Uncle Gene's Birthday

April 21, 2007: Aunt Marlene asked Uncle Gene if he wanted anything for his birthday (as she does with her JW relatives every year), and he said, "Yeah! I want a birthday cake!" So, after Yovela's shower was over, Aunt Marlene pulled out a sugar-free Angel Food Cake topped with strawberries for Uncle Gene. We heathens stood around, sang "Happy Birthday" at the top of our lungs, and Uncle Gene blew out the candles for the first time in a LONG time. Way to go, Uncle Gene!

62 candles wouldn't fit on the cake - even if the Elma Fire Department would allow it!

It appears that the "sitting at the bar" tradition starts quite young in our family...Devon is 4!

Michael said...
And he huffed, and he puffed, and his dentures flew out and hit the cake...

Fambly

Uncle Ben

Aunt Dennie (with Xzavier, Doreen's youngest)

Xena

Yovela (Very pregnant with daughter, Suraya)

Zahlia

(Photos taken 4/21/07 at Yovela's Shower)

Easter Sunday

A new family tradition.

The Artiste at work.

Michael said...
Bravo!

Mimicking

Sometimes I feel like I have to remind my son that he is a little white boy from the suburbs.

(Photo taken 3/26/07)

Michael said...
I used to say the same thing to Eric: "Boy, what color are you?"

Paul and Anne

My parents, Paul and Anne, on February 9, 1957.

Phi Theta Kappa

I was invited to join Phi Theta Kappa. I'd never heard of it, so I called Ma, who immediately said, "Congratulations! That's wonderful!" At first opportunity, I checked it out on the web.

http://www.ptk.org/about/today.htm

Wow. Them 4.0's mebbe payin' off.

JT said...
and they said bein smart wasn't cool! lol

Quote of the Month

"Mommy, will you count with me to infinity?"

Oh, yea.

At 3/31/2007 9:55 PM, Michael said…

Why of course, dear! After all, I have nothing else to do...

JT said...
Sure, if you can do my Limits Proofs in Calc..

Quote of the Day

"Mommy, I'm real good at hockey when nobody is playing against me."

At 3/05/2007 8:52 PM, Michael said…
Oh, if only that worked in "real life!"

Hey! I'm great at writing essays when nobody is correcting them!

Wind Chill

The formula for calculating windchill:

C=35.74 + 0.6215t – 35.74 v(4/25) + 0.4275tv(4/25) (the fraction 4/25 is the power of v; this blog won't allow me to write it as a superscript) where C is the windchill in degrees Fahrenheit, t is the air temperature in degrees Fahrenheit, and v is the wind speed in miles per hour.

In English, Windchill equals 35.74 plus 0.6215 times air temperature minus 35.74 times wind speed raised to the 4/25 power plus 0.4275 times temperature times wind speed raised to the 4/25 power.

Isn't that cool? (no pun intended...)

At 3/01/2007 1:50 AM, Michael said…
Never pass up an opportunity to pun. As Hamlet might have said to Ophelia,

"Get thee to a punnery!"

Serena said ...

<grooooan>

The Trophy

Stream of Consciousness

I have no idea how my child's mind works.

We were grocery shopping tonight. Nothing unusual or special, nothing seen of particular note, nothing weird jumped out at us...

And then out of the blue, he starts talking.

Mommy, do frogs need air? I think they can stay in water. But if they stay in water ten thousand ninety six seventy seven years, they'll die. So they need air too. ("Yes, honey, I think they need both.") What do orange and red make? Can you turn the radio down so I can help you look for signs? Look! A toaster car! I don't like dogs very much at all. Can I watch some TV when we get home? I want to see the new video. ("No, honey, you need to take a shower to get the red spike out of your hair.") Okay. I need new shampoo. How many books can we read? We need to put this song on my MP3 player. I'm hungry. Can I have some gum? I need a jumprope.

He just amazes me...

At 3/01/2007 1:52 AM, Michael said…
Artists struggle, with different levels of success, to recover and access that wild wonderment, and channel it into some form of communication.

