Leslea Tash's Blog, page 6

The American Way

I love this idea that somehow, someway, a mother with four children in school can find time in the day to produce an income.

Let’s take this week, for instance. Today is Wednesday and we’re on our second school shooting/bombing threat of the week. This has kept 3 of my 4 kids home today, and sent the baby off to school scared and paranoid. 

You know what I had planned for this week? So far, I had planned to do ONE HOUR OF EDITING, and that hour has already been rescheduled for tomorrow, to the time slot I was going to use to pack my bag for an overnight trip on Friday.

One hour of work, that I wouldn’t even be compensated for until WAY down the road, when/if the work is published and royalties are produced. Too much to ask.

I love this idea that somehow, my lifestyle of having to half-time home school an under/late-diagnosed special needs child and ferry around three other children to a bare minimum of extracurriculars is a LUXURY. 

What a LUXURY it is to be sitting here today wondering if my children’s high school is a safe place to send my first born tonight for play practice. What a LUXURY it will be tonight when my kid can’t sleep from nightmares and crawls into my bed. What a LUXURY this stress migraine is. SURE BEATS WORKING, HUH?

It was noon today before I had anything to eat.

It’s hard to remember to eat, MOST days.

The age-old argument of how I should not have spread my legs and had sex a few times if I didn’t want to complicate my life with the needs of children is bullshit, simplistic to the point of idiocy, and rude beyond measure. The idea that because my life turned out the way it did implies it is LUXURIOUS is so damn ignorant.Both ideas are some real high-caliber sexism and I fervently hope I can gird my children’s futures against this sort of struggle. Experience is the best teacher, though, sadly. I hope they have the LUXURY of growing up in one piece, unharmed and well-loved. Not all children have that LUXURY in this country.

My lifestyle is part & parcel of the American Way. No matter what we have always thought of ourselves, no matter what we have been taught, we are a nation of chaos. We are all struggling, but not even struggling together. We are drowning side-by-side, envious fools who think other drowners have it better off.

I hope you enjoyed this blog post. It was such a luxury to write. 

I’m angry and this is obviously a vent. I posted more reasonable, parental-type stuff on my FB profile about the school security stuff. Vent in semi-private, espouse ideals in public.

That, too, is the American Way.

A big happy family

How many people have dreamed of one day having a big, happy family? I feel like everyone I grew up with had that as a goal. A loving spouse, adorable children, 2.5 dogs, the whole shebang. Not once did I hear a child on the playground say, “Someday I want to grow up to be a bachelor,” or “I hope to be a lonely spinster when I’m old.”

In my 20s, back in the WAY BACK (aka 1990s), I made a few jokes about ending up a cat woman. I had a couple of cats. They were my everything. I had photos of them all around. I made them their own webpage on Geocities. I wore cat jewelry. They weren’t enough, though. I needed someone to love me back. A human being to love me back.

I know that in my own case, my need for someone to love me back was caused by childhood stuff. In my ignorance and desperation to fill that gap, I often gravitated to people who needed me. I thought being needed was the same as being loved. 

Sometimes I thought that being flattered was the same as being loved. If someone adored me for my looks, my brains, my ambition, whatever, then maybe they could be my ride or die. Looking back, it wasn’t that hard, really, to get into my life. Not for a long, long time. Not until my life filled up, roster complete.

Sometimes I’m overwhelmed. I should say, sometimes I am NOT overwhelmed, because the truth is, I am overwhelmed more often than not. The terrain of my path is pure anxiety. The air is thin up here, in the so-many-loves heights. I have to look down, scoop them up, help them, listen, be there. 

I’m not sure when I realized that I was never going to have someone love me back and actually take care of ME. I think it was about ten years ago.

Then, someone like that DID come into my life, after the dream of such a thing had been bitterly relinquished. Good times. Man, I lucked out.

