Is Crazy an Excuse for Rambling?

I plan to make this the world’s most poorly planned and quickly executed blog post in history.

I drove to New Jersey Friday while listening to Wigfield by Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert, and Paul Dilello, and found myself transported to a land in which, instead of passing big rigs with Jesus slogans plastered on them, I sped by things such as a “World’s Largest Mushroom Producer” truck with tremendous mushroom graphics everywhere.  There is something disturbing about a fungus that dwarfs your minivan.

Next up – “The Sons of Anarchy” rig, decked out in skulls and amazing tattoo art, or something. It was a thing of beauty, not least because I assumed it was a militia that was gathering a large following and obviously interesting many investors in its plan. What militia can afford an eighteen-wheeler like that? They’re normally too busy amassing weaponry and building compounds.

Since I don’t really believe there has yet emerged a group capable or truly willing to overthrow the government, I found myself getting really excited about the possibility that here was just such a group. Organized enough to have a name, to get the fancy truck with the gorgeous art, and to take their show on the road.  Alas, thanks to the wonders of Google, I now know that “Sons of Anarchy” is a fucking television show. And that about sums up my opinion.  I like my imaginary version much better, and have been busy writing up the vision statement for my newly formed militia, “Sons of Bitches and Daughters of Anarchy.”  Leaving a revolution to men is just so eighteenth-century.*

Finally, my favorite vehicle on the road Friday was the tanker truck reading, “Valley Proteins – Not for human consumption. Technical Animal Fat.”  I think it requires no further embellishment. I will just let the full impact of the possiblitites for the existence of such a beast to settle into your mind. And your stomach.

All in all, it was a delightful drive with only moderate screaming in the background, during which I just put both ear buds broadcasting Wigfield into my ears and turned up the volume. A lot.

*I have set up a Paypal account for receiving donations with which to pay for my husband’s defense when he sues the Department of Energy to have his security clearance reinstated. Fortunately, when Big Brother questions me about him, they don’t ask my views on government, so there’s a chance no one will notice my little leanings toward…let’s call it Extreme Libertarianism.  Nonetheless, your donations are appreciated. I will use them to buy a cool truck and get some new ink. Thanks.

Love Them

I’m referencing a post by my bloggie friend Betty, who inspired this response.

We all feel inept and bumbling when it comes to parenting, but most people are afraid to say it. We pretend we know “the answer” or “the way,” so that we can put our minds at ease that we will turn out people who follow our advice  but really we are all just floundering around here creating people who will one day do things that make us cry, or laugh, or tear our hair out, or wail inside with almost unendurable pain.

You have to create a way of living that will work for your family. I’m not saying it’s okay to treat children any old way, either. As the product of a destructive home environment and the survivor of some horrible events, I am know the mess that can make.

Yes, there are some absolutes: Don’t teach racism. Don’t beat your children, with belts OR words. Don’t leave them alone in the bathtub. That sort of thing. And yes, there’s even empirical evidence that breastfeeding is best, and attachment parenting can be really good psychologically. But that doesn’t mean it will all work out perfectly. I have almost never yelled at my daughter. I fed her organic, I wore her everywhere, I breastfed her and tried to do everything I thought was right, which is to say, everything I was capable of doing at the moment.  But she is nearly an adult, and she makes some choices that are unhealthy and self-destructive.

I like to quip to my friends that we all mess up our children. The trick is to give them good stories to tell their shrinks.

We could do this to ourselves forever, this throwing ourselves up against the wall of condemnation and inadequacy.  We can damage ourselves and ruin any chance of being even a remotely good parent if we aren’t careful.

What all of it comes down to is this:

Love them.

Validate them.

Love them.

Hug them.

Love them.

Let go.

Let go.

Let go.

The Incredible Shrinking Blogger

Ha! Don’t I wish!

No, folks, I don’t mean my waist line.  That would be great, but I’m actually talking about the blog itself.

See, I have a problem.  I spend way too much time writing and commenting around WordPress, and not nearly enough time on other things. Like say, sleeping. Writing things that might make money some day.  Showering. You get the idea.

Plus Mr. Barely Knit Together is gone for three and a half weeks doing army reserves summer adventure camp annual training, leaving me in charge of a surly teenager, a large dog, and two small, rabid wombats.

So  I’m curious to know how few posts I can get away with per week.  How long before you grow tired of checking? Are we at that point in our relationship where I could take a week to go off by myself to that cabin in the mountains and not have you worry that I’ve found someone else?