Serena said...

Very often, when he starts talking, I just don't say anything. I'm afraid if I interrupt, he'll lose his train of thought and stop. So I just let him roll.

The Race

It is Race Day, and we got to Klauder Hall early to make sure we got good seats. The whole thing was really pretty amazing.

I had a chat with Ian before the races to make sure he was okay with the whole thing – win or lose. I reminded him that the whole point of the race is to have fun, and that is exactly what we did (once I got past the nightmare of the block of wood). We learned a lot about cutting wood, sanding it, painting it, and weighing it. The nice people at the Village of Kenmore Post Office deserve special thanks for weighing “Thunder” so many times near the end of the process.

This is a very serious event. Every care is taken to make sure the race is fair.
First, the track must be assembled.
Yes, folks, that is a laundry basket.
“Thunder” (Ian’s car) is 3rd from the right.
Check out the first car in line – turns out that thing was Fast! I have no idea how they got it into that shape, or how they made it heavy enough. I think it belonged to Jack and his Dad from Ian's den. (I think it's funny - you can tell just by looking at the cars who spent the most time on them!)


And here is my little Scout.


Race 1 results – “Thunder” won! Ian’s car is #116. The judges place the cars in this “shuttle box” in order of the winners. (There are four judges, by the way.)
Race #2 – “Thunder” won again!
Race #3 – “Thunder” won again!
Race #4 – okay, we’re getting tense now, and occasionally I have to remind myself to breathe. I found I was actually holding my breath for the results. “Thunder” won again! And for Race #5, I missed the shot, but “Thunder” won yet again!

Race #6 – “Thunder” took second! Tension is getting pretty thick.
In second on the track…

…and he takes second again! This got Ian into the final four.

The final four cars race four times, once in each lane. “Thunder” started out in Lane #2…
and here he is in the lead…

…and he took first place Again!

By this time I am completely speechless.

Here he is in the starting position in Lane 3 …

…and he won Again!

He took third in Race #3, and I started to breathe again, but then there was one final race to go… and it was a close one.

The Judges took a lifetime to make their final decision on the placement of the cars for the final race. It was Very close.

And the Winner is:

The final result of a month’s worth of blood, sweat and tears:


We learned so much while making the car, but let me tell you, the cuts on our fingers where our skin dried and cracked from all that sanding sure feel a whole lot better now!

I'm going to have to have another 'winning isn't everything' talk with Ian someday again soon, but tonight, he can bask in glory all he wants. He worked hard for this.

Impounded!

This Derby Car thing is QUITE serious.

On Saturday, we attended the Official Weigh-In.

The car must fit into a certain area (I have forgotten the exact measurements, aside from the fact that the wheels can be no more than 1/32" away from the body of the car), and is then weighed. It must weigh no more than 5 ounces. After the car is weighed, the number is applied (Ian's vehicle is #116), and the car is then impounded. This is the "lot" (Ian's car is in the middle):

I asked why they impound the cars. Get this - the parents cheat! After the official weigh-in, it was discovered that some over-ambitious parents altered the weight on their son's cars in an attempt to win. So now, once the car is weighed, the pack leader keeps the cars until Race Day.

Race Day is Friday, January 26th, Time 6:45 p.m. After all the work Ian put into the car, I hope he at least places. There are prizes for first, second and third places, and there are about 50 kids. We'll see!

Four Siblings

I look at this picture occasionally and think, "Wow. My Dad really looks like he's full of mischief." (Left to right are Aunt Dennie, Auntie Marlene, Uncle Gene and Dad.)

He's going to see how much he gets back at tax return time and figure out if he has enough to go see my brother in Seattle. That'd be so cool if he can swing it.

Hope he calls Mike and fills him in on his plans.

:D

Derby Car Update

Lesson number 6 (or is it 7?) : Quarters and nickels weigh the same: .2 oz.

