It's beginning to look a lot like what now?

I suppose it really is a sign of age, but I can NOT grok the fact that Thanksgiving is next week and thereafter we are on the slippery slide into Christmas and 2026.

Where did 2025 go?

It is entirely possible that some of the year zooming by is brought to you by GriefFog* because that's still very much a thing. And when I sat down to write this year's Christmas letter I had to really think hard to figure out what happened from January until ...August? Because it was just kind of vaguely gone.

I'm sure I missed something monumental in the letter, but I can't as yet figure out what that might be. Hubs will be reading it over, so it's possible he'll clue me in, but let's be real. He doesn't pay attention on a good day. So unless it's truly monumental, it's gone for all time.

I suppose one could argue that means it wasn't all that monumental to begin with.

I'm working to figure out gift-buying. The kids are dang near impossible these days and I'm tempted to just throw a wad of cash at them (well, really, it'd be a visa gift card, because who even knows what cash is anymore) and be done with it. Except eldest would spend it before he'd finished unwrapping it and then start looking around for more, and youngest would lose the card and then wonder why he didn't get any gifts.

So, yeah. That won't work.

I find myself for the first time ever pondering the "something to read, something to wear, something they want and something...I forget what the fourth thing was meant to be." It was, theoretically, a useful rhyme to help you keep it straight, but I think we can all see that I've lost the plot there, as well.

I miss my brain.

Not enough to go see Wicked part 2 tho. (Follow the train of thought - it's not hard.)

Quirky vs Diagnosis

 This article has been making the rounds on instagram (the only social media I really hang out on anymore, and even then mostly browsing.) 

And...I have thoughts. (To the surprise of nobody.)

I agree. To a degree.

I grew up quirky. As did my sister. And my parents were also quirky. Too smart. Too outspoken. Too dedicated to our vision of right and wrong. Black and white. Our opinions, once formed, are set in stone and rarely to be changed.

And if you were to say all of that today in any elementary school, you would very rapidly get a referral to be diagnosed with high functioning/level one autism (aka Asperger's Syndrome.)

And cool. That may be so. (Read: probably is so.)

Which is why for the majority of elder boy's life, I simply smiled and said, blood or no, he was just like his parents and grand parents.

Until.

Because kids today have a lot more to deal with in terms of the ability to bully one another than they did when I was growing up. And oh, boy, did I get "bullied." 

Except we didn't call it that then. We just had people who were little a-holes who you learned to steer clear of and ignore. And, when necessary, involve teachers/parents/administrators. All of whom - in a what would be a shocking turn of events today - actually DID something about the behavior.

In today's world, would a psychologist tell me I have trauma from it? I can say yes with alacrity, because that is, in fact, what happened. And then she wanted me to delve deep into my inner psyche to figure out where I felt the pain of that in my body. And...I don't? It was a long time ago. I don't still feel hurt by it. Am I somewhat mistrustful of new people? Yeah. Can I spot fake nice from a hundred miles away? Also yeah. Do I have any tolerance for fake bs? No.

But do I feel like I need to do anything to "fix" or "heal" any of that? Also no.

And still. The treatment from other kids was so bad that elder boy was having a very hard bouncing back. And because no one would deal with the issue of the other kids - wanting instead to call him too sensitive and unable to take a joke (which to be fair, they would try initially when I was young, but they really doubled down on it with elder boy. Because no one wants to take accountability for the fact that they're failing as parents, I guess.) And so it began to eat away at his mental health. And he teetered over the edge into darkness and...we needed help.

And help came in the form of a diagnosis.

Because now, he's able to say, "Oh. They're that way because they don't understand how my brain works. And they can't handle the differences. And so it's not who I am as a person that they can't deal with. It's that they don't understand how to deal with a person who's different like me."

Maybe it's splitting hairs. Maybe we could have pushed harder for him to absorb the lessons that got me through upper elementary, middle, and high school. Except that I didn't want that for him. Because for all I got through it and for all I'm pretty okay with who I am today - I used to be extroverted. I used to love making new friends and being around people. I was class president. I was in theater on stage rather than behind the scenes. And that all changed. I quit trying to lead. I moved into stage crew, then even farther back into set design. Anything to avoid the attention of people who would then seek to chip away at my sense of self-worth and value.

And I found my people in a smaller, quirkier tribe.

But I (we, hubs is on board here) wanted more than that for our kids. Or at least, for them to have an option.

And having a "diagnosis" that explains the quirky, gives other people a way to know how to relate to them. And it cuts down on some of the outright cruelty. And, in the situations where it doesn't, it gives me the ability to say to the parents/authority figure, "Are you really going to allow this level of bullying of someone with a disability?"

