Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.

 

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A sentiment that is popular in the United States. / Photo by KidZond.

 

Today I went to our local St. Patrick’s Day parade. My daughter is in Girl Scouts and they marched in the parade.

Actually I wasn’t too excited about going. Yes the sun is out today in the Midwest, but it was only in the mid-30’s and there was a little wind. Stand in the shadows? You are quickly reminded it is still Winter.

Then there was the 50 minute wait in the parking lot. See, my son and I dropped off my wife and daughter so they could march in the parade. We hung around a bit too long and well, the parking lot we parked in? It was also the line up for the parade route.

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Very Irish old Ford. / Photo by KidZond.

 

With my son bored, and complaining that we will miss the parade…and the candy…I patiently waited and started to take pictures with my phone. My son just whined and played with the radio. Can’t say I blame him.

Because, why were all these different groups gathering to celebrate an Irish Religious Holiday?

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I think that is a Sock Monkey Tree. My city is known for Sock Monkeys. / Photo by KidZond.

 

It was an eclectic group that marched in the parade. From Politian’s, Bikers (Motorcyclist and Bicyclist), Girl Scouts, our Fire Department and our Police Department. And so many more.

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Let’s be honest. If your poop emoji is green, this is place for it. / Photo by KidZond.

And that got me thinking. I live in a city that has a diverse ethnic background. People of different backgrounds came out today to celebrate what has become in the United States, a very secular unofficial Holiday.

We come together to celebrate those immigrants who came from Ireland over a 100 years ago, and gave us their traditions as they adopted ours. We have done the same with Cinco de Mayo, and other ‘borrowed’ holidays.

In the United States we have become the refuge and hope of the world. A place that people from all over the world can chase their dreams and aspire to be the best they can be. We don’t always reach those dreams. Yet we try. And we cheer the stories of those who do.

We are a nation of immigrants of course. The World in One Nation.

St. Patrick’s Day has been taken over by Americans. Turned from a solemn religious celebration into a celebration of who we are now, what we have become.

You don’t have to be Irish to apply for the right to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. It has become a tradition for all Americans. One that today, stuck in a parking lot for 50 minutes, I was reminded of.

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Next year? I want to be this guy! / Photo by KidZond.

 

 

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Or at least this guy being carried by a Leprechaun. / Photo by KidZond.

 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day Everyone.

 

 

 

 

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Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.

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Cats on a couch. / Photo by KidZond.

 

On March 5th, 1925 in  Ainsworth Iowa, a child was born. A baby girl, to Charles and Edith McDonald.

She was born premature, which in 1925 was almost a death sentence. To keep her warm she was put in a shoebox by a franklin pot belly stove.

Or so the story goes of my Mother’s birth.

Today would have been my Mother’s 94th birthday. She lived to be 80 years old. March 5th is always one of those days that make me grumpy. I really can’t help it.

My mother had a rough upbringing, her mother was taken away when she was only 4 years old. My grandmother had tuberculosis, at which time there was no known cure. My mother’s last memory of her mother was chasing the ambulance my grandmother was taken away in. She would hate the sound of sirens for the rest of her life, and they would always fill her with dread.

After my grandmother’s death, my grandfather placed my mother and my uncle in an orphanage. She would stay their most of her childhood, till she was returned to my grandfather when they couldn’t place her in an adoptive home. My mother always contended it had to do with her red hair and freckles.

She would be shuffled from family member to family member over the years. Finally arriving in Peoria Illinois, where she would meet my father.

As you would expect, my mother did not think much of my grandfather, and would have little to do with her family for the rest of her life except a sister and brother.

Mom was part of the greatest generation. Those who grew up during the depression and would later go on to fight in World War II. As my father headed off to war, my mother headed off to the factories.

Later in life, she would give birth to four baby boomers, be a stay at home mom, and raise us. She worked her butt off raising four children. Three of them boys.

Yet, she would have her quirks.

One, she had a passion for animals. Mostly those abandoned by others. My mother loved strays, and would take them in. Later in her life she would become the proverbial cat lady, growing her collection to the point of financial stress.

I have always wondered about her need to take care of cats. At first I thought it was because her kids were grown (since the cat lady phase happened after we were all grown and out of the house.) Yet as I have gotten older, I think it had more to do with her childhood. She was essentially a stray, abandon by her father to an orphanage. I think she couldn’t stand to see others abandoned. Even if those others were cats.