We went to the den leader's home this morning, and he drilled out the bottom of Ian's car so we could stuff enough nickels in to make weight.

Lesson number 7: Drilling out wood means loss of some weight.

That's okay, though. Ian's car now weighs 4.7 ounces, and since he is supposed to be at a maximum of 5 ounces, we can stuff another nickel under there and be as close as we're going to get.

Busted!

I remember my mom telling about my brother getting really, really, really quiet once, and when she returned to the dining room, he was artfully using his spoon to fling Jello onto the ceiling. Way to go!

So here I am, upstairs putting the laundry away, and suddenly I realized it had gotten really, really, really quiet downstairs. That much quiet and one little boy can only mean one thing - Trouble.

However, I, grinning like an idiot, am armed with my new Nikon digital camera, and I am going get photographic proof of whatever he is doing.

I snuck down my stairs, camera poised, and CAUGHT HIM IN THE ACT:

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. I just love my kid.

Pinewood Derby Car lessons.

I just realized I haven't been on-line 'recreationally' since before Christmas! People are going to think I dropped off the face of the Earth.

I signed Ian up for Cub Scouts. We are working on the pinewood derby car, which is a HUGE event in the Cub Scout world. Each Cub Scout is given a block of wood with two grooves in the bottom (for the axles), four nails (the axles), and four plastic tires.





The goal is to turn this block of wood into a derby car that will win on race day. It is supposed to be fun. It certainly has been an experience. I may actually have to invest in some power tools.

The dads in the group really get into this thing, and I think the point is lost. I overhear them talking... "I'm going to put [this item] on it this year," or "I got a new [tool of choice] that I can use to [whatever]." The dads are extremely competitive about this thing, and one even said to his son, "NO! I'LL do it!" It's supposed to be a learning experience for the child. It certainly has been a learning experience for me.

The den leader offered to take Ian out (with his own children) to his father's wood shop in Orchard Park. His father has all sorts of wood working tools, and he was going to use his father's tools to cut out his children's cars. It was a great idea, and it took place the weekend Ian got strep. We ended up using a hand saw to painstakingly cut out Ian's car design.






Lesson number one: No matter what disease du jour Ian has next year, if someone offers use of a power tool, we're going!

We then have to sand the piece of wood so it is smooth. The den leader gave me some sand paper to use, and Ian and I were in business. Ian spent a solid hour and a half sanding this car, and I sunk another three hours into it.





Lesson number two: Sanding something until your fingers bleed is not fun. Lesson number three: There are different kinds of sand paper. Get a courser grit next time to start with, and use the fine grit to finish. We'd have spent less time sanding if we'd have used an emory board!

Now the car needs to be painted. The den leader assured me you can get paint at any hardware store. So, on the way home one day, Ian and I stopped at Sears Hardware. I went to where all the paint cans are stocked, found an older gentleman who works there, and said, "Hello. We're making a pinewood derby car..." and he cut me off. His children, and then his grandchildren made pinewood derby cars, and HE used to.... Well, after a bit, I snuck into the conversation the fact that we needed paint. He recommended a can of acrylic spray paint (Ian chose silver), and then, because Ian wanted to paint a lightning bolt on his car and call it "Thunder", we chose the smallest can of glossy white we could find. Ian will have silver and glossy white cars for his entire Cub Scout career. Lesson number four: K-Mart has a craft section that sells LITTLE cans of spray paint and LITTLE jars of paint that are perfect, and less than 1/3 of the cost.



There is a trick to spray painting. Ian and I went to the home of a friend of mine with the can of spray paint and the derby car. He said, "Wait a minute. You lived on the west side for a while. You don't know how to spray paint?!?!" Very funny. Lesson number five: Don't get too close, and don't hold the can in one position too long or you end up with drips. Use a sweeping motion and small spurts on the button for an even coat of paint. Oh, and you can't hold the car while you paint it, duh. Set it on another can of something so you can work around it.

