Who Are You, Anyways?

A small article in the local paper caught my attention this week.

In Lowell, Massachusetts, the city council passed a law that limits the hours that level 3 sex offenders can be at the library. My first thought was, do they really hang out at the library anyways, doesn't seem to be a very sex offender type of place be. Then I thought, well, I suppose if they were maybe looking for someone to offend, the library might be a good place. The concept is that they are limiting the time the offenders can be in the library to coincide with the high usage by children.

Then I began to ponder this even a little further, and I have been known to do on occasion. How are they going to know that these people are sex offenders? Are there pictures of them posted all over the library? You know, like the pictures of criminals or dead beat dads that they used to have posted at the post office? I have never seen someone walking around with a sign around their neck, or a name badge that introduces them as a sex offender, much less, a level 3 sex offender. Have you?

Will they have Homeland Security agents checking ID's and finger prints against a computer data base guarding the door? Maybe they can wear a big red 3 on their clothing, like Hester in The Scarlet Letter? That seemed very convincing in social identification for the community.

This is not pro-sex offender liberties ideology I am offering up. I am just wondering how they are going to logistically enforce this law? Maybe it is not really up to the local principalities to come up with such laws, but the higher courts where these people are originally tried and found guilty of the offense in the first place. If individuals are found to be a high threat to society as a whole, should they really be released back into the community?

I am pretty sure not all sex offenders have wound up in Lowell, Massachusetts, so here is the National Sex Offender Registry as well as the FBI Sex Offender Registry. Always better to be aware of your surroundings and neighbors than have nasty surprises.

Two wakes, a cake decorating class and a new start

I had to take a few weeks to process these events. Sometimes you need to sit on things and let them settle in before you are able to give them words. It all started with...

My oldest daughter getting herself situated at college, I was starting back to college courses myself, my youngest daughter adjusting to a new school, and like most people, I was overwhelmed with the media coverage of the 9/11 anniversary. Saying I was emotional doesn't begin to cover it.

Then the news came to my youngest, that a kid she went to school with last year died suddenly on the way home from school. This hit her very hard. Death of a peer when you are 16 is very difficult and unfair to understand. The boy was driving home on one of the very rainy days we had on a back road, hydroplaned and hit a tree. He died instantly. He was a great kid, had gone on two mission trips to the Dominican Republic, active in his church, great friend in school – popular kid, good at his trade, which was auto body.

The next day my neighbor came to me with very sad news. Her step-daughter's mother died of cancer that afternoon. Now, I know this sounds like I know this guy who knows this guy, but I did know her. I knew her from years ago, when our kids were little and we would gather at the house for Christmas parties. The fact that this young girl (the step-daughter) had lost the single most important person in her life was heart wrenching. My neighbor is an excellent step-mom, and her husband is a good dad, there is just no one like mom.

Then came the the wakes. They were ironically scheduled for the same day, located closely together, and one started an hour later than the other. My daughter and I attended both. The first one was the one for the mother. It was painful to watch this 16 year old girl mourn the death of her mother. Her grandmother was as inconsolable as she was, and her aunts were trying their best to hold a strong front. The aunts and grandmother had asked the father and step mother to not be present during this time. It was sad, very sad for this girl to face this horrendous loss without the support of the people she would be living with until she went to college. As I hugged her, and felt her sobs, her young, strong body was weak and broken. I wanted to sit down, hold her and comfort her in someway, but that was not the time to do that.

Then came the young man's funeral. The line was an hour and a half long. So many young people, church people, teachers, friends of the family, the community. When we were waiting in line, I noticed the mother most of all. Maybe because of the wake I had just left paying tribute to a mother, but I think it was more than that. Her sisters were taking turns behind her. Holding her by her waist, letting her rock gently back and forth, or side to side, but holding her the entire time. She was never alone. Her husband and younger daughter were by her side, but her sisters let her know that they were there to share in her grief and were going to hold her up physically and spiritually. It was a beautiful demonstration of love in action.

We drove around for the longest time, neither of us being able to talk. Quietly wiping away our tears, just absorbing the setting sun, the cooling evening, and the smells of fall. The silence broke and we decided to go out to eat. For the first time in a long time, she hugged me good night before she went to bed. It was hard to let her go.