Oh, and my mother? She judged you on how you treated cats. Even dumping an old boyfriend because he didn’t like cats.

Another quirk of my mother was when she was injured. It didn’t matter to her, it was, just a scratch. This ’tis but a scratch mentality nearly cost my mother her life when she was in her 40’s. She had a tumor on her parathyroids and was deathly ill till she had it removed.

I remember my mother cutting her fingers on knives she would invariably leave in the soap foamed covered sink, and just band-aid her finger and keep washing. Even though the finger continued to bleed.

When I was a teenager, my mother was in a car accident. She sustain a pretty serious concussion. Yet she refused medical treatment. To her, it was just a scratch.

Then, in last year of her life, my mother fell and broke her hip. That can be fatal to many when they are in their later years of life. Not to mention she had other medical issues that complicated the matters. But mom rebounded, was able to walk again with the aid of a walker, and was on her way to a full recovery.

At the time, my mother lived with my sister and niece. All three of them living in a house together, enjoying life, and my sister was able to take care of mom. Something I am indebted to her, since she was the only one of us siblings who could at that point of mother’s children’s lives. Yet, as fate would have it, while my sister and niece suffered from the flu, my mother started to bleed internally. She never said a word to my sister. Kept it to herself. Because, after all, ’tis but a scratch. But it was more than that this time. And on January 20th 2006, my mother passed away.

Part of me will always have an anger toward my mother. I wished she would have paid more attention to herself, had less of a cavalier attitude about injuries. She missed out on my two youngest, did not see my oldest grow into the wonderful women they are. Yet she believed one shouldn’t dwell upon these minor hiccups of life. ‘Tis but a scratch after all.

It is hard sometimes to look at your parents objectively. To see them as human beings with baggage they carry with them. We tend to put our parents on a pedestal, or in sadder cases, put them in a hole and forget about them. My mother wasn’t perfect, she wasn’t a horror like other mothers I have heard about. She was a good ear, and gave sound, if not curt advice.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my parents, and yes, especially today, my Mother. Of course the pain doesn’t go away. How could it? You share a bond with your mother for 9 months, and for a lifetime afterwards. Whatever makes you think it would go away when they do? It doesn’t. They invade your dreams, and even your children’s facial expressions and voices. You see them in the legacy they have created. And you know, that life does go on, a little sadder, but still it goes on.

 

 

 

The Trash Talking Twins.

And my Son’s quick lesson on the Sticks and Stones rule of life.

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Nick with his new hair cut, same as the old cut. / Photo by KidZond.

 

I know my kids. So when my son Nick sat down next to me at the table, I could tell something was wrong. His facial expression was pained, his eyes red rimmed, but no tears. He looked at me and I stopped my conversation with my friend to turn my attention to him.

“What’s up buddy? You okay?” I asked. Of course he wasn’t okay. He was on the verge of tears. Did he get hurt? We were at a local trampoline park. A twisted ankle is fairly common here. But that wasn’t the case.

“Some little kids are being mean, in the dodgeball court.” He said blinking rapidly. I nodded.

“What are they doing?” I asked him.

“Saying mean things, calling us names, calling me names.” He said.

The trampoline park we were at has two dodgeball courts. My son and daughter take lessons at the park, along with a family friends oldest daughter (Their youngest daughter hangs out while the older three are in their lesson). We hang out after the lessons to let the kids play while we adults talk about what is going on in our lives. It’s a nice time for all of us, kids get to play together, we get to catch up.

Rarely is there ever an incident at the trampoline park. Everyone behaves, and the staff are excellent in monitoring kids. They do a great job at keeping teenagers and little kids from mixing so as to avoid possible injuries from kids getting too wild.

But this wasn’t the case, the kids trash talking my son were younger, a set of boys, twins.

Nick was upset, wasn’t sure what to do. He likes playing dodgeball, and has even joined tween games. To the credit of the tweens who usual play with younger kids, they pull their throws, so as not to hurt the younger players. Now he was the older kid, and the younger kids were calling him names. Making fun of his throws, calling him ugly and stupid.

I told him he could do one of two things. Either go play somewhere else, the trampoline park had many activities for him to do, or he could let the boys know he wouldn’t play if they continued to be rude to him. He went with the later.

It didn’t end well.

Ten minutes later my son came back angry, so were our friends two girls. The Trash Talking Twins at first accepted Nick’s peace offer to play, but then went right back to their talk. They became more aggressive and even started to use foul language. This shocked all four of our kids. My friend asked his daughters what happened, I talked to Nick. The story unfolded that the twins cared little about playing nice.