And how about my commenting? Will you miss me, fellow bloggers?  Will I eventually be forgotten, replaced by some shameless hussy who steps in to fill my comedic place? (I’m keeping an eye on you, Claire Collins)

This is not to say that I’m even capable of showing any kind of restraint when it comes to…well, to anything really, but mostly to following all my amazing blogger friends and replying to my sarcastic, cynical readers adoring fans.

So what do you think? Can I take a whole week off?  Will my stats suffer? My god I’m obsessed with mice tats.  Uh, I mean my stats.

I would really like to hear from you. What would it take to keep you happy in my absence? Do I need to give away prizes or something? Make big promises of joy and money upon my return? I could just occasionally upload random photos of my exploits.  “Barely Knit Together makes her morning coffee!”  “BKT brusing her teeth!”  “Barely Knit herding cats!”

Maybe this will be good for me.  Maybe I’ll actually start to interact with real people whom I can see in real life and touch and hear and connect with.

Nah.  Forget it.

Kidz Bop Can Suck It

I used to be one of those people who would drive around blasting Public Enemy, or D.R.I. from speakers that were never built to handle such bringing on of the kickass.

I sang Nine Inch Nails “Closer” as loud as possible with the windows down and did not care one whit about the people staring at me.  I smiled and waved at them while mouthing the chorus.

But now, when I pull up beside you at a light, you are more likely to hear Kidz Bop from my minivan.

My kids all love music, and thanks to McDonald’s happy meals, we now have a small collection of tripe music from Kidz Bop. Basically, they take mediocre songs and force 279 children to sing them. If one of my children puts one into the CD player, it starts playing automatically and if I don’t go all quick-draw McGraw on it, it’s too late.

“Mommy! Was that Kidz Bop?? Put it back on!”

My question is: why? Why take songs that are okay if you like that sort of thing, and make them into the stuff nightmares are made of?

How about this: they took Nickelback’s “Photograph,” which already sucked, and had these kids sing it. A song about reminiscing about being stoned, or something like that.  They changed the simply shocking word “hell” to “heck.” Perfect.

I’d like to see them add Beyonce’s “Check Up on It,” which is relatively tame, or 50 Cent’s “In Da Club.”  Maybe even a nice cover of “Shake That” by Eminem with Nate Dogg. I’m wondering how they’d fix the obvious lyrical problems in those songs.

Believe it or not, Kidz Bop is one of the best selling CD series ever produced.

If this isn’t a sign of the apocalypse, my name is Flava Flav.

Nothing to See Here, Folks

I had planned, for your listening pleasure, to share the delights of “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon, and “Savior” by Rise Against.

But ridiculous band managers who don’t recognize free publicity when they see it have hindered me.

So instead, I will post my friend Will’s weird take on Subterranean Homesick Blues.  He wrote the lyrics, I think, then some guy in Russia put it to music. My friend then made the video. Something like that. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a crack team of lawyers who will sue me for getting it wrong.

And while I’m at it – here’s a shout out to Will and Julie, who were my coworkers before my family decided they needed me more than I needed my four paltry hours out of the house every week.

Wordless Wednesday, of Sorts

I just like it.  It does something to me.

And the next song I just can’t get anywhere.  So here’s a link. It’s worth a listen.

Am I too old for slam dancing?  It makes me want to ride around blasting it with my feet out the window drinking a Milwaukee’s Best.  Maybe I’m just too easy to please.

And probably Tannerleah or Capitalist Lion Tamer will be along shortly with their discerning ears to tell me it’s crap.  But I don’t care, because I love it!

Why Nothing Gets Done

I’m sure my wonderful husband always wonders why the house never looks any better when he gets home from work than it did when he left it. It often looks worse, but never better.

So I decided to keep track today of what goes down.

0700 Baby B climbs into my bed and cries mommy mommy mommy while still sleeping.  Four year old, who’s already in the bed, moves over. Toward us, so there’s less room. Then puts his feet on my head.

0730 Baby wakes up for real and starts clawing at my shirt looking for the goods. I politely refuse to give it up.

0800 B is nursing (I caved – so sue me!) while I catch up on my blog reading and tweets. Hey, hubby – I’m not perfect, you know.

0830 Breakfast for baby. Reheat coffee.

0830 Washing dishes from yesterday.  While filling dishpan (no, I do not have a dishwasher), B drops cup full of chocolate milk.  Half of it spills out, but I save the other half and clean up floor.

0845 Half way through dishes and B drops the cup again, losing the rest of the chocolate milk. Decide today will be a floor clean up day. Reheat coffee.