The next night was the cake decorating class that we had signed up for months in advance. We knew we would need something to occupy ourselves with as soon as my oldest daughter sent in her acceptance letter. That night, my independent, secure, and seemingly dis-interested teenager wanted me by her side. We talked, whispered and giggled through class. It was good to end such a difficult week on a sweet note, literally and figuratively.

Like the Wes King song says, “Life is precious” Life is brief. We are never promised tomorrow. My youngest still has her stand-offish moments, and that is part of being 16. It is nice when she comes to me and asks “Do you think it is okay if I take Mackenzie some brownies I baked? She looks kind of lonely over there.” and I am able to calmly reply “I think that is a good idea” while inside I am beaming with pride that she is reaching out and showing compassion.

“Be the change you wish to see in the world” Ghandi

Paycheck Exchange Program

Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't the whole idea of getting paid to do a job meant to be that you actually DO the job? I mean you show up, you have tasks to do, you do them, they pay you? Right? Isn't that what is supposed to happen? Typically, when hired the tasks are laid out before you, you are trained in how to perform said tasks and then you are expected to do those tasks without constant reminders or prompts from your supervisors, customers or co-workers.

I understand that most of the business world operates in this manner. However, when I am dealing with my son's case worker and rep-payee, which are different individuals, they seemed to have missed this vital part of the paycheck exchange program. I have worked as case manager and rep-payee myself at the same time. How avant-guarde of me! I know the work involved, did the work involved, and got the paycheck, which honestly at times did not seem like nearly enough to compensate me for my efforts, but still I did the job. Even for those clients that had families that were involved, I did not cut corners. Most of my co-workers had the same work ethic, those that didn't were dismissed and encouraged to find work somewhere else, like maybe as the gas station selling cigarettes.

My son lives independently and is high functioning. He needs prompts on housework, organizational skills and help in managing his money. He lives independently because I found his apartment, his case manager couldn't even find ones to look at that were in his price range or near civilization. After two months of waiting, I found one within a week, conveniently located to public transportation, shopping and his social network. Not difficult. His case manager is supposed to drop by on scheduled once a week visits to remind or help my son with cleaning, laundry, basic housekeeping functions. My son sees his case worker once a month, twice if he is able to convince him to take him grocery shopping during inclement weather. Surprise! Mom gets to take him shopping, and mom gets to bug him about the condition of the apartment instead of having social time.

When I managed his money, his bills were paid promptly, his phone was always on, and if he needed me, I was a phone call away. I turned over the re-payee status because I just wanted to concentrate on being his mom. Not to mention, I have other things to do besides keep track of two households. So, I was told that this agency would gladly take over the re-payee and relieve me of this burden. We signed up, sounded great. In the last twelve months, I have had to pay his phone bill seven out of twelve times. His phone has been turned off, now keep in mind, this is his only phone, and his only other bill besides his rent which includes all utilities, tv and computer. So this person has to pay two bills a month for my son, along with spending money and they can't seem to do that. Guess who gets to assume the re-payee status again?

Yes, I am on a rant. I understand that not all social workers are this errant in performing their work for the paycheck exchange program. After several complaints regarding these two individuals lack luster performance, the agency in question has suggested that I let them handle the situation and step back. I have told them, that once they prove to me that they can handle the situation, I will indeed step back and happily resume my role as mother of the year, until then, no dice. I think when we have our meeting, I will suggest that I become part of the agencies paycheck exchange program since I am doing the work of two of their employees for free. I wonder how they will receive THAT suggestion?

Confessions of a Bad Mommy

Here I am, confessing to the world that I am indeed, a bad mommy.

When my kids were little, I wasn't so concerned that they looked cute, with clean clothes, designer labels and hair neatly groomed.  If they were dirty, that meant they had a good time, were outside, and learned something about nature.  This is not to say they looked like wild children all the time, but there were times, when indeed, they probably did, and I did not scold them.  Instead I would have them show me what they had done, listen in depth to the details and then we would go inside and clean up.