Because of the time, all of us were leaving for the night. Nick kept a look out for the twins, but couldn’t see them. He saw them in their car, but by then it was too late for me to talk to their parents.

Thoughts of Sticks and Stones. 

At home Nick was still talking about the twins. He was still upset at how they talked to him, and as he said “for no reason”, which bothered him most. He was upset, he was angry. I let him know those are normal emotions. I also asked him who else was there playing, he told me no one. And when the four of our kids left, the twins were left alone, no one wanted to play with the rude boys. I told him that is what happens when you are rude to others.

Then he shocked me.

Nick told me he thought about hitting them, about yelling at them, and calling them names. He wanted to hurt them like they had hurt him. But, he felt that was wrong, and it would just get himself into trouble.

I was surprised by this, it was very mature for an 8-year-old to have that restraint. That when twins insulted him, called him an F’er that he kept his cool. He did not lash out in anger, but simply walked away.

The Trash Talking Twins just used words. They didn’t assault him, didn’t hit or push him. Just used words that cut deep. Yet those words stirred an anger in Nick he hadn’t felt before. One that he wanted to solve with violence. Yet he didn’t.

It was a moment for me. My son acted like a Man that night. Not the little boy he is. He could have taken the low road, lashed out, but instead rose above it to walk away. He also confided in me his thoughts and feelings about the incident.

I told him I was proud of him, and that his actions were the correct ones. In this case, walking away was best. If he needed, he could defend himself from a physical assault, yet this wasn’t the case. Talking trash back to the twins would have also gotten him nowhere. It is doubtful they would have cared.

I don’t know the Trash Talking Twins story. I don’t know their upbringing or home life. They were younger, maybe a year younger, maybe a little more. To say that I wasn’t totally shocked by their behavior would be a lie. I’ve known kids like that, even in my day and age.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is walk away from a hostile situation. To turn the other cheek and leave. It is easier to get down in the gutter and slug it out.

Before School today, my son told me he was still upset about the Trash Talking Twins. That he even dreamt about them. This situation, and it’s repercussions, will be with him for a while I think. A life lesson that is a bitter pill to swallow. Like the comeback we all wish we said but didn’t, Nick will be haunted by what he could have done but didn’t. He may not know it now, but in reality he will be a better person for it. A wiser person.

And now the Moral of the Story. 

If you haven’t noticed, the world is full of Trash Talking Twins. Just go on Facebook, or Twitter to find them. Our political leaders do it all the time, as does those in the Media and even in our entertainment world. These days, we revel in Trash Talk.

Yet we ignore the repercussions of such talk. Although Names will never hurt me may seem true, it isn’t. Like my son, that name calling can lead to thoughts of anger, desires to commit violence. They leave just as much of a lasting impression as being hit.

Most of us will never cross that line, never lash out at someone physically just for something that is said to them. However, as we become more like the Trash Talking Twins, we risk escalating the violent reactions of those we offend. Even from those gentle souls like my son. The other day my son took the high road, but in a world that puts Trash Talking Twins on a pedestal will he always stay on that road? I don’t know. I can only hope so.

 

Why I don’t believe in Science.

And neither should you.

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Magical sparkly things on my tree limbs. / Photo by KidZond

Sorry, but I do not believe in science. I have found out over the last 55 years on this planet that if you believe in science you will be vastly disappointed. The same can be said of History. History is just as disappointing if not just plain boring.

The problem with those of us who do not believe in science? We have to deal with these nasty things little things call Facts. Facts get in the way of all the fun.

Take Climate Change. I don’t believe in the science behind it. But these silly facts, like CO2 levels, and rising Global Temperatures, keep popping up that challenge my beliefs. Very annoying.

Evolution is another one of those science thingies I just don’t believe in. Millions of fossils and hundreds discoveries will not stop me from believing in Mermaids. Besides, I saw a special on television, they exist folks.

I am still working on not believing in gravity. Keep dropping things all the time knowing one day I will be proven right. One day, I am sure my cat will just float away.

The problem with not believing in science, is that all you are left with is facts. Facts are such a killjoy.

I would go into History, but let’s not make this boring.

The Boring Part.

The History of man is fraught with dangers. If you have ever heard that belief that the average lifespan of people a few hundred years ago was around 30, then you are a believer in Science.