But despite all the love I give and get–and it is good–I have to chuckle sometimes when I look outside at my cats, and think to myself…”Wouldn’t it be nice to have one day, just me and my cats, alone?” I fantasize about drinking tea on the porch while one purrs in my lap. Way back in the WAY BACK, that felt like purgatory. So close to heaven, but so far.

The air is thin up here, but I at least still have cats. And ALL the hugs and kisses a woman could ever want. It’s all good. It’s just funny to me how perspectives change.

Oscar the Grouch is autistic

Don’t start with me about Julia. I’m not a frequent viewer of The Street anymore, so I’m not up to date with all the latest jazz. She may be a terrific kid…but she’s not very much like the kid whose ASD touches my life, from what I’ve seen.

Nope, today while I was once again scrubbing out the Corkicles (btw, do you pronounce it Cork-ick-el? I do. So should you.), I was thinking about how Oscar the Grouch is so completely misunderstood by viewers of the show. 

The other denizens of Sesame Street know what he’s like. They know how he is. They even know if they’re going to set him off. Although interactions with him can be difficult, the bottom line is, Oscar is consistent. He exists on the Grouch Continuum, you know? His reality is the Grouch Reality. If you don’t get it, that’s fine–just LEAVE HIM ALONE, you know?

I saw someone claim that Bert is on the spectrum. Maybe he is, but he’s a lighter shade than Oscar. Bert is way more socially adept. You see the softer side of Bert alllllll the time, whether it is the bedroom vignettes with Ernie, or the soft cooing to his favorite pigeon. (I swear I haven’t watched this show in years, but this is how I’m remembering it. Am I close?) Oscar, not so much. He is kind to Slimy, but his biting sense of humor and ongoing sarcastic self-defense mechanisms REALLY remind me of someone I love. 

It’s probably one of my deepest fears that this person I love will end up in society’s trash bin, rejected and regarded as an insult. “Don’t be such a Grouch!” The thing is, Grouches are okay. They really are. They are allowed to be WHO and WHAT they are, as long as they don’t hurt anyone else, right? 

And if we’re talking about feelings and societal interactions, isn’t it possible to meet a grouch half-way? Maria has been doing it for YEARS in her neighborhood. You’ll never convince me that a little of Oscar’s cantankerousness hasn’t rubbed off on her for the better. You ever met someone with a backbone as strong as a Grouch’s?

Think of what you could learn from having someone like that in your life. When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why people tolerated Oscar. Now, I get it. I so get it.

When you are the family villain

I was laboriously hand-cleaning the Corkickles (these things are SO not worth the effort–seriously considering pitching them), thinking about a friend’s familial dysfunction, when a memory popped into my mind.

Perhaps because I’m attempting to facilitate my oldest son’s attendance at senior year school events involving food, the memory makes total sense. See what you think:

Sam was little–too little, still, to be expected to understand that peanuts, tree nuts, peanut butter, etc could be on shared toys with kids who aren’t allergic. We were at my mom’s house, and Sam was playing with his brothers and second cousin(s?) with the assortment of grandchildren-friendly toys my mother had assembled in her garage. Balls, tricycles, hands-on stuff.

My niece’s little boy was eating a granola bar and playing with toys. Totally normal little-boy activity. Totally understandable mom strategy (eat while you play, just eat!). I don’t remember if I asked my niece directly, checked with my mom, or just dug the wrapper out of the trash, but I realized that the granola bar my niece’s son was eating had nuts in it.

Like I said, Sam was too little to understand all this, so it was on me to make sure the shared toys were safe from any residue that could start an anaphylactic reaction and kill him.

I wasn’t mad. Who could be mad at this situation? I just did what I needed to do. This wasn’t my first rodeo and I’d been cleaning the public playgrounds for years with my handy stash of Clorox wipes, so it was no biggie to me. Perhaps I was disappointed–it’s never been a joy to do this stuff. But I definitely didn’t take it personally.

My niece started crying. I remember asking my mom if she thought my niece was okay. I said that I thought it was related to the granola bar situation and that I didn’t know what to do. 