Here is where we are today:

Today we are going to the den leader's home to weigh it. It has to be no more than 5 ounces heavy. According to my diet scale, we are six quarters short. But hey, this is fun!

Strep

Michael said...
Looks like summmm-budddy got a new Niiii-Kon!

Serena said ...

Yup. Armed and dangerous. :D

2007 Bumper Stickers

I received this by email, and thought some of these were too good not to pass on!

My Pedophile Priest Supports Traditional Marriage

1/20/09: End of an Error

That's OK, I Wasn't Using My Civil Liberties Anyway

Let's Fix Democracy in This Country First

If You Want a Nation Ruled By Religion, Move to Iran

Bush. Like a Rock. Only Dumber.

If You Can Read This, You're Not Our President

Of Course It Hurts: You're Getting Screwed by an Elephant

Hey, Bush Supporters: Embarrassed Yet?

George Bush: Creating the Terrorists Our Kids Will Have to Fight

Impeachment: It's Not Just for Blowjobs Anymore

America: One Nation, Under Surveillance

They Call Him "W" So He Can Spell It

Whose God Do You Kill For?

Cheney/Satan '08

Jail to the Chief

No, Seriously, Why Did We Invade Iraq ?

Bush: God's Way of Proving Intelligent Design is Full Of Crap

Bad President! No Banana.

We Need a President Who's Fluent In At Least One Language

We're Making Enemies Faster Than We Can Kill Them

Is It Vietnam Yet?

Bush Doesn't Care About White People, Either

Where Are We Going? And Why Are We In This Handbasket?

You Elected Him. You Deserve Him.

Impeach Cheney First

Dubya, Your Dad Shoulda Pulled Out, Too

When Bush Took Office, Gas Was $1.46

Pray For Impeachment

The Republican Party: Our Bridge to the 11th Century

What Part of "Bush Lied" Don't You Understand?

One Nation Under Clod

2004: Embarrassed

2005: Horrified

2006: Terrified

Bush Never Exhaled

At Least Nixon Resigned

Are We Kinder and Gentler Yet?


Michael said...

One Nation Under Clod

Priceless.

Algebra Final Exam:

Just something to look at if I feel like moping . . . Life is Good!

I Failed.

Well, I failed my first test. Ever. And in Accounting, no less!

Interestingly enough, the sky didn't fall, nobody died (or even bled a little bit), I continued breathing (after a brief moment of gasping desperately for air after receiving my grade), and life continued.

I emailed my professor, "I certainly didn't have the grasp on this material that I thought I did." He was kind enough to have an evening telephone chat with me to explain where I went wrong. I don't take comfort in the fact that my 64 was still one of the best grades in the class. Apparently everyone has a problem with receivables. Including me.

I'm okay, though. Interesting feeling. Not one I'd like to get accustomed to, but hey. I'm human, and that's fine. I'll work harder at it, and I'll remember to ask questions if I'm not sure about something. After all, what are the professors there for but to teach?

Happy Thanksgiving!

I love Thanksgiving. It isn't the weather, although this year it was certainly mild and easy to drive in. It isn't the food, although the food certainly is wonderful. It's the time with family, the socializing, admiring the new baby, seeing how much the little ones have grown, chatting over pumpkin pie about different preparation methods, chatting over clean up about new recipies, chatting over tea about life in general. My extended family takes it for granted. They have no idea how lucky they are, or how lucky I feel that they have made my son and me a part of it.

I had a conversation with my brother a couple of years ago about cooking, and one of the things he told me is that sometimes the key to learning how to cook something is in the kitchen chat. One woman in the kitchen will say to another, "I just love the [insert dish of choice here]. What is the secret ingredient?" or something to that effect. A technique is shared, or a new recipe is added to the arsenal. Today, I got to chat with Aunt Marlene.

I just loved this cucumber salad she served with dinner tonight, and Ian ate it like it was going out of style. So, over cleanup, I asked her, "How did you make that wonderful cucumber salad?" It was so easy! She chunked up some cucumbers, poured some Ranch dressing over them, and sprinkled on a little oregano. What a great idea! Another recipe/technique added to the arsenal.