When my son decided to grow his hair out, I did not protest.  As long as he kept it clean, and out of his eyes, I really didn't care.  When my daughter wanted to dye the underside of her hair blue, I drove her to the store to get the supplies.  I might have even bought them, I am not quite sure.  I figure it is hair, it will grow back, it is not that big of a deal.  Unless of course it is my youngest who has the most amazing natural blonde hair ever: I won't let her process her hair beyond cutting, blow drying or curling.

When the two older ones were old enough, beyond 18, I took them to get their first tattoos.  I know, it is not a mom thing to do, but I was the one they wanted to go with them, so I did and I took pictures to boot.  Bad, bad  Mommy.  But they each meant something to them, and they were important, and most importantly, they were both over 18.  My son got a Celtic cross, along with the family name.  This sounds trendy, but actually it was his acceptance of his family name from when my husband adopted him at the age of four.  Then my daughter, who is a cancer survivor, and a lifetime Lion King fan, got the Hakuna Mata Swahili symbol tattooed onto her wrist.  If anyone gets the concept of putting your past behind you, it is that girl.  She also had the word UNLESS put above it.  Refer to Dr. Seuss' story The Lorax, well worth your time. 

Now comes the really bad mommy confession: I won't let the 16 year old get a tattoo.  She wants to get a sunflower, her sister's favorite flower, to remind her of her sister, who recently, as in last Sunday went away to college.   I said "NO".  Mean Mommy.  I told her she has to wait until she is 18, and if she goes behind my back and gets it, she will lose her driving privileges.  Which, coincidentally is available when you are 16.  I know, I know, I am a bad mommy.  Not only saying no to the tattoo, but holding the driving privileges over head as well, it is almost, well, sort of like blackmail, but since I am a mom and not a gangstser, I prefer to call it good parenting.  Now pass the M&M's, we all know they really represent Mean Mommies!

Collections, justifications and the thrill of the deal

I've started reading Sloane Crosley's,  I Was Told There'd Be Cake, and got to thinking about my own random collections.  As kids we all collect stuff.  Younger kids collect rocks, Pokemon cards, Barbies, stickers, or in my youngest daughter's case, traffic cones. As humans morph into teens, the collections change into chapstick, music, Magic Cards, trophies, or paraphernalia relating to a certain movie star and movie, in our house, it was Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow and everything related to Pirates. 

But as an adult, what sort of odd collections do we tend to accumulate?  What would you be a little more than embarrassed to have some family relative come through your home to find?  Is it a stash of extra shoelaces? You know how they almost always give you two pairs of laces with shoes now, do you save those, just in case?  Maybe, you have a whole drawer in your dresser dedicated to all those extra shoelaces. 

I was going to say as I get older, but I don't get older, I am forever 23 in my head.  My body needs to get the message, it seems on fast forward, but that is a different story.  I have collected different things over the years, but the mainstay always return to purses.  They are impulses that I can't seem to quite get a grip on.  I go looking for these things.  Do I need them? No, most certainly not in 99.9% of the purchases. Will I use them? That is more like a 50-50 thing.  Do I want them? Absolutely! 

I have purses stashed, under the bed, in the coat closet, in my closet,  and in my craft room.  There is no way I will possibly use all of them.  I have purses that I have never even used, but had to have.  I have people giving me purses, I can't possibly say no to, so I smile, take them and say thank you very much.  I am not the type of girl who changes her purse for every outing, season, or reason.  So, what is my preoccupation with them?  I can't honestly say.  I just like having them, somehow it makes me feel more feminine, and I like the thrill of the hunt for the best deal. 

I love finding a great purse at the consignment store or at Salvation Army for a ridiculously low price.  I have found Vera Bradley at Salvation Army for $2.00!  It was in immaculate condition, how could I possibly leave it there for someone who might not appreciate it?  I HAD to have it!  The softness, the pockets, Oh My!  And then there was the bright red Coach bag at the consignment store for $20.  An unused Coach bag, tag inside and everything for $20!  The leather was so soft, the pockets and pouches and shiny metal.  I don't typically pay that much for a purse, but this was a Coach, so I made an exception, and justified with making the Dean's list on my first semester back to school after a 20 year hiatus. 