And that shuts it down pretty fast.

Do I wish it was different? 100%

But since parents have abdicated their responsibility to raise their kids to be good people who aren't aholes to people who are different, then the people who are different need any defense they can get.

Do I love all the 30-somethings getting diagnoses now? Not really. In my opinion, if you made it through school and found coping mechanisms to get you to success, then you don't need a diagnosis. But also? It doesn't hurt me, or my kids, for you to have one. (Unless you're on a medication that you don't actually need and are contributing to the scarcity and making it so my child who literally can't ready without his adderall can't get his script filled. Then I would love to smack you upside the head.)

But this is the way of the world. And sometimes you just have to roll with it. We make new discoveries in a field, and then we can understand the past a little better than we did before. Getting annoyed with it serves no one. But I guess maybe it helps you write an article with the hopes of going viral.

So there's that.

A little oasis of quiet and calm

Today, the three boys are off helping a fellow Trail Man (what they call the boys in Trail Life) with his Freedom Award project (equivalent to an Eagle Project.) Hubs texted a bit ago saying he was on his third trip to Lowes for the day. Ah, planning ahead.

It's been nice to have them out of the house and knowing they're in the sunshine working muscles. They were all grumpy at six thirty when it was time to rise and shine so they could get there on time, but such is life. I enjoyed my coffee in silence after they left while the Sleepy Pup ran around the yard sniffing all the morning sniffs.

Then, after a bit, I toddled to my office and actually was able to write some words on my newest undertaking. It's good because it's been...a while. I'm not yet at a point where I'm willing to get a pre-order setup, but maybe my writing career hasn't reached the end of its road as I previously worried. 

I guess we'll see.

After lunch, Sleepy Pup and I wandered up to the mailbox and I was initially delighted to see a veritable treasure trove of mail. Back inside as I sorted out the trash, I realized that the majority of the pile was addressed to two different addresses. Neither of which are ours. 

So I sorted them back out (including two end of year report cards from the public schools. Ha.) and then the pup and I went back out and walked them to the appropriate mailboxes. I thought it might be a longer stroll and had geared up appropriately, but it turns out that both boxes are actually on the fringe of our road-facing property. 

Regardless, their mail has now been delivered appropriately and pup and I are home, after a nice little jaunt in the sunshine.

I'm contemplating more words, but it feels a little like a chore, so I think I may give myself a break and just do more later if the whim arises. Perhaps instead, I'll go sit on the covered portion of the deck and read or crochet.

This quiet, relaxing day is just what the doctor ordered.

The week of Thanksgiving

It is a tad surreal to sit and realize that this is the Monday of Thanksgiving week. I don't know where the year has flown to. And I guess I don't mind, all things considered, but I'm in no way ready for Christmas and now that's a tad bit of extra stress to add on.

Hubby and I do have a plan for the boys, so that's something. But it's all the other little things here and there that have to be managed that we've yet to even discuss.

We'll get it sorted, I'm sure.

Today, I loaded the boys up and we headed out to Costco to brave the mania. I always end up in some kind of store the week of Thanksgiving. All told, we got what we needed (and thousands of things we didn't, because Costco) so we should be set for Thanksgiving itself.

Food for the rest of the week? Well, that may end up being a matter of creativity.

Thursday will be laid back. Just the four of us, my dad, and my sister. 

I found myself hit by a wave of missing mom this morning as I was finalizing the food menu. Does it ever stop? It's lighter. Less frequent. But when it hits, it's still debilitating.

Still, for all of that, I am thankful for so much. So very, very much.

And then it was July

Not a lot to say but figured I'd drop by and state for the record that I was, in fact, still kicking.

Not sure how we ended up in July already, but here we are.

Eldest will test for his learner's permit this coming week (how? How, I ask you!) I will admit to being more excited about it than he seems to be. Then again, stoic should have been his middle name. He is...an enigma most days.

Still, I didn't so much ask if he wanted to as say, "You're doing this." I don't get the gen Z tendency away from learning to drive. I couldn't wait.

Regardless, I think he'll be glad for the freedom when he has it.

As yet, we haven't decided what to do about a car that's "his." The original plan was for hubby's car to go to the boy and then hubby to get a new one. But Covid and supply chain and car prices/availability and now we're reconsidering. My dad has two cars (and there's but one of him) so we may see about buying one of his from him for hubby to use (the one I think makes the most sense for hubby is rather supercharged and thus not something that makes sense for a teen.) When I broached the idea with Dad recently he was not opposed, but also not super in favor of.