Obviously, I wasn’t trying to offend her, just take care of my kiddo. My niece was/is a mother AND an elementary school teacher. I know from first-hand experience there are nut-free classrooms in her school system, because it is the same school system my own kids attend.

My mom shrugged. “She has issues with women. You know [former sister-in-law’s name] really messed her up.” 

I’ll never forget that, because I had never considered that I had any negative association in my niece’s life.  I have always loved my niece and looked forward to spending time with her. I still treasure memories of our conversations–especially the one where she looked at me like I was crazy for saying I was going to college to be a teacher. (And now SHE is one of “the bad guys”!)

Once, she invited me to chaperone her elementary school field trip to IU Bloomington, and I jumped at the chance. Good times. 

I thought.

But come to think of it, maybe I wasn’t there for her as much as she needed someone, and some of that hurt her mom caused got lumped onto me. I don’t know. The lady who my beloved niece grew up into doesn’t talk to me now. The last time I saw her at the mall with her kids, she ignored me and walked past like I was a stranger. I didn’t say anything. I don’t want to upset someone who’s clearly upset with me, you know? Especially when I’m juggling babies of my own, which, at the time, I was. (So that was a few years ago, now…4? 5?)

Anyway.

Today I’m dealing with food allergy stuff, but it won’t be long before Sam has to do all of this 100% on his own. I hope he meets a partner someday who gets that it’s a medical thing, not personal. I hope their extended family “get it.” I hope he’s never put in the position by loved ones of being the villain. 

I’ve yet to encounter a family narrative that doesn’t in some way cast close, beloved relatives as bad guys and good guys. Some families are more forgiving than others, but this seems like a universal occurrence.

It is obvious to me NOW that at some point in that little girl’s life, I was cast as a bad guy. I don’t believe I deserved that. I loved her very much. It certainly never occurred to me that I might deserve it.

However, just as her mother was cast as the bad guy in my mom’s oversimplification of my niece’s inner workings, I’m sure I was mistrusted for some very good intention. Not because I did anything wrong, but because someone wanted to protect my niece from anyone who might hurt her. Maybe it was my mother. Maybe it was my brother. Maybe it was my niece, herself. 

MAYBE I did some kind of remarkably asshole thing and I just DON’T get it and I never will. That doesn’t feel right, though. 

If it is, though…then at least she’s safe from me. And good for her, because…you know. I love you, J. And I’d never want to hurt you.

I guess that means I have to forgive whoever did this to us. It’s too bad, really. I’m sure they meant well.

r/EarthPorn - The Milky Way soaring high above Cascade Mountain in the Adirondacks, NY as captured...

r/EarthPorn - The Milky Way soaring high above Cascade Mountain in the Adirondacks, NY as captured in this 8 image tracked pano [OC][1441 ×

Hi, Dad

It’s a beautiful day out there, Dad. Really, terribly cold–like, 10 degrees for a high kinda cold, but pretty, nonetheless.

I slept through the event this morning. Not that it was eventful here, but, you know…the anniversary of your death. I got up, got ¾ of the kids ready for school, then my eyes closed on me and I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I wasn’t consciously thinking about you–if anything, I was thinking about S.Bob. You’d like him so much. He’s so much like you. He’s really trying to get through life and it’s so frustrating for him. I wonder if you would relate.

The fourth kid out the door this morning is the eighth grader. That’s the grade I was in when you died in front of my eyes in the morning before school. He slipped out the door today with a short & sweet goodbye, probably thinking about his wrestling match tonight. He’s a star, Dad. These kids are all four amazingly different and beautiful stars. I’m SO glad I get to spend each day with them.

I’m 46 now. I was thinking about how you were 45 when I was born. About how you’d raised three children (the youngest of the three being about the age Sam is now when you married Mom). My oldest son has much in common with your youngest son, I believe. Big, sweet hearts.