I love to come home with my new found purse, and strut my stuff to my family.  Who laugh at me, shake their heads and ask what I am going to do with all the other ones I have stashed around the house.  I pretend I don't hear them.  Instead, I clean out the old purse, and begin cherishing the new one, organizing my belongings.and leaving the old one on the dining room table for a day or two before trying to find a space for my old friend.  I can't give it away, it has served me well.  We have shared many experiences, found many a great deals.  The likelihood of me retrieving it for use in the future? Well, um, uh...

Alabama Adventures

This past weekend, we had the opportunity to be warned and prepared for a possible natural disaster. We had time to gather the necessary items and were braced for the worst case scenario. Although, the most that occurred in our immediate area were a few downed limbs and small power outages. We had warning, we were prepared and we survived perhaps the dullest hurricane warning in a long time.

However, this was not the case for five southern states this past April. A tornado watch suddenly appeared., alerting residents to the possible dangers that were unpredictably speeding towards them. Tornadoes do not necessarily follow a direct path as our hurricane or nor'easters tend to do. These people did not have a lot of notice to prepare themselves, gather their information, loved ones, food, gas, batteries and so on.

I watched the news, and was saddened by what I saw once the news crews could get the images out to the nation. What increased my sorrow however was the seemingly lack of response for assistance, compassion, and volunteerism towards our own countrymen. True, Osama bin Laden was captured, the was a tsunami in Japan, and the Royal Wedding that made headlines shortly after the tornadoes. But there were still people without homes, clothing, food, and loved ones to bury in our own country. FEMA appeared as did the insurance companies and Red Cross at first, the agencies do no stay long, nor is their assistance generous. The majority of Americans were burnt out on charity it appeared.

I connected with groups based in Alabama who were assisting people in the disaster cleanup and restoration. The larger cities were fairing better than the smaller towns. The smaller towns, as we well know, do not have the budget to deal with large catastrophes. I followed what was going on for four months until I could fly down there myself and give my time and labor to help these people rebuild. On August 10^th, I landed in Birmingham, Alabama, as my plane taxied the runway to the terminal, I saw a building that looked like a Salvador Dali painting, but it was real. It was torn in half, and the pieces that remained looked as if they were slowly melting in the southern sun.

It was just the beginning of eye opening week long experience in the Heart of Dixie. As I drove to my hotel, I saw a tall highway lamppost that had been pulled up, twisted as though through a metal roller, and deposited on the grass area of the freeway. As I settled into my hotel and explored my surroundings, I felt at ease. Southern hospitality includes friendliness, good manners, courteousness, humbleness and a genteelness that seems to make encounters with others very pleasant.

The next day, I contacted Andrea Pate, who headed up the Freewill Baptist Disaster Relief in Cordova, Alabama. She told me to come right on over, and she could put me to work. I drove through the town, the entire downtown section of Cordova had been lifted up and put down again, in a way that would not allow for rebuilding. The small businesses were closed, and the buildings would have to be imploded upon themselves. The grocery store in this small town was demolished, as was the bank, gas station and police station. The nearest places for these people to get services was 16 miles north in Jasper. The bank vault is all that remained standing of the bank, and the bank moved into a trailer type of facility, as did the police station. Many homes were removed from their foundations, or roofs torn off, large trees on top of houses, leaving many families homeless.

When I met Andrea, I found a woman on a mission. Her home was not destroyed, but she was determined to help out her fellow citizens, and rebuild life in the town of Cordova. She came up with the idea to take homes that were abandoned in the town, contact the owners, and negotiate a remodel in exchange for one years free rent for tornado survivors. After which time, it would be up to the owner and the tenant to negotiate an agreement. She sent me out to one home to work with another group of volunteers who had come down from Connecticut to chip away mortar from the cinder blocks of a destroyed garage to take to another site for another project. It was hard, tedious work. But it was meaningful and rewarding also. The next day, I showed up a little better prepared. I purchased some tools the night before at WalMart. Again, I chipped away mortar, this time on bricks from a crumbled chimney to be used as a walkway for another home that was almost completed. As Andrea became too busy to remember what she had me doing, I began loading the bricks into the trunk of my rental car, and moving them over to the house, small loads at a time until I had completed the brick walkway. Another day, I helped move 2x10's so the roofers could cover roof of the historic landmark in town, and preserve it from being further damaged. Another day, I went to Pratt City, and volunteered with a group called the Alabama Bloggers. Again, an online connection. We helped people get food, clothing, personal care and house cleaning items.