We have time, as he won't be able to drive on his own for 9 or 10 months. But that seems to be a timeframe that zips by when I blink these days, so I'm pondering now.

Unrealistic Expectations

I suspect, and honestly have suspected for a while, that if I was growing up today I would probably have some kind of label stuck on me. Asperger's, maybe. Although I guess they don't use that today because reasons. Maybe not.

Whatever it is, I am finally at the point where I recognize that my ability to make and maintain relationships suffers drastically from unrealistic expectations.

I expect that people I call "friend" will treat me the same way I treat them.

And, inevitably, they do not.

I realize that in life there are shades--a spectrum, I guess--of friendship. But it's hard for me to quantify that with my own relationships. To me, it's much more black and white. On or off. Friend. Or Not Friend.

Which, inevitably, means that I miss the signal that what was once a "close friendship" has run its course and is now moving to "acquaintance-ship" or even "really trying to cut ties with you, get the hint lady."

And so, also inevitably, when it finally sinks in I am hurt. And frustrated. And seriously questioning the point of even trying. Because really, if no one did something to the other to cause a problem, why? (Then again, this being me, it's possible I did something and no one has bothered to say anything to me because ...I don't know. I'm not worth the effort?)

I'm just so tired of it.

And now, with the added weight of parenting, I can't even go on a "people aren't worth it" kick, because as Mom, I'm supposed to be encouraging friendships. Suggesting that it's good to get out there and meet people and get to know them. And it's hard because...I'm basically lying to them. What I want to say is "Learn how to be alone! Be content with one, maybe two people in your life who matter. Because more than that just leads to heartache."

But I think that's called trauma dumping. Or something. So I smile. And I lie. And I hope that maybe for them it'll be different.

But they're weird, too. Which means more than likely? It won't be.

It all comes round again

A zillion years ago, when I started this blog, it was in large part fueled by needing a place to grumble about the difference between what I dreamed/hoped/thought/planned life would be and the realities in which I found myself.

Seems like that never really changes.

Not sure if that's some inherent failing in me (am I never satisfied?) or if I simply have too optimistic and lofty ideas for them to ever really be realized.

Maybe both.

But here we are again, with me struggling to readjust my brain to the reality of what our future is liable to be rather than my plans.

See, hubby and I had always said we would travel when the kids were old enough. And even more so when they were out of the house. We put off traveling when we were young so we could scrimp and save and stock up on retirement income.

And now? Well, the kids are old enough to travel, but entirely too neurodiverse to do so. Eldest would need ridiculous amounts of anti-anxiety meds to just get him on the plane. Youngest...if just himself. And as much as I love him, he's not the kind of person you take out into the larger world so you can be judged for what looks like on the surface as a complete inability to parent.

Toss in the fact that most of hubby's vacation is spent on various camping activities with the boys and it's not as though there's the time to do more anyway.

As for later? Well, with the hiccup in our other house selling, we ended up needing some of those retirement savings this past year. And okay, sure, I'm glad they were there when we got hosed by the recession that we're absolutely not having. Nope. No inflation here. Look away. But it doesn't make a future full of travel look like it's near. Toss in the fact that days like today I seriously question if the younger boy is going to be able to live on his own...and yeah. Good times.

I'm sure the Pollyanna's in the crowd would say to focus on my blessings. And that's valid. I have many. One could easily say these are first world problems, and I would agree. But that doesn't make them any less frustrating in the moment.

Counting it Down

Well, here we are at the end of 2022.

It's...been a year.

Not a bad year, per se. Also not an amazing one in many ways. But if I were to load up balance scales, I think the positives would outweigh the negatives in all the things that count. So there's that.

I don't tend to do best/worst of lists or set goals and resolutions for the new year. I'm not a "new year, no you" fan girl or any of those things.

I will simply say I am looking forward to a new year, like I do each new day, as an opportunity to be part of whatever God's plans for me entail. And I hope that He will find me faithful.

It's May

The start of May sets off an unending repetition of the song from Camelot (It's May! It's May! The lusty month of May!) for the first several days. I consider that somewhat better than the incessant Justin Timberlake memes one sees everywhere else.

I wonder if he hates them as much as I do.

Hubby has taken great joy in walking around and saying, "I can't believe we're 1/4 of the way through the year!" And...he needs to stop. Because yes, tempus fugit and all that, but can we stop sounding like we're creaky octogenarians for a few minutes?