The entire dinner was wonderful. Turkey that just fell off the bones was accompanied by mashed potatos, yams, squash, corn, cucumber salad, radishes, grapes and rolls...and HOMEMADE stuffing! I am SO full and I'm going to sleep for a week!

And for dessert, Bunny made the pies. There was pumpkin pie, pumpkin creamcheese pie (which is my personal favorite), apple pie and chocolate birthday cake. Which led to a chat about tradition...

Aunt Marlene always puts a quarter in the cakes she bakes. It's for luck. What a hoot!

This is the first year Aunt Marlene let me help out in the kitchen after dinner. I enjoy her so much, and I feel so privileged to be a part of her family's celebration.

Especially the chatting part.

Getting fed is just a bonus. I'll take it! :-)

(photo from www.thanksgivingabout.com)

The Tabors

(Image taken from http://www.crwflags.com/fotw/flags/si-184.html)

or

http://www.houseofnames.com/xq/asp.c/qx/tabor-coat-arms.htm

or

http://www.5dollarcoatsofarms.com/gallery/T/pages/image003.html

I guess I need to find out more about where we came from!

Michael said...

Don't forget that our name might be a truncation, with that fact hidden in our family (lots of folks are ashamed to admit to Slavic blood).

For years, folks asked me if Tabor was Hungarian. The only Hungarian Tabors I know about are Roma - another stigmatized group.

Just thought I'd muddy the water for you. :D

Serena said...

Thanks. My mind wanders to thoughts of hara-kari.

Actually, I came across published genealogies (not to be taken as written in stone, mind you; anyone can publish a genealogy) that trace our origins back to England. According to one, our ancestor came from Essex, England to Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1630. (Descendants of Thomas Taber 1924, compiled by George L. Randall, published by Higginson Book Company).

We really are mutts, though, in a manner of speaking. Hungarian is entirely possible. And then we have the Fassett line, connected by Great-Grandfather Charles Tabor's wife. They allegedly came from Scotland and were formerly known as the MacPhersons, having changed the family name to protect themselves from extinction by Cromwell.

And, of course, we have mom's roots in Ireland, Mexico and England.

When people ask me what nationality I am, I tell them the best answer I can give. "I'm American." 'Mutt' just doesn't have a very nice ring to it.

Michael said:

Woof. :D

Insight from Ma

"An 88 on your Accounting test this morning? That's not so bad."

"Yeah, but I'm sure I could do better."

"Sweetheart, combine that 88 with your other grades and you still have an A. Not that THAT is such a big deal. Your mother is dead, and I'd bet your father doesn't give a fig. STOP OBSESSING."

All right, I'll admit it. I'm being too hard on myself. An 88 is good. I'm a single mother, I work full-time, and I've got a full course load. I'm tired. I don't need to be perfect. I must be a bit kinder to myself. I think I will sleep in tomorrow.


Michael said...

Your Dad always thought a C was just fine. Remember?

Just go at a pace. The numbers don't matter anywhere near as much as the internal gains you are making.

Serena said...

True. I'm learning so much. And I'm loving Algebra!

More on Aging

My son...what a jokester...

"Mommy? Did they have TV back in the old days when YOU were a kid?"

Michael said...

No, honey, we pressed styluses made out of reeds into wet clay tablets in a script called "cuneiform." Then we baked the clay tablets in ovens until they were very hard. Then illiterate folks stole them to make stone walls and sidewalks for their houses...

Serena said...

It's true! It's true! You know, this morning he was asking me about the dinosaurs like I was there. It's hysterical. He says, "My mom is gonna be 42," and he makes it sound like I was there when Eve at the forbidden fruit. Unbelievable.

Michael said...

And the Hebrew-speaking snake. Hey - here's an article about the dinosaurs being wiped out by an asteroid.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20061201/sc_nm/dinosaurs_impact_dc

Now you can sound like you were an eyewitness. :D

Tracy said...