The facts are a little more boring. People lived well into their 70’s if not beyond. The trick was making into you 20’s. Prior to that? Death was common. Many children died before their 1st birthday. Infant mortality was extremely high.

Various factors are in play here. The most common was disease. For years, the ability to fend off infections and common diseases eluded mankind. When pandemics arouse, no one was safe. The Spanish Flu was one of the last greatest pandemics ever hit humanity. Millions died, the effects of the pandemic still shapes the modern world to this day.

As humanity progressed, our understanding of infections and diseases changed. We developed medicines to combat infections and prevent the spread of diseases. We learned that with the use of Scientific Methods, we could prevent another pandemic, or at least have a fighting chance.

Accept.

Okay, so that was boring. History usual is. Yet what most people miss about History? Is context. Without context? The idea of developing vaccines to prevent diseases gets lost. People tend to Believe in Science, and not Accept Science.

Accepting Science means that you base your opinions on the available facts. Are these always, and forever, correct? No. However my cat may disagree with you. Science is a process of learning from gathering available knowledge. There is nothing static in science. Things change, knowledge is learned, and with that? Those who Accept Scientific Methods change with it. They don’t believe.

The history of vaccinations, and what vaccines have done for humanity, is well documented. Have there been hiccups? Of course. Have there been setbacks? Many. Has there been misinformation? Yes, definitely yes. Believers are notorious for being misinformed.

Best to ignore this part.

To my amazement, it seems that many people in this modern world think that vaccines are bad. They either think they are an outdated form of preventing diseases, or far more dangerous than the disease itself. They have many beliefs in vaccines that have either no basis in fact, or are misconstrued facts. They Believe in the Science, but do not Accept the Science. Like most Believers they latch on to one little thing, and run with it. They don’t look at other data, nor listen to the History, they just believe in their Scientifically flawed knowledge.

You can debate them, argue with them, explain it to them. They will not listen. Because they Believe in Science.

So, personally? I don’t believe in Science. I really don’t think you should either. It’s kind of like spending money in your checking account but never checking your balance. You may believe you have hundreds of dollars in your account. But if you don’t check on it? One day you will have to Accept the fact you ran out of money.

Believing that vaccines are useless is like hoping your Bank account is full. One day you will have to accept that it is not. Let’s just hope no one else has to pay the price for your neglect.

 

There is this girl, with a phone…

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Cloud formation. Possibly a massive Bulldog, not sure. / Photos by KidZond.

 

No really, there is this girl, with a phone. She takes a lot of pictures. Far better than what you will see here. Yet this 20 something girl, a friend of my Sister-in-Law, is an artist. As in, she draws things, paints things, and now…

She uses her phone to take a myriad of pictures.

I seen this in the early spring of this year. And it got me to thinking; dangerous, I know.

Most of us have smartphones now, and with smartphones, cameras. When we aren’t snapping photos of ourselves, we use this little camera to take picture of family, friends, silly signs, and well, just about everything. Like mushrooms growing outside my children’s gymnastic class.

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Mushrooms, growing in the most unexpected place. / Photo by KidZond.

 

I took it upon myself to follow this girls ‘Advice’ and start snapping pictures of what was around me. Found myself intrigued by the darndest things, mostly nature, and well. Flowers.

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Flowers. / Photo by KidZond.

And well, more flowers.

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Another flower. / photo by KidZond.

 

Of course there was more than flowers to take pictures of. Bugs for instance.

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Inch worm. Not inching at the moment. / Photo by KidZond.

 

And bugs making…well more bugs.

 

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Lady bug doing her thing to help the environment. / Photo by KidZond.

 

There were of course parties to attend, some of them, well…they happened while I was at work. The party-goers were still at my house when I got home.

 

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Had to be a wild party, see what happens when you go to work? / Photo by KidZond.

 

Sometimes, it was the ordinary that caught my eye. Something as simple as the remains of an orange on the kitchen table.

 

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This is not a banana, orange you glad? / Photo by KidZond.

 

Or rainbow butterflies, they exist you know, in the land of imagination.

 

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They like Milkweed too. / Photo by KidZond.

 

These are not the grandest pictures. Simple ones, a few of many I have taken over the summer. Odd things that caught my eye. Little pieces of data to fill my cloud storage and remind me of this year. This wasn’t the best year, nor the worst. It was a year of change in my household, new job, new schedules, things to try, horizons to expand.