0850 Throw B in the shower to wash off the chocolate milk. Wait a minute – Ethan was up already and decided to get in the shower with B. How did that happen? I’m confused.

0900 Get back to dishes.  Interrupt dishwashing with a quick Facebook break and to share my doula website.  Need fans!

0915 Decide to make corn pudding for hubby because he loves it so. Turn oven on 400 degrees to preheat.

0930 Four year old Ethan wakes up, I make him breakfast then join him for snuggles in bed with Beckett. Also read David Sedaris on the Kindle.

1000 Throw in a load of laundry, then back to the kitchen. Clean the kitchen, eat my own breakfast of leftover steak and pasta salad. Hmmm…that could explain a lot. Get naked baby Beckett dressed and Ethan too so he will be ready when the “guys” (next door kids) come out. Spend ten minuted sock hunting. Similar to snipe hunting.

1020 Collect dirty clothes from all over the place.  Are the dishes finished? Wash a few more dishes, am tempted to interrupt dishwashing to tweet about the wonderful Neal Boortz (@TalkMaster) whom I’m listening to on WLNI. Ok, yeah. Dishes are done.

1100 Man it’s hot in here. Why is the oven on? Oh – corn pudding!  I crack eggs, start the process, then do…what?

1200 Wait a minute! How did it become 1200?? All I was doing was keeping the Bakugans out of the hands of Ethan’s evil archnemesis Beckett, and making sure Beckett only played with the non-metal cards.  And I did tweet a couple of times, I’m sure.  My god, it’s so freaking hot in here!  Damn – the corn pudding!

1210 Is that someone knocking at the door?  Whose van is that outside?  Oh! It’s my friend Teri with her daughters who are here to help me out today!  Wow! I completely forgot.

1215 Put the dog on the back porch and go out to greet my friend in my pajamas and slippers. Like, with no bra. In public and shit. She has no pride, people!

1230 Leave baby crying (?! he never cries about me leaving) and go upstairs to finally finish the corn pudding and my lord is it ever hot in here.

1300 Corn pudding in oven, blog written, help has arrived and now I’m going to take a nap.

Um, I mean – fold laundry! I’m going to fold laundry!

Sheesh. You act like I never do anything.

You Might

You might know a boy who seems like trouble, who drives wrecklessly and punches walls.

You might know a girl who thinks she is too fat, or too awkward, or too uncool, and it bothers her more than you think is realistic.

You might know a man who drinks like a frat boy though he’s ten years too late for it, who is running from some pain or anger over a deep hurt.

You might know a woman who struggles with fears of inadequacy, who has scars that she tells lies to explain, who seeks attention in inappropriate ways, who laughs to cover the damage from something she can’t even remember.

All these people are around you.  Sometimes you see it, and sometimes you pass it off as being irresponsible, slutty, childish.

Those are just words meant to hide from the truth of what life and people can do to someone.  Life is so hard.  Trust is shattered, spirits are squashed, bodies are damaged, relationships are forever broken.

But these people are not broken in any way that is unfixable.  They might just not understand that they are worth fixing.

A few years ago, a group of people became determined to help a friend who needed it. They began a story, a movement, that is still playing itself out in our world.

The movement is love, and it goes by the name  To Write Love on Her Arms.

There’s nothing I can say any better than they say it themselves.  Many of you know why this organization is so close to my heart.  As a surviving friend of more than one suicide, and someone who has tried to make an early exit herself, any group that recognizes how much people hurt and how much they – how much we all – need help, deserves my support.

Every single time I see one of their tshirts, or get a Facebook message about their recent activities, I tear up.  I see those words and I think – someone understands.

To write love on her arms. To write it on her arms, where she used to write the hatred and fear and brokenness.

So I’m asking for you to consider the people around you. Is there someone you know well, or maybe barely know at all, that you think is suffering?  Can you see through the craziness and outrageous behavior to what is the heart of the matter? That we are all people, inadequate and struggling without always knowing how or why?

Reach out.  Tell someone you love her and she matters to you and why. Tell someone you appreciate the value he adds to your life.  And if you simply can’t, consider supporting a group that does.

It Takes a Village But Why’s It Gotta Be My Village?

I’ve heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child. This idea was popularized by Hillary Clinton when she named her world domination plan book after the idea, ostensibly an African proverb. While there is some argument about the origin of the phrase, it is in close keeping with many cultural ideas about raising children and as such not worth quibbling over.

