Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 105
June 1, 2012
Fiction Friday: Rage
Last week I introduced you to Patrick. He’s one of the major characters in my WIP, but the book is in another person’s point of view. So when Red Writing Hood assigned us to write from the vantage point of another gender, I decided to work out his troubled history from the inside. Patrick is a kid from the bad side of town who adores Kitty, a childhood friend. He finally asks her to Prom, but just when things are heating up between them, he receives a cryptic text message telling him to get to the ER because his sister Gracie had an accident. And now…
*
English: Ignition of a cigarette lighter. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When Patrick was eight years old, he loved standing on the pedestrian bridge over the interstate while cars rushed past. He imagined himself in each car, envisioning distant places where nobody came home smeared with the contents of someone else’s plugged drain.
Tonight, at the edge of the dance floor, he felt the same sickening sense of vertigo –the fear that something wonderful had missed him by a hair, so close he could feel the wind of its passing. Fear that crystallized when he saw Joel Summerhill dancing with Kitty.
Two hours he’d spent, looking for his family at the ER, screaming at nurses who wouldn’t tell him anything. Finally he had the sense to call home and find out the whole thing was a prank. Gracie was safe in bed, right where she should be.
Fury sent out fingers, testing for weaknesses in the shell of his composure. Beside him, a pair of Don Juans leaned on each other’s shoulders like a twisted J. Crew ad, laughing. “Tough break, man,” one of them said. “I can’t believe you fell for that text. I told Joel you wouldn’t. You cost me twenty bucks, man.” He slapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Oh well. Better luck next time. Here, have some booze.”
The flask, cool against his palm, highlighted the heat building beneath the surface. Whatever happened, he was not going to lose it in here. He was not going to embarrass Kitty by pounding that smug half-smile off Joel’s spa-treated face. No matter how badly he wanted to.
Next thing he knew, he was standing in the cool night air beside Joel’s tricked-out Beamer. His rage focused to a point. He poured a strip of vodka up the midline of the car and pulled out a lighter. In the light of the dancing flame, he smiled.
7 Quick Takes
I’ve missed the last couple of weeks–in an effort to keep myself more in the moment by not overloading myself (i.e. two posts on Fridays), I’ve held off and only done the fiction prompts. But here I am again. I like these posts–they give me a chance to record things that are going on, but fall outside the usual scope.
___1___
First of all, an apology to my regulars. Apparently yesterday morning when I finished my post, I hit “save” instead of “publish.” At about 2:30 yesterday afternoon my husband informed me I had not posted a blog. So if you missed it, yesterday was all about bonding with babies. Go check it out. Now, back to regular programming.
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Since my last QTs, Julianna has acquired an iPad. Yes. My 5 year old. She’s been using one at school this year, and we were amazed at how much more she’s attempted to speak because of it. So we went through the process of asking our local support services to get one for her. We are very fortunate that in our county there is a tax-supported organization that provides financial assistance and physical support items to people with disabilities. They’ve provided her with shoes, Signing Times videos, “respite” care, as well as paying for adaptive gymnastics. Not many counties have this good a program in place, so we feel really blessed.
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Yesterday she had an appointment with an orthotist, and we discovered we’re about to head into a high-maintenance period of time with her phyical care again. Her feet turn out so far when she walks that she nearly walks on the side of her feet, and the last shoe insert that was recommended to us is more flexible. So now she’s “overwhelmed” it and her calf muscles are so tight that she physically cannot bend her foot enough to walk with straight feet. We’re looking at a good chance of Botox injections and a few months’ hard-core PT before she can be fit with braces again. Joy of joys, it also happens to coincide with her change of school. We’re leaving our entire team of intimate, hands-on preschool and headed to the too-many-kids-in-a-classroom of kindergarten. I guess I really am charged with being my daughter’s advocate.
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My new octavo from WLP is available now: Rise Up Singing. It’s been a crazy spring, with lots of music edits on this and other projects (several more forthcoming in the next 18 months), but fun! I don’t do enough music writing anymore, and it’s something I want to get back to. Somehow I feel like me when I’m putting illegible scrawls on a staff. 
___5___
Speaking of publishing, I have a story in the new Chicken Soup for the Soul: Brides book. It’s my engagement story. It’s a good one.
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I recently joined Goodreads, and I have to say I’m having a lot of fun leaving frank reviews of everything I read. I’ve often wanted to share my thoughts on books here, but it doesn’t quite fit the theme I’m going for, so I like having the outlet there. I’m not doing nearly what the gurus say I should be doing with Goodreads, but hey. I’m getting started. If you’ve read either of my books and you have a Goodreads account, would you leave a review?