I know I'm a late responder; but I do have a good one for you!

The first time Teri saw an actual record (yes I still have a ton of them, unfortunatly I do not have a record player anymore.) Her comment:'Look at these BIG CD's mommy'

Oh and her face when she saw an 8 track....

Aging

(This is an Internet joke - I have no idea who to give credit to, but it sure made me laugh...wincingly.)

Have you ever been guilty of looking at others your own age and thinking, "Surely I can't look that old!"

I was sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with a new dentist when I noticed his diploma hanging on the wall. It bore his full name and I suddenly remembered a tall, handsome dark-haired boy with the same name. He had been in my high school class some 40-odd years before and I wondered if he could be the same guy I had a secret crush on way back then?

When I got into the treatment room I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding gray-haired man with the deeply lined face was much too old to have been my secret crush... or was he?

After he examined my teeth I asked if he had attended Morgan Park High School.

"Yes, I did. I'm a Mustang!" he said, gleaming with pride.

"When did you graduate?" I asked.

"1959. Why do you ask?" He answered.

"Well, you were in my class!" I exclaimed.

Then that ugly, old, wrinkled son of a bitch asked, "What did you teach?"

Bumper Sticker

"If you think gas prices are high now, wait until after November 7th."

Too true to be funny.

Michael said...

Already reports are pouring in (mostly from Florida) of voting machines that will not allow a choice of Democrat (you select the Dem, the machine says you voted Rethuglican).

Ironic that we cannot call the UN to supervise our increasingly fraudulent elections.

Halloween

Ian is so cute. (Not that I'm biased or anything...) He doesn't really get into the door-to-door trick-or-treating thing. Last year we only went to about 5 houses; this year we went to about 20. He got his little pumpkin half full of candy and said, "Mommy, I have enough. Can we go home now?" Amazing. That will probably change when he gets older.

I have got to get me a half-way decent camera. I'd have loved to catch the look of delighted suprise on his face, which showed each time someone gave him candy. He was so excited at all the different kinds! He's a great kid.

Unintended Lessons

Sometimes I feel compelled to write. The words come out of me with the force of hurricane winds and, heart pounding, I in turn find myself pounding on the keyboard, unable to type fast enough, not being able to stop, desperate to get the feelings out of me, out of me, faster, faster, and onto cyberpaper where it belongs, like the words are poison that must be quickly and forcefully expelled.

And then I am relieved. The storm is over, and I can find calm.

My first English Composition paper was to write a descriptive narrative about someone that had influenced us, either positively or negatively. I started to write about my relationship with my mother, and I couldn’t stop.

Oh, it’s not a pretty essay. Be forewarned. But it was cathartic, and I feel better, calmer.

I’m going to be fine. And also as importantly, so is my brother. And because we are going to be okay, so will my son.


My relationship with my mother effectively ended on my 18th birthday. The road to its destruction began in my early childhood, a rough and windy path commencing in some of my earliest memories. I did, however, learn many good lessons from these negative experiences.

I was born into a religion that never made sense to me. My parents were strict to the point of being unreasonable, insisting that my siblings and I walk a religious line that was incomprehensible to two of us.

One of the first religious principles I learned was, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’ (Proverbs 13:24) This came right on the heels of, “Children, be obedient to your parents in union with the Lord.” (Ephesians 6:1) I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I was three years old. We were living in an upstairs apartment on the west side of Buffalo, behind Grover Cleveland High School, during the period that race riots sometimes occurred during dismissal. I was small enough to be able to walk under the dining room table without ducking. My favorite piece of furniture was a little wooden blue chair, just the perfect size to fit between the two desks my parents had sitting in the dining room. It was the perfect place to hide.

My brother, seven years my senior, asked too many questions. In the spirit of ‘spare the rod’, my mom beat him with a wooden paddle, bruising him about his back, buttocks and thighs. The voice in my head was screaming, “Noooo!” as my brother stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved. I hid, crouched in that little wooden blue chair, between the two desks in the dining room, long brown hair covering my tear-filled blue eyes, eternally hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. I learned not to ask questions. I must be quiet.