The idea is generally that a child’s upbringing should be the responsibility of the entire community, not just the family.  Interestingly, I’m sure most of the people calling for such child-rearing would only have a neighbor influence their child’s development if she was nineteen and came with a foreign accent and references.

I understand the thinking: communities are important to us, our sociological identities are formed within the boundaries of our “villages” and many parents at some time or another need the support of their neighbors or friends.

The problems occur when people refuse to take care of their children and somehow some magic fairy parent in the sky (that would be me) has to swoop in and supervise, referee, and otherwise manage a child not her own.

I live in a neighborhood with issues, and I don’t mean the neighborhood of my brain (this time) for those of you who might make assumptions about such things.

No, this is my legit ‘hood, the place I lay my hat and hang my laundry.  And stuff.

And now that Ethan is old enough to play outside a bit without me, I love it that we have kids around.

Except for this one; I’ll call him, uh…”The Tattler,” or “TT” for short.  He has absolutely no supervision whatsoever.  For a while, in fact, he was escorting his baby sister around.  She’s like eighteen months old, and he just turned five! They would wander the street, often in the street, all day long.

Until now.

Now, he just comes to our house.  All. Day. Long.

At least he leaves his baby sis at home, but he’s a bit of a trouble maker, as anyone who has no guidance in his life is prone to be.  And whenever anything goes wrong he immediately points fingers at the nearest kid. I’m not so naive as to think my kid is never to blame, but I’m equally sure it’s not his fault every time.  So far, we have had glue on the dog, rocks on our porch (lots and lots of rocks), toys broken, and a missing Ethan for a minute because TT convinced him it was okay to cross the street and visit his house.  Heart attack material, I tell you.

I don’t have a problem helping people out when they need it.  It’s great for Ethan to have someone to play with outside.  But a child who is this neglected is so desperately needy. He needs interaction, attention, and a massive amount of guidance on what is considered acceptable behavior.

When I was young and childless, I befriended kids like this. I invited them over, fed them, played with them, read to them.

But the truth is, with my own challenging child to deal with I’m already in over my head.

I’m sure many of you will respond with ideas and advice about how to handle it by giving more of myself.  I’m familiar with this routine. But I’m not willing to sacrifice the little energy I have to raise someone else’s child.

And aside from what I believe should happen (forced sterilization or licensing requirements for reproducing come to mind), I have no idea what to do about this.

Except maybe transport myself back to frontier days. There’s always that.

Fear and Courage

As I am prone to do now and again, I’m going to break character here and post something serious.

I’m going to tell you something incredibly embarrassing in order to make a point.  And I hope the point leaves you so affected, you’ll forget all about the incident that prompted this little lesson.

We have a rat. I don’t mean a tattletale, a scoundrel, or anything other than Rattus norvegicus. He came into our home via one of the myriad holes or wide open spaces, likely to get at the birdseed in the basement. Then he began exploring.

He was caught and disposed of brought to a beautiful farmhouse where he will live happily ever after, but ever since I have been what you might call skittish.

The other night I was downstairs watching the idiot box when I heard a noise. Everyone else was gone, and I was just sure it was another little beastie. I wanted desperately to get upstairs and close the door to the stairs so I could feel “safe.”

It took every last bit of my courage to force myself to get down from my position standing on the sofa and make the run for the upstairs.

I know you’re all laughing. I would be too if I wasn’t too busy being embarrassed, both about the fact that I have a rat in my house (!) and that I’m such a sissy about it.

When I finally made it past the place where the noise appeared to be located, I started thinking about how dumb I felt and why in the world was I scared of a little f@#$ing rat anyway? And what would I do if I had to muster the will to walk past real danger?

My husband knows what he would do.

My little freak out session made me imagine how I might feel if I was facing the possiblility of sniper fire or RPGs.  And I imagined what my husband must have felt when he accompanied convoys in Iraq, not that I can even begin to know how that feels.

I understand all the arguments for and against this war, or wars in general. I can sympathize with both sides, really. And my husband does what he does because he believes our country and its ideals deserve protecting, not just becuase he didn’t have options after high school, or because he likes playing with guns.

He trained coalition forces over there. He made friends with Turks and Russians and Iraqis. He lost friends, too.

So let’s suspend what you may believe about dealing with other nations and diplomacy and how wrong you think this war is. There are arguments to be made on both sides.  Let’s think instead about what it takes to stand up for what you believe in and put yourself in harm’s way to do it.

Would I be able to face that kind of fear for what I truly believe is the greater good?

Would you?