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May 31, 2012
The Ties That Bind
During my first pregnancy, I was a voracious reader of all things baby-related. So I knew going into the birth experience that not everyone falls head over heels for their baby at first sight. Sometimes, the collective wisdom of the experts warned, bonding takes time.
By the time Alex finally made his appearance, after almost a week of agonizing over whether or not to induce, the induction and sixteen-hour labor that ended in a surgical suite with a child the size of a two-month-old, I was too exhausted to think about whether it was love at first sight. But in the middle of the second night, as I sat in a cramped corner nursing, my milk-drunk firstborn opened his eyes and gave me a look I’d seen many times on his father’s face, and my heart snagged. Bonding: done.
The second time around, the sucker-punch of a Trisomy 21 diagnosis set all other concerns to zero. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep it together; I was too numb to feel–until I was shocked out of it by an occurrence I have chosen not to share publicly. In the gut-deep explosion of outrage, I first touched the flame of love for my daughter.
By the time the third birth came around, I was well acquainted with the truth that love isn’t about feelings at all, no matter what the songs say. Love is a series of choices we make even and perhaps especially when we don’t feel like it. The transition from two to three was tough, and bonding took proportionally longer.
And then came #4. The unexpected contractions, the interruption of plans, the early delivery, the related concerns about whether his lungs were going to be strong enough. It was the first C-section in which I paid no attention to the action beyond the blue drape. I was focused so intently on the drama unfolding beneath the warming lights. “I think we need to put him in special care,” said the nurse.
She wrapped him in blankets and set him on my collarbone for a few brief seconds–no more than twenty, and perhaps only ten. I inhaled a scent wholly unknown and yet somehow familiar. “Michael,” I breathed, and my lips brushed his cheek. The sensation shot inward so fast, I didn’t even recognize it had happened until days later, days in which I was scolded for stroking his leg with one finger and I spent more time in contact with a breast pump than I did with my baby.
He’s six months old now, and turning circles on his belly beside me following a very long night post-immunizations. He was perfectly happy, he just didn’t feel like sleeping. We spent some quality time on the couch staring in each other’s eyes and smiling last night. I wanted to be ticked off at him, but I couldn’t help myself. Those eyes, starred with the faint gleam from the front window, did me in as they do almost every time he looks at me.
Call it personal growth, learning to live in the moment. Call it awareness that it’s likely the last time. Credit it to being a more “mature mom.” Call it what you want. The fact is, I’m a sucker for this baby, his wiggles, his belly laughs, and his eyes, oh those starry eyes–a sucker in a way I haven’t been since Alex was an infant. I adore all my children, and no doubt Michael will try my patience as a toddler and preschooler just as each of his older siblings has and does in turn. But in the meantime, I revel in a bond so strong, it wakes me up every night three minutes before he starts fussing to nurse. May God give me the grace to hold him close to my heart, and let him go when his time comes to fly.
May 30, 2012
A Special Parent
Not long ago Jen, a friend and fellow blogger, sent out a request for guest bloggers to talk about what it’s like being a “special needs parent.” She has started a blog to raise money for Brett, a little boy with cerebral palsy who is waiting to be adopted through Reece’s Rainbow.
I jumped on this chance, and found it to be a good opportunity to process some of the “big picture” things I don’t normally take time to share here. Please click through to read my thoughts on parenting a child with special needs.
May 29, 2012
Organizing Summer Break
Photo by ‘smil, via Flickr
Summer break begins officially today. It feels like a watershed summer; in the fall Julianna starts kindergarten, and Nicholas starts preschool. When we contemplated the fourth child, I knew life would get more and more chaotic till the day three of them went to school, and then everything would ease off (at least during the day). Until then, I ought to take advantage of having them around.
Well, we’re there. From this vantage point, the days and weeks stretch into the distance–plenty of time for everything I’d like to do with them–but I know the next 11 weeks are going to race by. If I don’t go in with a plan, I’ll come to the end and be frustrated that I wasted the time I had.
Plans are made to be adjusted (and sometimes abandoned), but if you don’t make one, you spin your wheels. So here’s our plan for the summer:
1. Daily chores. We did this last year and it was good for the family. Chore time will be from 8-9 a.m. this year. The kids will work with me for one hour, or until the assigned task is done, whichever is shorter.
2. Late afternoon “chore” for Alex: piano practice at least 4 times a week.
3. Weekly field trip. Some will be local and low-key, others will be full-day undertakings. I’ve been compiling a list for months. The first week is already trying to sabotage me but I am determined to prevail!