I met many wonderful people during my adventure, heard stories that will stay with me a lifetime, had a lot of good laughs, shed some tears, and lots of hugs. My hope in sharing this story is that we will all realize that one person can make a difference. Whether it is local or not, if your heart is tugging at you to reach out, listen and stretch yourself. You will have an amazing experience.

Conquering Fears

Fears are usually related to one to two things.  No, make that three. 

One, there is a reason why you have that fear. For example, you might be afraid of dogs because you have been bitten or badly frightened by a dog in your past.  This is an understandable and rational fear that can be overcome with time and effort.

Second reason for fear is you don't know that particular dog, it is big and it is black. Which recalls some story or movie that you have seen that big, black strange dogs are ravaging creatures who eat people just because they can. This automatically triggers fear, which is a little irrational, but it is fear nonetheless and can paralyze you if you allow it that power, or you can choose to take charge in that situation and open yourself up to the reality of the present moment; which is neither a work of fiction or a film.

Thirdly, fear can be attributed to the unknown.  You have never seen this sort of dog, and are unaware of their behavior traits, therefore you are unsure as to how well they respond to new people.  This third type of fear is validated, and does call for caution and investigation.  This requires active participation and interaction.  It is perhaps the most challenging type of fear to overcome for most people.

This weekend, I conquered my fear of the riding lawn mower.  This may not sound like a big deal to a lot of people, however, for me, it was.  Fifteen years ago, when we moved into the house, my husband brought home a riding lawn mower.  We live on just under an acre of property, and I grew up in the suburbs in California, which has a considerably less property size lot than the suburbs of Massachusetts.  Trying to channel into my old tomboy days, I started up the mower, having no clue how to operate it, and promptly crashed it into the garage door.  No real damage was done, other than my ego being very bruised.  For the next 15 years, my husband has told everyone that story when they comment on the lawnmower.  He taught all three of our kids how to use it, but told me I was forbidden, in case I crashed it again.  So, this weekend, while he was gone, I decided it was now or never.

I watched a YouTube video on how to start up the mower properly, went out to the shed and rolled the mighty fearful machine out onto the lawn.  Safe from running into anything, just in case things got away from me in a hurry.  Recalling the details of the video, I followed the directions completely.  The next thing I knew, I was mowing the back yard, and I did a fine job, if I say so myself.  I rolled into the front and finished that too.  Afterward, I stood there looking at the mower which had intimidated me to 15 years and laughed.  I did it! I conquered the lawnmower and faced my fear of going anywhere near it.  I do feel stronger and more independent as a result.

Earlier this summer, I faced and conquered another fear. I submitted a piece of my writing to a contest held by the Carve Magazine.  As a writer, exposing your work, even on a blogging level, is in an essence exposing yourself, leaving you feeling very vulnerable.  Personally, I do not know anyone who likes the feeling of vulnerability.  That arena of uncertainty, risk, fear of failure or rejection is not a comfortable place to be.  I pulled out a story that I had been working on for a few months, dusted it off, polished it up, named it, and formatted it according to the guidelines of the contest.  And just like that, I submitted it.  I had put it in the back of my mind, until this morning when on my Twitter account, I read "We're getting close to wrapping up our first round readings for the contest. Some notices will go out beginning mid-August." 

Again, comes up a rush of emotions, but not fear, this time it is more like anticipation, excitement, curiosity and hope.  A lot like a small child at Christmastime, wondering and hoping that Santa will bring them exactly what they have wished for in their heart.  In my case, I am very hopeful for first place. But if I don't get it, that is okay, because I have taken the first scary step of submitting my work, and I am not afraid to do it again.  I now know how, and it isn't that hard.

As Evelyn Couch, in Fried Green Tomatoes, said when taking her first swing with her sledge hammer to knock down a wall that needed moving "Towonda!"  Find your inner strength and conquer those inhibitions, if I can do it, so can you!

Hoping you discover new found strength and peace,
Cindy