Many years back, I used a Minolta 35mm camera to take pictures. Loved doing that. Haven’t broke down and bought a digital camera yet. Just started to play with my phone. I have no intention to get ‘serious’ about photography. I did that years ago, classes, the equipment, and the dream.

Yet the desire to capture the moment is still there. Look for the unexpected. The girl? With the phone? Now, she is an artist. She has a real eye.

I hope one day she will move beyond her phone, use that talent of an artist’s eye she has.

And I hope you do too. Selfies are fine, family and friends will capture that moment you will talk about years later. But the mundane, the simple beauty around us everyday? We should all try to capture it more. Let people see a piece of our bit of the world.

Could lead to an explosion of pictures. You know, like this one.

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Fireworks! (Not the 4th’s, but still) / Photo by KidZond.

And years from now, when your great-grandchildren look upon these digital images. They will get to know a little more of you than just family and friends. More than events and places, but of the little things that surrounded your life. Pieces of you that rarely get passed on in stories. I know mine will, and it will all be because…

There is this girl, with a phone…

 

ALL PHOTOS ARE THE PROPERTY OF KIDZOND, AND ARE COPYRIGHT 2018.  UNAUTHORIZED USE IS EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN. UNLESS I GET SOME MONEY OUT OF IT, IF SO, LET’S TALK, I AM CHEAP. IF YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO STEAL A PHOTO, OR PHOTOS, I DO HAVE PICTURES OF SPIDERS, NASTY ONES. I ALSO HAVE PICTURES OF MOTHS. I AM NOT AFRAID TO USE THE MOTH PICTURES.
BUT SERIOUSLY, COPYRIGHT 2018, KIDZOND.

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POSSIBLE ATTACK MOTH, STILL WORKING ON TRAINING. / PHOTO BY KIDZOND

 

 

Life without Glasses.

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Photo by KidZond.

 

If you wear glasses, like myself, you have to be a little happy about living in the 21st century. For one, there are so many styles to choose from. You don’t have to have glass lenses either, you can opt for lighter plastic lenses. Heck, you don’t even need to wear glasses, just use contact lenses. Or better yet, surgery to correct your vision. It’s rather nice actually living in these times.

If you have never worn glasses, never had need of them, well…you don’t know do you? Okay so you have tried them on, a friend or relatives pair. Looked around and wondered how in the blue blazes do people see out of them? Wear them long enough, you’ll get a headache. Then, you’ll probably laugh, hand them back, and think to yourself,  “Boy, glad I don’t need glasses!”

You are lucky if you don’t have to wear glasses. I am lucky because I can easily correct my flawed vision by putting my glasses on. When I don’t put them on, the world is weird to me. Blurry, distances are a little skewed. I have to hold things up close to read since I also wear bifocals. Very frustrating when I misplace my glasses.

If, for some odd reason, I lost my glasses and the ability to replace them, I would be in a pickle. I would have to go through the rest of my life struggling to adapt to my world. Having to make judgements about distances, objects, all sorts of things. I would do my best to find a substitute for my glasses, have to learn tricks to help me with my predicament. It would be frustrating, annoying beyond belief, my own personal hell.

Of course people would understand. They would know that I had lost my glasses, and that I could never attain another pair. They would have compassion and empathy to my plight.

What if they didn’t? What if they thought that glasses were a myth? Something some egghead doctor had made up? What if they had never seen or heard of glasses before? That when I explain I can’t see as far as they can, they laugh it off, or call me silly? Tell me I will grow out of it, or just to knock off being silly.

What if they don’t know, or understand, that I fear objects coming toward me because I can’t tell what exactly is approaching me. Is it a dog? or a wolf? maybe it is a bear.

People with chronic conditions know this feeling of disbelief all too well. They know people who are dismissive of conditions that are not physically apparent. As a parent of a High Functioning Autistic child, I know this feeling too.

People believe I baby my daughter too much, or make excuses for her eccentric behavior. They think it is bad parenting, or lack of discipline. They make comments that I coddle my daughter too much, or let her get away with her antics.

As always, I have a flash of anger that I struggle to control. My parental defenses fire up, and I have to watch my tongue, or else I will make the problem worse. All this, while not backing down and accepting their beratement, and doing my best to educate.

Yet, some still believe that glasses are a myth, they always will. For they are lucky, and will never have to deal with a life without glasses.

The Knot.

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Bag of hair supplies that has been my friend for the last week. / Photo by KidZond.