There may be semi-reprieve on the moving front. He spoke to his boss (also the owner of the company) about his frustration with traffic that means we are going to look around and boss said, "Do you still want to work for me? Because we'll figure that out." And then he trotted out a plan that would allow more working from home with maybe one or two days in the office for lab work that would, on paper at least, appease the beast lodged in hubby's head.

It's a relief. But also crazy-making as I just...don't deal well with change. I had finally started to wrap my head around the inevitability and now it's not inevitable? Or less inevitable? I am glad, for sure. But also not writing it off, because the idea does keep rearing its ugly head, so I guess we'll see what we see.

Parts of a potential move are pleasant in my mind - like having Dad on the property with us. As much as I appreciate that he's fine living alone and yes, he's only 15 minutes away, he'll be 80 in July and he's a type 1 diabetic and there are good reason to have him just a stone's throw away rather than a drive that can range from 10-25 minutes depending. He might beg to differ (he does, in fact, beg to differ) but peace of mind is a nice thing.

I guess we'll see.

What IS the definition of "is"?

So I see the CDC, in their never ending quest to make sure we all just do whatever they say because, like Mom, they said so, has decided to change up the definition of "vaccine."

Of course, this is because, as anyone with a brain has noticed, the current "vaccine" in question is not, actually, a vaccine under the traditional (read: Webster) definition. [ed - DOH! I hit up ol Webster to check and the online version has already been brought into compliance with the new regime.] It's gene therapy. It's always been gene therapy. They actually messed up in the beginning and mentioned that aloud, then quickly started talking "vaccine" because gene therapy is scary.

But also, said "vaccine" is really a prophylactic. Or as we call it here in this house, "the covid condom."

Of course, rather than just being up front and saying, "Hey, y'all, this is still (to us) worth doing because it will help prevent you DYING from the covids even though it doesn't stop you from getting or transmitting it. So here. Want a free poke in the arm?" we're instead going to re-write the dictionary so that we can call it a vaccine. Dammit.

Now, however, I am going to be calling my vitamins vaccines as well. Under the new definition ("provides protection against disease") they totally qualify.

Here, child, take your Flintstones vaccines. Chew 'em up. 

Mmm. Daily vaccines.

I weep for the world.

Never get involved in a land war in Asia*

Sometimes I forget the cardinal rules of life in these times and I go ahead and post a thought or two on Faceplant.

Today was one of those days.

I can't say I regret it overly. I stand by the thoughts. But in reality, the general nature of the Faceplant is that people only hear what they want to hear and they excoriate you if you've departed from the approved narrative.

I do not care, overly, for the approved narrative, so of course we know how well that went over.

Ah well, these things happen. Maybe it's out of my system for a while now and I can go back to not posting anything or, on the odd here and there, sharing just a little funny interaction with the boys. Those are my usual contributions to the idiocy of social media.

*spot the quote

It's Been a Year

Everyone appears to be spending bucoup quantities of time over on Faceplant sharing memories from a year ago when it was going to be "two weeks to flatten the curve."

Longest two weeks ever.

I have other friends who are on the rampage of "rights are not given to you by the government" -- a sentiment with which I agree, but really also feel like we lost that battle long before a year ago.

Still. This whole thing is just.... * waves hands in the air *

I wish I could say that "returning to normal" was ever going to be a thing, but I simply don't believe it. Even now they're starting with the "Oh, well even if you've had the vaccine you shouldn't..."

And no. Just no.

What is it going to take for the bovine masses to realize that they need to wake up?!

I'd like to get everyone in politics currently removed and we can start over. I'd like to do the same thing in the media. Because the two are in cahoots.

I go back to being over it all and wishing that people would decide that they were capable of thinking for themselves and then get on with doing it.

High School Thoughts

I don't recall if I ever mentioned that I graduated from the STEM magnet high school locally, a billion years ago when STEM wasn't even an acronym that people used.

Regardless, I loved my time at the nerd school. Roaming the nerd halls. Feeling like I'd found people who, if not my actual peeps, were not going to be annoyed with me because I enjoyed studying. I was nowhere near the brightest there and was a solidly slightly better than average student. (I can't remember my GPA. I know it was good enough that I got into college and my report cards never got me in trouble at home. That was enough.)

Anyway.

As the years have gone by, it's gotten harder and harder to get in to said school. It's become (in my opinion) less about the students wanting to go there and much more about the Tiger Parents making sure that their kid has that check mark for their college apps.

When I attended, it was primarily Asian (specifically and primarily Korean and Vietnamese when I was there but they may have diversified some there, I'm not sure) if you were looking to sort things by ethnic demographics. We had 7-10 Black students. (I'm thinking through the names and I know I didn't know everyone but I had two good friends who were Black and knew some of the rest by virtue of association.)