While growing up, I was not permitted to socialize with any of my classmates or to join in any extracurricular activities. I was not permitted to read any material but those the religious society produced. When I wrote book reports, I wrote them concerning various religious materials my mother chose for me to read. The voice in my head continually asked questions, screaming in frustration at my inability to voice them. I, however, was well-taught. I must be quiet.

I graduated from high school as class valedictorian at age 16. I won scholarships and may have been able to call my own shots. I was not permitted to attend college. I am a female. It was my Christian Duty to become a missionary for a few years, preach the “Good News in Foreign Lands”, then marry, have children, and care for my household. A career was not necessary – no, a career was forbidden. I must be quiet.

My eighteenth birthday finally arrived, and with the age of majority, I left the religion. I told my parents I wanted no more part of it. They, in turn, accused me of promiscuity and drug abuse. I was directed to leave their home almost immediately.

I felt like a complete failure, unloved and unable to be what my mom wanted me to be. I was completely crushed, and the voice in my head became silent, not for lack of questions, but for a black cloud of depression. I felt I deserved the hard times I received, the “wages of sin”. I married because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do, and I divorced after my husband, while ‘teaching me a lesson’, cracked my ribs.

As difficult as it may be to believe, I have learned many good lessons from these negative experiences. After leaving the religion and getting divorced, my life education began.

I have learned that religion doesn’t have to be a straight-jacket. I can ask questions. I can embrace science and concepts that make sense to me. I have no ‘religion’, and that’s okay. I no longer have to tow an incomprehensible line. I no longer have to be quiet.

I have learned that the way I was reared is no way to treat a child. My son asks questions; I encourage him to ask questions. He gets loud. That’s okay; he’s five. It’ll be okay when he’s ten, and fifteen, and twenty. He will never be beaten. He will know that he is loved by my hugs, kisses and praise. I support him. I am proud of him. I let him raise the rafters with his joie de vivre! LOUDLY!

I have learned that the way I was brought up is not the way a female should be treated. I am an intelligent human deserving of opportunity and accomplishment. I am neither a baby factory nor a whipping post. I am a single mother, I support my family, and I am finally getting my education. I am still sometimes quiet, but the voice in my head no longer screams. I can scream aloud if I need to.

I have learned I don’t want my son to have feelings of incompleteness when I pass on. I wish that my mother and I had resolved our issues, that she would have accepted my adult choices, that we could have conversed honestly, but I have learned that will never be possible.

My mother died June 18, 2006, culminating the end of the relationship that began to die on November 23, 1982. My brother and I spoke at length about how her passing brought relief, but with it a tremendous sense of loss. We still speak about our feelings of loss, but in our conversations and our writings, we find comfort. We are no longer subjected to physical or verbal poison arrows. I no longer must be quiet.


Michael said...
>… stoically took what he was deemed to have deserved...

Nope. I was full of rage and hate, because it was a contest of wills – (internally) “No matter how hard or how long you do this I will not cry. I will not give you the satisfaction of winning.”

Serena said...
Funny how our viewpoints were so different then. I had no idea what was going on in your head. I'm so glad it's over.

Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful…

We broke records in the Buffalo, New York area on, yes, Friday the 13th. We were the lucky recipients of 6 inches to 2 feet of snow, depending on where your house was, from the time the snow started falling on Thursday to when it finally quit on Friday. Here are a few pictures from Reuters:

Buffalo, New York

Clarence, New York (a suburb of Buffalo)

My neck of the woods, Tonawanda, New York

They have recommended that we stay indoors because of the falling trees and downed power lines. Ian wants to go outside and play. He just sees the snow, which means fun. I get the Mean Mommy award again.

I do have to say that the strangest part of this time of year, other than freak storms, is having mittens and shorts in the same load of laundry.