At any rate, I think about how tired Tim and I are. (You would love him.) I think about all you went through before I came into your life, and how we only knew each other a short, few years before our time together was ended. Did I get the best years of your life? What counts as best? And what does it really matter what *I* got? What did you get? Did you enjoy those last 14 years of your life for having me in them?

I look at my daughter, my sweet, unexpected, younger-than-the-rest daughter and I can’t help but think of you and me. She cuddles, she snuggles, she loves to ride along. Tim doesn’t put her in an old rusty Chevy and drive her to the county dump on a weekly basis, but he plays video games with her. (Man, you would LOVE what computers can do now. Honestly, you’d dig it the most.) 

I realize that you didn’t have the best marriages, and that took away a great deal from what you were able to give your four children and two bonus children. You loved us, BUT. You were always fighting to survive something. How tiring. I did that in a previous marriage. It was too much. I chose my kids over my marriage and I’ll never regret it, although it tore me in half to do so, Dad. Fuck my expectations and fuck my ego, they needed me and I chose them, PERIOD.

Anyway, before I digress too far, I want to say that I see you and me in Tim and GiGi. The way our relationship might have been if you hadn’t had so much to fight about, to drink away. Tim and I adore each other. How we lucked into this situation, only God knows, but I can look at him every single day and say, “I am in love with you,” and mean it. Did you know that love like that could last through eight or nine years of marriage, Dad? Did you ever have that? I think you loved your children deeply, so you probably had an idea. Dysfunction, though. It’s rampant and it wasn’t your fault.

It’s tempting to say something like, maybe my heart was only ready to love this deeply because of all the losses and all the pain. Because of the previous divorces, because of mom’s abuse, because of losing you. I think that’s magical thinking. Losing someone we love CAN teach us compassion, but I’ve observed first & second-hand enough people who should have grieved their way to Mother Theresa status by now…instead they become encapsulated in that natural shell of bitterness that tries to creep in after a particularly stinging loss.

I’m an old shit with a little bit of wisdom, now, Dad, so I can tell you (you’re only 13 years older than me now, how about that?), we all face that bitterness. It’s like wrestling with a grizzly bear made of tree bark. It’s crusty, it hurts, it’s powerful, and it’s a creation of this natural world just like we are, but we DON’T have to lose. It’s not a short fight, Dad, and I think you knew that. I think you were infinitely human in the way you self-medicated through your own wrestling match with the TreeBear. I wish I’d known you longer. I wish I’d known you as an adult.

As a mother, I can see that you were responsible, loving, flawed, broken, funny, stressed out, proud…as your daughter, the way I’ve seen you has evolved these past 46 years, though you have only lived in memory for the past 32. I can’t honestly even say if we’d have gotten along through my adulthood. You were salty AF at times, you know? And I’m no slouch.

You were alive, and I loved you, and now you’re gone, and I love you. And I will always love you. And everything is okay.

Blogging about blogging

I got my start as a professional writer by blogging. I wrote every day for hours per day, for the pure joy of it. I engaged with my audience. It was a truly satisfying experience, for YEARS.

Eventually, I began to feel confident that I could transfer that dedication to daily amateur writing into professional writing. I started slowly, with one or two freelance assignments per month. Over time, I became a full-time writer, producing journalism, PR, and ad copy for a variety of clients each month, while continuing personal blogging on the side. 

Next, I leapt from personal blogging to professional opinion writing and fiction on the side. From there, due to life changes, back into the world of full-time business stuff with fiction on the side. In and out and in and out and in and out…

You know what happened next: full-time mom stuff with fiction on the side. The fiction writing career became a bit of an obsession. It was a way to cope with the stress of being a homeschooling mom of four with a new baby. It was a release valve from the pressures of being a caregiver to two dying people. It was an outlet for the stress of chronic illness, divorce, in-laws, outlaws, politics, feminism, anything, everything, really.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: novels require a tremendous amount of work, and novelists are gamblers. I gambled a lot on my work. I made some money, but I purposefully chose to connect with readers in a different way by doing so. I climbed up onto a stage and picked up a microphone. That’s a much different way to converse with someone than sitting next to them at a table.