The other-than-Asian-or-white attendance has been plummeting downward every year. And every year there's a bit of an uproar in the alumni groups. And this year, given the world and the fact that the stats just released admitted that there were ZERO Black students in the upcoming freshman class...well, you can imagine.

There's quite a hue and cry within the Alum Faceplant group for the school to be closed down as an abomination and misuse of public funds.

I think that's a bit of an overreach, myself. Because I do think there are students who benefit greatly from the school who wouldn't necessarily flourish as well at their base schools. But I also do agree that they should be doing more for diversity. Because there are students of EVERY background who would benefit greatly from the school who wouldn't necessarily flourish as well at their base schools. And there are many kids who end up there who would do just fine -- and perhaps flourish even more -- at those base schools.

Anyway, my general feeling on how I'd fix it were I to be in charge is this: If an average incoming class if 500 students, and there are 5 primary categories on their racial/ethnic demographic checklist, then each checkbox gets 100 students. 

They can keep running their entrance exam exactly the same way they've been doing, but the top 100 from any checkbox category get accepted. (If there's a serious concern about academic ability that the test is supposed to measure, then establish a "minimum baseline" and take those kids who score over that. But it needs to be a realistic minimum, not one that's inflated to try and game the system.)

I realize this would create probably an even bigger hue and cry from among the 67% ethnic majority at the school (which is not white) - but if we're aiming for fair? Let's be fair. 

The trouble might arise finding 100 kids of every racial/ethnic checkbox who actually want to go through the hassle of taking the test. In that situation? I guess the left over spots could be done as a lottery for kids in other checkboxes who were over the minimum baseline but below the top 100. But I'd say there needs to be a cutoff so that it's not a situation where, for example, only 10 Black kids apply so now we have space for 90 more of other boxes as a lottery. There needs to be something done to encourage application by a large spread of kids (and I haven't looked at the application stats in depth, so it's possible this issue is moot. I just know many of the Black alums have said they've actively discouraged siblings/friends from applying because of their experiences. That's wrong and I hate that it felt like the best course of action for them. That's not the school I went to.)

But maybe, knowing that every group was guaranteed 100 spots, then the understanding that the kids who get in are the ones who start test prep when they're 9 would start to be less true. Because it's RIDICULOUS to me that anyone would spend close to five years prepping for an entrance test for high school. 

No kid chooses that. That's something parents choose.

And no high school is so amazing that kids should be forced to go there by overly ambitious parents. The kids who were there because their parents made them go when I was there were miserable.

I can't imagine that's changed.

Some Good in the Bad

I have always had pink cheeks. I put the blame fully on my ancestry. They have always somewhat bothered me, but it was what it was for the longest time.

I wore makeup for our wedding and then off and on (with on becoming more often than on) over the years. But until probably ten years ago, it wasn't a daily thing.

And then, one lazy Saturday afternoon we met some friends for dinner. Seeing as how we'd been lazing around in jammies and only dressed for said dinner, I didn't bother with makeup - they were good friends, it was just Red Robin and, well, I didn't feel like it.

Throughout dinner and the time we spent hanging out at our house afterward their eldest daughter simply would not let it go.

"Gosh, Aunt Beth, your cheeks are red."

"No really, they're seriously red. Are you okay?"

"Are you sure you're okay? You have really red cheeks."

And on. And on. And no amount of polite deflection would get her to drop the subject. No side-eyed plea to her parents to intervene and maybe let her know that she needed to drop it were picked up on.

And I have worn makeup EVERY DAY since.

Because where I thought I just had reddish cheeks as a result of heritage. Apparently I was terrifying small children without knowing it.

But in the pandemic stay at home and make no contact with anyone lifestyle, I've slowly stopped bothering. Because my kids don't care. Hubby doesn't care. The dog doesn't care. And so I am beginning to think it's okay if I also don't care.

Today, I even ventured out into the world to pickup some cookie decorating kits that we are doing in lieu of egg dying this weekend (because they're rationing eggs and I'm not wasting them on hard boiled dyed eggs when no one but me will eat them that way). And I ventured out without makeup.

Granted, I interacted with exactly one person, but still. It was progress for me. And it's nice to spend a moment looking for a silver lining in the middle of all the clouds.

We're sliding into Easter -- Good Friday tomorrow and then Easter Sunday -- and I hope that you have a weekend where you're reminded of the wonder that God would send His Son to die simply so that you and I might have forgiveness from our sins. And, if you haven't trusted in Jesus as your savior, I hope you'll think about doing so. Because it's not being good or going to a particular church that does anything for you -- it's trusting in Him that matters.