 

Honestly? I have not had a good summer. A perfect storm of events derailed all of my plans. It hasn’t been the end of the world. Just minor incidents that alone, mean nothing, but together added up to a summer of stagnation.

This was going to be the summer of getting things done. I was going to write and edit a book I had been working on for four years, get some needed repairs in the house, spend the summer doing things with the kids and just, well, just enjoying the summer.

I had started a new job in February that gave me four days off a week. Just so you know, I pay for it on those three days I do work. So much so, that my first day off my shift, I am basically useless. I should also stay off Facebook after my work cycle, but that is another story.

Nothing I had planned happened this summer. I wrote my book, only to find out because of the subject matter, it might not be well received. So, I shelved it and wrote another. Editing was definitely out. To edit a book, you need time, space, and above all…peace and quiet. I didn’t have peace and quiet this summer.

Instead, I had children. Ah! Wait for it! 

I have two children at home, and we watch our 5-year-old niece. This is all well and good. No real issues there. But, we have a really cool playhouse in our back yard. A beacon for all of the neighborhood kids. I would spend many days this summer watching out back as groups of kids played in my backyard. It was fun, entertaining, and gave my two, and my niece, friends to play with. So, while not a bad thing in itself, you really can’t do much when you have a backyard full of kids. Usually around 7 kids in total. All little psycho’s.

But, it killed projects. Hard to redo things in the house that requires my undivided attention and just let monsters roam your backyard. Plus, I was on band-aid duty all summer.

Books, work, and depression.

Writing is very cathartic for me. I love to write, and will get lost in it. The entertainment for me is the creative part. I wrote one book, some 120K words, only to find out that the subject matter may run afoul of the MeToo movement. It shouldn’t, but it could. Not something you want to put out for the world to take wrong. So, I shelved it and wrote another story I had floating around. But, I can’t edit right now, so both books sit collecting dust waiting for me to edit them.

Work has been a paradigm shift for me. For the last 11 years I had worked with only one partner. Now, I work with a group. The dynamics are different, and so are the multiply personalities. I am not exactly fitting in, and have questioned if this job is worth it.

Which unfortunately, has led to feeling depressed. Now luckily? I have dealt with depression before. Years ago when I was going through a horrible divorce. So, I know the signs, they symptoms, and when to seek help. Not there yet. How do I know this? Because of a knot.

The Knot.

The knot first appeared shortly after school got out. It was an annoyance that turned into a festering little animal that would not come out.

My daughter Alexis, who is 10 years old, is a High Functioning Autistic. With autism comes little complications. One of them is tactic issues. Essentially, Alexis doesn’t like her hair brushed, nor brushing it herself. It hurts. Not like it would hurt you or me (you know, if I still had my hair). But it hurts in a dramatic fashion. True physical pain.

For the knot, we sought out professional help, and the knot was gone. Only to come back with a vengeance. What was a little knot, now was a big as my fist. It was a snarled mess of tangled hair that had a life of its own. Attempts to remove it were disastrous. Seeking professional help was out, since although the hairstylist who help us before was wonderful, the pain and trauma meant utter refusal. So, we tried at various times to remove the knot, to no avail.

Unfortunately, we had to wait the knot out. Even though I came to the unfortunate conclusion, we would have to treat it like the famed Gordian Knot, and just have it cut out. Needless to say, that option was a nuclear option. Not well received at all.

Then, everything changed in the last three weeks. The knot, which Alexis had ignored, did not want touched, was suddenly asked to vacate its home. She wanted it out. We began the task of removing the knot.

With help from a good friend, and oils from a good hairstylist, we begun the task. Using a hair pick, patience, and oil. The knot that was the size of my fist is now down to about three fingers. It’s coming out, slowly, but it will be gone before school starts this Monday.

And you know what? The knot has taught me a great deal about this summer. I work on the knot for a good hour at a time, days in a row. Trust me, getting a 10-year-old to sit still for an hour is a task in its own right. The knot is not coming out in one felled swoop, but little picks, little pulls that unravel the complicated entanglement of hair. It requires breaks, different approaches, and above all, the knot requires determination.

I realized I have a tendency to micromanage my life. I like order, I want things to go my way. Most of us do, but I know I tend to go overboard. This was not this summer. Nothing went my way.

Yet, if I work at it, pick at it slowly to untangle the issues that are stymie my current situation in life, then much like the knot, it will slowly become manageable. The problems may even go away. As long as I keep picking away at them.