.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Learn something </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> about the sky,</div>for once.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Already she could hear<br />
the strains of<br />
Revolution in the air.<br />
<br />
Kaw.... May 2011<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7PcBauiogjjiWKKw2O5PRsYDveGI5Xdw6pR3cldmM-MgtSHfNj-yCYUMyfI2SJefnIR43RkVKTw2guLBAQ8ZMkid5i8jRmvlU8eZvx1MFb35_xwAmqVBPObitPQriOLYDVIzkjNMW6Q/s1600/siren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7PcBauiogjjiWKKw2O5PRsYDveGI5Xdw6pR3cldmM-MgtSHfNj-yCYUMyfI2SJefnIR43RkVKTw2guLBAQ8ZMkid5i8jRmvlU8eZvx1MFb35_xwAmqVBPObitPQriOLYDVIzkjNMW6Q/s200/siren.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321442185716517984.post-16132919425618569922011-04-29T18:29:00.002-05:002011-04-29T19:03:32.485-05:00A Royal Fuss: Why I Loved the Wedding Hoopla Today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOrc3292KTAKsOzdcVJTzxcS9VHr3iWsi3kUhDzBcZP6fHOiumrBaOSrx7VYiBHFS5HZlUWX8NF823C4Up_LVhP1yrmtYRpYIIIWFIZDPrOmhVTWRW97jcrQoGLGrClKvrHacvs6i1A4/s1600/will.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOrc3292KTAKsOzdcVJTzxcS9VHr3iWsi3kUhDzBcZP6fHOiumrBaOSrx7VYiBHFS5HZlUWX8NF823C4Up_LVhP1yrmtYRpYIIIWFIZDPrOmhVTWRW97jcrQoGLGrClKvrHacvs6i1A4/s200/will.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This morning, because of one glass too many of wine whilst watching silly TV, and my tendency towards insomnia, I woke, in spite of my deciding to blow it off and DVR it, at 3:30 am. I thought "Maybe I'll watch the Royal Wedding Live after all." I loved it. Teared up a couple of times. Ended up feeling glad that I spent the time & effort to watch.<br />
<br />
You might ask: <em>Why? You're not even close to British, why do you care about these spoiled heirs, their wedding, the pomp, the taxpayers of England's bill? Why did you spend four hours watching something when they don't even know you exist? And also? The princess motif is harmful to most women. We can't be princesses, and we sell ourselves short if we decide to be "just." </em><br />
<br />
I am very tired now as a result, because, moms don't get the day off. Field day, and juggling business needs, and grocery shopping, and gas filling up, all still happened in spite of watching princesses and princes wed in a lavish but somehow intimate ceremony in a place that I have happily walked. (Westminster Abbey was one of my favorite historic sites in London, and I even recognized on the TV one of the deacons or priests or vicars or whatever he actually was... he pointed me to Aphra Behn's grave, actually, which is in the courtyard there. He seemed a bit surprised and also pleased that I was looking for it, way back a few years ago, and I totally recognized him today bustling about.) <br />
<br />
I think my tiredness right now was ultimately worth it. Why? For one: I am an English major. We are steeped like a hot tea bag full of black tea in a pot filled with literature, history, culture, and such. Chaucer. Shakespeare. Virginia Woolf. Aphra Behn. Oscar Wilde. J.M. Barrie. Arthur Conan Doyle. Guy Ritchie. Terry Gilliam.<br />
<br />
Much of it is British. I am ultimately an Americanist, a Modernist, someone who is filled with appreciation for popular culture, art, and all that makes us the Yanks we are. But I do love my education. I am glad to have the history that ties us to that tiny island. And actually, from my Irish heritage on my father's side, I am about four generations back a British subject. <br />
<br />
For two: it's <em>a wedding</em>. I like ALL weddings. I teared up when Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro got married. I like weddings!! It is simply super <strong>cool</strong> and not at all ironic to celebrate <strong>love</strong>. Commitment. Faithfulness. <strong>Hope</strong>. It doesn't ultimately matter if they don't work out perfectly, because who does? What matters, for a moment, is that weddings renew our own memory of our own special ties, of our own hearts filled with that optimistic leap into the future. <br />
<br />
During the ceremony, the main preacher in charge mentioned that, ALL weddings are royal weddings. We are <strong>all</strong> partly touched by that hand of grace, of beauty, of joy. Even if we step into a Justice of the Peace wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt bought at goodwill, we are participating in a gesture of hope and an abundantly optimistic view of the world wrought of the future. Whatever happens, for a <strong>moment</strong>, we are Golden and even Pure. It doesn't matter if we are not pure or golden in real life. If we don't spend a lot of cash on the party. If we aren't actually retiring to a castle where the servants are all small British teapots and talking Gallic candlesticks. <br />