Find out more here: https://peacewithgod.net/

Letters from the Land of Overwhelmed

I feel like that's where I reside permanently these days. It doesn't make for scintillating blogging. Or talking in person, for that matter. It is what it is and I imagine this too shall pass and so on and so forth but blergh.

That's really the crux of the issue. Everything is just a little extra blergh.

Hubby has a stiff, sore neck. Always has had. He has very mild scoliosis that they said wasn't bad enough to treat when he was younger. And now at forty something it just gets worse and worse. When time works in our favor (hahahahaaa), he gets massage and that helps (the therapeutic sort not the day spa fluffy kind), but he's been crazy busy and so has the massage therapist (she's a friend of ours and her youngest is having some significant issues right now that are taking up all her time.) So I scour various pillows and spend entirely too much trying to find something that might provide relief whilst he sleeps.

This latest one seems to be helping.

But it makes him snore much more vigorously than he was previously.

So he's sleeping well. I am not.

It would be a little easier if we still had a guest bed, but littlest wanted a better bed (and it was time for him to have one, the one he had was falling apart) so there was shuffling and laughing about how we never have guests anyway and now I have little one's old mattress on the floor of the library if I need to escape the bedroom in hopes of some sort of snooze.

Sleep deprivation doesn't help with feelings of overwhelm, just fyi.

My sister had her follow up with the radiation oncologist today. He seemed cautiously optimistic -- he didn't feel any hard tumor, but there is scar tissue so because of the placement of same she'll have to do some therapy for the next several years to keep the scar tissue from causing problems on its own.

None of it changes the fact that she doesn't understand why she's still alive (nor does she particularly want to be) and it adds burden and pressure to know someone you love is struggling like that and you're completely helpless to do anything at all to aid.

Dad continues to fade, losing interest in the things that even a month ago were topics of conversation and ways to fill his days.

Throw in youngest and his struggles and just the general angst of being 12 that goes for the eldest and it's Overwhelm City.

Breathe.

In which Easter is a bust

I mean, He is Risen, indeed. So there's still that. (And really, it's enough, yes? More than.)

But still...

Grief is a weird and fascinating thing. (If by fascinating I mean really f'ing annoying.) Mom loved Easter. I'd say it was probably her favorite holiday - because what can compare to Christ's death and resurrection paving the way for us to receive salvation and spend eternity with God? Nothing. That's absolutely right.

Regardless, I find myself missing her more now than I did when she'd just died.

So, in keeping with that during the lead up to Easter, hubby and I talked and decided on going out to eat rather than trying to have the big shindig at our house as we usually have in the past. We poked around and found a place in Occoquan with a special Easter brunch buffet, that, on perusal of the menu, seemed like it would offer everyone something they'd enjoy.

So today dawned as have the last several days with youngest's eyes nearly glued shut owing to his severe issue with maple pollen (which is currently ravaging the area.) We dosed him up with Zyrtec, ate our resurrection cinnamon rolls (quite tasty this year as I used a new recipe that adds a layer of pecans at the top, so you get a little gooey crunch on the top, not just the sweet from the melted marshmallow inside), and made our way to church.

Now, I will admit, our church at Easter is already an issue for me. Rather than the usual 4 services, they do one big service at the high school that's basically across the street. This used to take place in the auditorium. This year, for whatever reason, it was in the gym.

The. Gym.

Skirts are not conducive to sitting on bleachers.

Anyway, we find a spot and get through three songs before youngest is an issue. (Ends up being that he was irritated with me that I was making him stand for the music rather than just letting him color like the kids around us were doing. Well, I'm sorry - except not really - if you're my kid, you at least pretend to participate in the service. You just do.) Battle of wills commences and, when it's clear that I'm not going to win without an amazing scene getting made, I take him out leaving hubby and eldest to enjoy the service while youngest and I sit in the little cafeteria area outside the gym and discuss good choices that Jesus approves of.

Service over, we get in the car and head to the restaurant.

I should have known, to be honest, just from the way getting seated worked (with reservations! It's not as if we showed up on Easter and just expected to get in.) that it was not going to go smoothly.

When we were gathered (minus two -- hubby's youngest sister is apparently visiting friends in Vegas and our putative brother-in-law who we've yet to meet didn't come either, leaving hubby's middle sister to bring the baby on her own. At this point, I want to see how old the baby is before we meet the father. It'll be an interesting experiment) we waited.