4. Personal growth goals. Because I think every measurable season (Advent, Lent, summer break) offers a great opportunity to make oneself a better person. Example:
a) Begin a family gratitude journal. This is mostly for the sake of trying to get Alex to look at life from a glass-half-full standpoint–as we learned this weekend, he doesn’t even remember the good stuff, let alone allow it to offset the bad–but it will be an excellent exercise for me as well, and I might as well indoctrinate Nicholas before he follows big brother’s example. 
b) Nicholas will learn to do his “morning chores” by himself. i.e. he will pick his clothes, put them on, and brush his teeth without help.
c) Julianna: ditto. Only I doubt she’ll get all the way there. And we will work with her Sono/Flex on the iPad every day, in the hopes that by the time kindergarten starts in the fall, she’ll be talking semi-regularly, with semi-intelligibility.
There you have it: our family’s summer goals. (Notice I didn’t set any writing goals. I am learning to live in the moment and not let my own concerns overwhelm family life. )
Now it’s your turn: How do you organize summer break?
May 28, 2012
Many Gifts, One Body: a first grade lesson
Photo by gem66, via Flickr
Alex didn’t have a good last day of school. Silly school, they thought all the kids would enjoy a non-uniform day filled with nothing but outdoor games. (Well. And Mass. Can’t begin or end a school year without that.)
Alex thought he was going to enjoy it too, until he fell down in a three-legged race. After that, his teacher said, he, ahem, “didn’t seem to enjoy himself too much.” (She’s so unfailingly kind. I could never be a first grade teacher.)
By the time I picked him up, thunderclouds were swirling around his forehead, and there they stayed most of the rest of the day. Periodically he would burst out with, “I just didn’t have any FUN! I feel USELESS!” I left the baby in the merciless clutches of the middle two for almost ten minutes while I snuggled with Alex and tried to talk him out of it, but he would have none of it. People were mean to him because he wasn’t good at the games, and he just wanted to have a normal school day for the last day, because it’s more fun!
(Note: when we saw his teacher at church yesterday, she filled in a pretty big gap in Alex’s story. Namely, his classmates were giving him hugs and trying to make him feel better. Clearly we have some work to be done on ATTITUDE shaping MEMORY.)
The subject kept popping up all weekend, so my ears perked up during the Liturgy of the Word yesterday; the Pentecost epistle seemed tailor-made for this situation. And the next time he brought it up, I was ready. “You know, Alex,” I said as I was kneading bread on a Sunday afternoon, “we are not a family of athletes.”
He looked puzzled.
“If you tried to throw me a baseball, I couldn’t catch it.”
His eyes got wide. “You mean, never?”
“Pretty much. We’re just not good at sports. But we are good at music, and art, and puzzles. We’re smart people. Do you remember what the reading this morning said?”
He did not, of course. He probably didn’t even hear it, he was so distracted by acting as Michael’s self-appointed entertainment during church. So I pulled out my study edition of the Lectionary.
“There are different kinds of spiritual gifts but the same Spirit;
there are different forms of service but the same Lord;
there are different workings but the same God
who produces all of them in everyone.”
(I Cor. 12:4-6)
“Do you understand?” I said. “God gives everyone different gifts. You may not be as good as other people at sports games, but you’re a whole lot better at other things.”
He didn’t say much, and I let it go. I’m a realist. I know this mini-lesson is not going to neutralize the pain of feeling less-than. But it’s a seed planted against a bright future. Only the Spirit can make it grow.
May 26, 2012
Sunday Snippets
It’s the weekend again, and time for a roundup of Catholic bloggers over at RAnn’s This, That and the Other thing.
I missed you all last week! I’ve been realizing that I’m running myself ragged trying to do it all, so when last weekend got busy, I made the choice to stay offline and give myself a rest. So I’m sharing for two weeks today (but I won’t inflict the whole works on you…only selections). Ergo:
The above decision was influenced by the realization that This Moment Is All I Have.
My Mothers Day post generated a lot of comments. And I hit the big time this week when Lenore Skenazy tweeted my post “Parents need the freedom to make their own judgment calls.” Too bad the bump was only for the day.
I talked about my chatterbox (whew…is he ever), and shared photos of Michael’s first meal.
Finally, since people have asked in the past, here are two fiction selections: one and two.
Hope your Memorial Day weekend is refreshing and un-busy! Not like ours. :/
May 25, 2012
Fiction Friday: A Falling Leaf
Explore : February 9, 2008 (#41) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The moment Patrick opened the door, heat punched him in the chest, so heavy with moisture he had to lean on the car to withstand it. A few yards away, grapevines shimmered in the bright sunlight as they marched like stiff toy soldiers toward blue-shrouded heights.
“Germans,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Well, those rows were the reason he was here. He struggled forward through liquid air and fingered a leaf edged with brown, tested the weight of a clump of grapes. Very different from those he knew from home, the ones whose contours and colors he knew better than his own face.
And this was supposed to be his big chance?
Whenever God closes a door, He opens a window, his mother’s voice whispered.
Yeah, right. If God was anywhere in his life, he sure was hiding pretty well.