<br />
I have seen a lot of cynicism about the wedding. Hell, I didn't watch on purpose <em>any </em>of the ridiculous media build up in the weeks before (I will admit it was on the TV at the gym, and so I have seen, if not heard because my earbuds were tuned to <em>Charmed</em>, during commercial breaks, a few segments on fashion and hats and the history of the Royal Couple's courtship.) <br />
<br />
I just have to say: don't be a cynic. Don't be disillusioned with the way people seem to be enthralled with this event. If you don't want to watch, that is totally fine. You don't have to love it like I did. It was a damn long ceremony. And frankly, the British taxpayers I saw didn't seem any more annoyed with footing the bill for the security (the family paid for all the other stuff, by the way) than WE do for an Inauguration ball and security, or a special airplane for every member of the Presidential family. It's part of the deal. <br />
<br />
The danger of the internet Snark Fest is that you may actually, in trying to be "above it all" and away from the mass of public crowd-i-ness, actually miss the reason some of us are watching because I try to say nice things as often as possible. So here is my nice thing:<br />
<br />
Ultimately we really are all Princes and Princesses of our own little domains. Even if we grew up in a trailer park or two (as I did) we have a moment where we are a princess. I had my day of bride-zilla ness. I don't think I was that bad, and my dress was bought at a consignment shop and my sister and Grandma catered my wedding. <br />
<br />
And yes, my little princess won't wear a real diamond tiara, (she's more likely to own combat boots) and she won't preside over state dinners, (but she will grow up knowing which fork to use and basic rules of etiquette) she will go to college and learn about the world. And maybe she'll stay home and raise her kids in an old fashioned way, or maybe she'll work and have a stay at home dad. <br />
<br />
And, like the two folks who got married today, I hope she will try her best to make the world a better place. <br />
<br />
And my little Prince will respect his wife (and all people). He will not be too caught up in himself to notice that other people don't have it as easy as he did. And he will be kind, and listen to those who love him, and he will try to learn from the mistakes of others. <br />
<br />
And I hope my Prince will try to make the world a better place, too. <br />
<br />
<br />
Prince William has spent a night on the streets of London as a homeless person. I haven't. He didn't have to. He has gone to Kenya and done environmental "missions" that are not the "pampered elite". He lost his flawed but beloved mum when he was 15, in an incredibly public way, and as a result, has seemed to learn to take it slow and steady himself. Harry has escorted a wounded soldier back from Afghanistan in a pointless war that hasn't ended. He might be kind of a doofus, but he seems like that guy you knew in high school who screwed stuff up and partied a bit too much but ultimately was someone you could call if you had a flat tire on a rainy day. Catherine seems committed to being a good person, and she is not a blushing virginal bride sucked into the abyss of breeder-hood and naive lies. I actually don't know that much about her, to be honest, but the fact that the couple lived together, that her mom seems to be a pretty damned tough cookie who took her family from <strong>coal miner to Royalty</strong> in three generations is pretty fucking impressive. <br />
<br />
I don't know what they will do with their power, but in the prayer that they wrote, they seem committed to being good public servants. I hope they will live up to what they asked today. <br />
<blockquote><em>God our Father, we thank you for our families; for the love that we share and for the joy of our marriage.</em><br />
<br />
<em>In the busyness of each day keep our eyes fixed on what is real and important in life and help us to be generous with our time and love and energy.</em><br />
<em>Strengthened by our union help us to serve and comfort those who suffer. We ask this in the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Amen. </em></blockquote>There is a good lesson to be learned in that prayer. Whether you are British or not, whether you are an anti-establishment type or not. Whether you are Christian, Buddhist, Atheist. We should all strive to: <strong>Serve. Love. Focus on what is real. Share Joy and Love. Appreciate your family. Be generous. Comfort others. </strong><br />
<br />
In that light, why would I NOT want to watch a day of parties and joy, whether I am British, Martian, or what?kim wellshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11220371428805781236noreply@blogger.com1