Usually at a buffet/brunch type thing, the server stops by, gets drink orders, and gives you general instructions. So we waited for this. And we waited. And we waited.

And we waited.

Did I mention both hubby's mom and my dad are type 1 diabetics? Mother-in-law is low and getting lower. So finally, and and father-in-law just go down and get food.

They pass someone who works there on the way and mention that's what they're doing and that then prompts a server and drink orders. But she doesn't say what sorts of drinks they have, so in trying to order something for the youngest I have to go through four options before I get to something that's carried.

We decide we might as well also go get food. So as in laws return, we all toddle down to get in line. I let my family precede me, and kind of bring up the rear while helping youngest with his plate. I glance over at the omelette station - no one manning it. Maybe they ran in the back for something? I don't know. Fine, I'll put a hold on that. So I pick up the last plate and file through the chafing dishes of mediocrity.

There are biscuits, pancakes, french toast, gravy, seafood newberg, steamed veggies, meat swimming in some kind of sauce, chicken swimming in another, sausage/bacon/ham, and chilled shrimp. There's a table that clearly used to have fresh fruit, but no longer does. And the afore mentioned unmanned omelette station.

We get food - sort of - and tromp back upstairs to start to eat.

Except no one has silverware.

The drinks haven't arrived yet, so we think we'll ask when those come. And we sit and stare at our plates. And wait. And stare. And wait. And stare. The drinks finally come and we ask about silverware.

And the kids start eating with their fingers.

Then the adults do, too.

Silverware did finally arrive.

Plates at the buffet never did.

Really it was all a disaster. And kid behavior was subpar. And no one really enjoyed the food or the dining experience. And it was crazily expensive.

So really, I'm kind of glad that Easter has come and gone this year, because as thankful as I am for my Savior?

Today sucked.

It Never Goes Completely Away

They'll be inducing hubby's sister tomorrow.

The MIL called tonight to let me know this, as if I was supposed to care. Maybe I am. I mean, it's good to know, I guess, but I have to admit to quite a bit of blergh about the whole thing. They're acting like she's the first woman in the history of the world to get pregnant. And they also conveniently skim over the whole was-not-married-at-the-time thing.

And okay, fine, she married the guy (for his health insurance - still hoping that there's more to it than that, but it's seriously all they talk about. How he had Tricare and that's better than Kaiser, so she married him.) So yay. Except they've been married two months now and she still doesn't want anyone in the family to meet him.

Throw in MIL's comments about how "now she'll have a grandchild in the area" (because I guess my boys don't count) and yeah. Really don't care.

FIL made a comment the other day about how they don't see the boys very often. I mentioned that I had made invitations when they were young and finally got tired of the rejection so stopped asking. I swear -- I don't get how they think this is my fault. I have tried for going on 24 years now to have a relationship with these people. To try and get hubby to have MORE of a relationship with them. They making it damn near impossible. At this point, I feel like the onus for anything they want is 100% on them. If they want to see us, they need to call and arrange it. If they can't be bothered, then so be it.

And mixed in with all of that is the lingering frustration and sorrow that I was never able to conceive. I love our boys. They are ours so completely and are absolutely the children God had for us. But it's frustrating, none the less, that I don't think his parents were ever as excited about the impending birth of my boys as they are about his sister's child, and the only reason I can come up with for that is that they aren't ours biologically.

And that's just stupid.

A New Era

My mother died yesterday.

I'm not completely sure I've really wrapped my mind around it, even as sharp waves of grief slam into me from behind at odd moments, pushing the softer, steadier underlying numbness to the side.

I thought, having had such a long lead in, and knowing that this was coming - even desired (in the "please Jesus end her suffering" way) - I thought it would be easier. Not harder.

It feels impossible.

We aren't having a service. Mom was always so incredibly anti-funeral, I don't know how we could have one and still be considered to be honoring her memory. And the truth is, right now, I have no desire to play hostess to anyone else's grief. Even going through the well-meaning comments on the Facebook notice has been more than I can handle. I'm glad others know how wonderful my mother was. Except that I don't really care about their loss, because it can't hold a candle to mine, or my kids' losses. And I find I don't have the patience to want to sit in the parlor with all the Mr. Collinses of the world who want to come and condone when, while mama was alive, they couldn't be bothered to treat her or our family with kindness and respect.

I'm sure there are those who did. Who loved her. And I'm sure I'm being unfairly selfish in my grief. But I don't care. And I feel it's reprehensible that we have a cultural norm that says the bereaved need to provide a big room for others to try and share our grief.