A blog readership is like a very big table, really. A novelist’s reach is toward a different kind of audience. It’s soloing at Carnegie Hall…it’s open mic night at the local cafe. It’s a lot of give, give, give. In many cases, you don’t even want feedback. You just want to shout or sing or dance, then walk away. PERFORM!

Blogging has changed since the early 00s, but the process behind it hasn’t–not for me. You sit down, you open a vein, it pours out. (Apologies to Hemingway.) You read back through it once, you add a photo, you hit “post.” Poof, done. Answer comments later, make friends, give eprops and smileys, feel good…occasionally get pissed off.

The cost of giving away all that blood for free is that it attracts the vampires. I know people want to call it trolling, but trolls aren’t by virtue unkind. Trust me. Vampires, on the other hand, MUST feed on your blood. 

Publishing fiction has a way of insulating you personally against the internet vampires. Sure, they’re out there, but you don’t HAVE to be their lunch. You can ignore them. If you ignore them, though, that means you also miss out on the friendly feedback.

But maybe everyone misses out on that, these days. The internet has changed how we read, tremendously. Short and sweet is the new black, and it doesn’t pair well with a woman’s need to think things through via the page. 

At the same time, producing a quantifiable piece of reading material that you put up for sale attaches an actual financial value to the work that has feelings of transference for the writer. It’s unavoidable. If I’m selling and you’re not buying, then…

Why not just blog? It’s easier. It flows.

I know a lot of folks in this day and age are leaving blogging completely behind, but I can’t help but feel that perhaps for me, for the time being, in this age of uncertainty and full-time mom-stuff, blogging might be just the thing.

Maybe I can squeeze in an hour of writing here and there, and maybe…it could be on the blog. Maybe it *should* be on the blog. Maybe not even a specialized blog like Allergy News was, or anything like that. Maybe…it’s more personal than that. Maybe it’s not so commercial. Maybe it’s time to put some time into thinking aloud, online, just for the experience of writing.

Maybe I can manage that once in awhile.

afriendlyghoul:The December mood:

afriendlyghoul:

The December mood:

cutefrosting:tilthat:TIL that many early texts described Jesus as “ugly and small”. He is...

cutefrosting:

tilthat:

TIL that many early texts described Jesus as “ugly and small”. He is estimated to have been four feet, six inches tall.

via reddit.com

headcanon: jesus looked and sounded exactly like danny devito

Christmastime is here

It happens to everyone this time of year. 

The skies turn grey. The volume on family/friend stuff turns up. Lights, sparkle, action…for someone. Not for me. Right?

HEY, we all feel that way. There is something about the holidays that leaves every individual in our culture feeling on the outside of it all. 

It’s just an emotion. It’s just a feeling. It’s just a part of the rhythm of the season. Cue up the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack…

It’s not forever, and more than likely, it’s not strictly true. Charlie Brown just *felt* left out of the holiday brouhaha. Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey just *felt* like he was worth more dead than alive. Even old man Scrooge got a family party invitation, and then tons of uninvited guests on Christmas Eve (between the charity folks and the ghosts, it’s like a half dozen, right?)! 

That last ghost of Scrooge’s is more than a guest, though. It’s a constant this time of year. Winter can be so very, very cold. Winter is the season of death, but not just death…of rebirth. Perhaps our southern hemisphere friends also feel a sense of FOMO this time of year, I don’t know…but up here in the land of the ice and snow where the yule logs glow, it’s a rite of passage to survive the Long Night, where the White Walkers roam. It’s the only way to make it to the springtime, where hope blooms eternal.

If you’re reading this, please know I’m with you. I count my blessings, and the seasonal rhythm of Christmas gets me, too. It will pass. There will be joy, and there will be joy SOON. I raise my glass to you.

Merry Christmas.