He retreated to the shade of a line of trees grown wild and unkempt along the property line. The smell of half-dry leaves rose to meet him as he sat and rested against rough bark. Behind his eyelids floated a vision of green eyes that saw right to the core of his being. Don’t lose faith now, they seemed to say.
Fine. Patrick turned his hands upward. “If you’re there, prove it,” he said defiantly.
For a moment, all was still. Then a breeze whispered, rose, passing from one treetop to the next. A rain of gold fell all around him, and a single yellow leaf came to rest on his palm.
May 24, 2012
Bittersweet…till he brings me back to reality
In six days, Michael will be six months old. You know what that means: it’s time for the first meal.
I was determined to make it all the way to six months on breast alone this time, but like his brothers, he had other ideas. Ideas that involve wailing if left on the floor during a meal, lunging for wine goblets, pulling Mommy’s plate toward him, and grabbing my hand and when he saw a cookie in it and trying to get it in his mouth. (Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, he was much more insistent about that one than the others.) It’s bittersweet, passing this milestone this time. And I am really not looking forward to the pain in the neck that is having to prepare and feed and carry food with us wherever we go. Sigh.
But his godparents were in town this weekend, so we let them do the honors. I think I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves today.
Mmmm, sweet potato. Doesn’t that just look so appetizing?
So sweet, my soon-to-be-sweet-potato boy.
Are you ready for this, baby boy?
I do it myself! Or, um. Something like that.
And perhaps that last picture gives you the idea that all is not bliss in the era of new solid-food-eater. All the other kids have done quite nicely learning to, I don’t know, SWALLOW. Not this one. He pretty much lets it all come sliding back out the front, nicely juiced up with saliva. For the first three days I’m not at all sure he actually ate anything. On day four, I saw him eat the last three bites. On day five, I learned that I have to put a finger on his chin and close his mouth on the food, and then he’ll actually swallow. Sometimes.
Good thing I’m wanting to take it slow anyway.
May 23, 2012
Parents need the freedom to make their own judgment calls
Chain Handcuffs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It began with my sister’s Facebook status: at the Steak & Shake where they were eating, a man was being arrested after leaving his baby sleeping in the car while the family, including grandparents, came inside to eat. I only had the sketchiest of details, so I tried hard not to get too worked up. I held my peace.
Last Friday, as we pulled into the field where we were meeting my parents for lunch, I realized Michael had fallen asleep. I knew if I pulled the car seat out he’d wake up. It was about 70 degrees outside, so I opened both sliding doors on the van and let the breeze blow through over him while we set up the picnic.
Seeing Michael in the car, my dad brought up the Steak & Shake incident. It turns out he saw the whole thing. The family had left the baby, who like Michael was around or under six months old (i.e. very distractable and hard to nap), in the car with the windows open. They were constantly turning their heads to keep an eye on things. An employee told my dad the family comes in every week, and when the baby was absent that day the manager asked them about it. And then promptly called the police. By the time it was over, the discussion was whether all the kids would be taken away.
“There’s plenty of blame to go around,” Dad said. “I don’t think the family was right to leave the baby in the car. But the manager could have handled it much better. He could have gone to the family and said, ‘If you don’t bring the baby in, I will call the police.’”
My reaction to this whole scenario is gut-deep and powerful. But first, I need to be clear: I think the family’s judgment call was bad. If your child really needs a nap and can’t get it in a restaurant, don’t go to the restaurant. You’re the grownup; you have to place your children’s needs ahead of your desires. You can’t have everything. If you really think you have to have it all, go someplace like Culver’s where you can eat outside next to the vehicle.
Nonetheless, this whole story frightens me far more than any overstated danger of abduction, or of my child falling down stairs or getting into the cleaning supplies. Why?
Maybe it’s because I’m a fiction writer, but I can think of several realistic back stories that make these parents’ choice understandable. And nobody else but the parent knows that back story. Nobody else can make that judgment call. Parenting is hard enough without complete strangers calling the cops on you.
No, our judgment calls will not always be right. Every parent–every one–routinely makes choices s/he regrets. Here’s one of my big ones. Does that mean I should lose my children? What about the daily judgment calls that are mine to make as a parent? Should DFS swoop down on me because when my son turned five, I started letting him play with friends down the street without an adult outside? Because I occasionally let a baby sleep on my bed, when other situations aren’t available? Because we use a seat with a 3-point harness instead of a 5?
Every child, and every situation, is unique. You cannot make one-size-fits-all judgments, because they don’t allow for the specific circumstances of a given situation. Yes, there is a time and place when society must step in, but from my limited vantage point in this story, all society did was scar a family, frighten the children and tie the hands of parents, who will never again feel that they have the authority to parent their children.
A bad deal all the way around.