I know who's truly grieving with us. We know who really loved mom. And they're not the ones pushing us to have a funeral that she didn't want.

Thoughts On Sexual Harassment, MeToo, and Definitions

So, yesterday, Publisher's Weekly posted this article describing sexual harassment within the Christian publishing industry. As you can probably imagine, with the world of Christian authors, it has set heads spinning and is just about all many of the industry-focused groups can talk about.

A lot of what I'm seeing is shock and horror that this could take place within a Christian setting. And while, yes, it's sad and heartbreaking, because Christians should behave better than those who don't believe, I think it's imperative that people remember that Christians are still broken, fallen human beings, full of sin. The only difference is a commitment to trying to walk as Jesus would have us walk and, when we fail, repenting and seeking the Lord's help to do better. This is the heart of the Gospel, that everyone needs Jesus to forgive their sins -- and it's not a one and done situation. (Would that it were so.) So while yes, it's heartbreaking that this has happened, the fact that it happened in a Christian setting shouldn't be as big a surprise as it seems to be (reference the problems within the Catholic church and/or at Willowcreek for two recent examples of fallen humans who love Jesus doing very very badly by their fellow humans.)

But the whole thing has spun my mind round again to something that plagues me as the mother of boys: what exactly constitutes sexual harassment?

When I look at some of the stories of women who feel they have been harassed, I see them talking about how they were made to feel uncomfortable. And I stop and ask myself, "Really? Is all it takes to ruin someone's livelihood the fact that you were uncomfortable?" Because I'm uncomfortable a lot. Women seem determined to discuss their monthly cycles with me. This makes me more uncomfortable than I can possibly explain. Are they sexually harassing me? Of course not. (I also have a couple of pairs of jeans that make me uncomfortable. Sadly, I can't sue them for sexual harassment either.)

Being made uncomfortable isn't enough, in my opinion, to start throwing around allegations. To me, if you're a woman and you're uncomfortable, you should a) say, "Hey, you know what, this seems inappropriate and I am uncomfortable. Can we change the subject?" and, if that fails, b) go elsewhere.

I can see how, if you do a and nothing changes -- or if in fact the behavior intensifies -- and you're not in a situation where b is possible then okay, yes, lines have been crossed. But again I wonder, is it really sexual harassment?

Then there's the matter of inappropriate. Is inappropriate automatically sexual harassment? I've been guilty of being inappropriate. I've hung around with coworkers (generally male, seeing as they were also software engineers and that is, largely, a male-dominated environment) where talk has turned bawdy. I have made an off-color joke or two. And I have been in situations where jokes crossed the line into uncomfortable and inappropriate and I have, in those situations, made a way to remove myself from it. I don't feel that I've ever experienced sexual harassment. (Discrimination? Yes. But that's a noodle for another day.)

And so I circle back to why I worry about raising boys in the MeToo culture that we currently have. Right now, it feels as if a well-intentioned comment along the lines of, "Wow, you look great today." Can, should the woman on the other end of said comment decide, be turned into a sexual harassment witch hunt. Or trying to squeeze past someone in a crowded room (because honestly, if you want inappropriate and unwanted sexual touching, ride the Metro at rush hour sometime.) But there's no intent there. And that's what I feel like we're not wrapping our heads around. Sexual harassment has to have some level of intent on the part of the perpetrator. But at the same time, "Oh, I didn't mean it." is also not a valid excuse.

I don't really have any solutions. It's a serious problem and needs serious attention. It needs to stop. At the same time, we need to stop looking for it behind every bush and in every shadowed doorway. We need to find a way to determine the true cases from the women (and men) who see it as a way to punish or get revenge on someone. Because that happens, too. But right now, in today's climate, there doesn't seem to be a way to say, "Hey, I take your allegation seriously, but I need to look at both sides and find the truth." without being called a victim shamer. Yes, absolutely, the pendulum used to swing too far on the side of protecting the perpetrator, but swinging too hard to the other side where allegations aren't verified before someone's life is ruined is not the correct response.

It's murky. And hard. And I'm doing everything I can to raise my boys to avoid situations where it'll even be a question. But I worry. And I pray. Because this world? It needs Jesus. Even the people inside the church.

How to feel ancient

So I'm sitting in the waiting room while younger boy has his speech therapy and OT and the two receptionists have this conversation about dance lessons and social dance (swing dancing).

R1: So what are the ages?
R2: I have a lot of older friends now that I've started going to these. I'd say most of them are probably between 26 and 28.

Me, dying inside. 26 to 28 is now "older."

Perhaps it's a miracle I'm still shuffling this mortal coil given my advanced years.