My Life in Letters – “Y” is for Yawp

photo credit: Horia Varlan

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.

Walt Whitman – Leaves of Grass

One of my favorite movies, Dead Poet’s Society, is one that I think we could all learn a great deal from.  In the movie Robin Williams plays Mr. Keating, a radical impassioned English teacher who is hired to teach at a very strict conservative all boy’s school in the 1950’s.

Keating is frowned upon for his unconventional teaching as he tries to unravel the traditional ties that are binding his students preventing them from discovering their true selves, rather than following in the footsteps of their fathers as is expected.

Through the wisdom of some of the world’s greatest writers, including Whitman, Emerson and Thoreau, Keating urges his students to Carpe Diem — seize the day!

At 42 years old, I am beginning to understand the urgency with which Keating encouraged his students.  I’m more aware of time than I ever have been.  Each change that takes place in my children marks the passage of time.  I choose not to see it as another day lost, however, so much as another moment of my extraordinary life found.

I hope my boys are lucky enough to have a teacher like Mr. Keating – a teacher who understands how extraordinary this life is.  But I’m not going to leave that lesson up to the hands of fate.

I will teach my sons to follow the advice of Thoreau and “suck the marrow out of life“.

I will remind them to trust themselves as individuals in all that they do because they are amazing and the world deserves to experience them completely and without reserve.

And I will remind them to set aside some time every so often to break out of the rut that everyday life can force upon them, stand tall and proud and sound their barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world because yawping is good for the soul.

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My Life in Letters – “X” marks the spot

photo credit: eleanor.black

I admit this post is late in coming because I was stumped.  “X”?  What in the world could that stand for in my life?  I was going to force it and use a word like “Xcellent”, but I would be going against one of my rules, no “kute” misspellings.  So as I was on my way to get groceries this afternoon, I was trying to think of phrases to use instead, and I hit the jackpot.

Treasure maps.  Elusive pieces of paper that have esoteric markings but, if found and cracked, will lead to great rewards.  Hmmm, sounds like life.  Well, that is if life was a piece of paper and could be bought in reams.

John Locke, argued that we are all born as “tabula rasas” – blank slates waiting to be drawn upon, our knowledge coming from experience and perception.  If that’s the case, and I tend to think it sort of is, then we are a bit like treasure maps.

We take the journey of our lives, leaving behind a dashed line of memory, certain areas of our journey being  more significant than others are represented by landmarks or, in this case, life-marks.  And finally we reach a point in our journey when we can say that we have found our treasure.

Treasures will vary, of course.  It’s the whole one man’s trash is another man’s treasure philosphy.

In my life, on my map, I’ve had many life-marks – putting myself through college and graduating 10 years later; moving to Memphis and realizing that, while it was an experience I needed to have, it was only to help me realize how important my home was; finding the love of my life life-guarding at a pool, obviously practicing for his role as my own personal Life-guard, and marrying that man; getting my first teaching job and sharing my love of reading and words with kids who as adults now on Facebook have told me that I was one of their favorite teachers; giving birth to my first son, Jacob; getting paid to write;  deciding to have and having my second child, Nicholas, when I was pretty sure I only wanted one for quite some time; discovering Jacob has Tourette’s and OCD and coming to terms with that – a very long (and sort of continuous process); writing a book about that process.  Those are some of the life-marks that have occured between the dashed lines of my day to day.

There are many more that have happened and many more to come for sure.

As for the treasure, well, I have found several treasures along the way.  I think that “the spot” is actually a series of spots.   I don’t think they are all the great and final big daddy of them all treasure.  But I’m not sure that I want that.  I sort of like finding little treasures along the way.

I find that those little treasures sort of sustain me.  Maybe there is a bigger treasure.  Maybe it’s my book getting published.

But maybe the big treasure is nothing more than a motivator.  Maybe those dotted lines along the map, along with the life-marks and the promise of some huge treasure are simply motivators – things to keep us moving, keep us experiencing life and not getting complacent.

I could go all big picture and talk about the treasure as heaven or whatever “life-after” you believe in.  But I would prefer to focus on my treasure in the here and now.   It’s sort of comforting to know that life is a series of “X’s” instead of one big “X” at the end.

Yeah, “X” marks the spot, for sure.  But my life has X’s all over the place.  How about yours?

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My Life in Letters – “W” is for Writer

That's me...always thinking of the next great post.

I know, I know.  This is an obvious one.  But it’s one I couldn’t let go of.

My life with words began when my mother used to read Edward Lear’s Alphabet Book to me.

A was once an apple pie

Pidy

Widy

Tidy

Pidy

Nice-insidy

Apple pie.

I looked forward to that book every night.  There was something about the rhythm of the words and the way he made the words work for him.  He wasn’t bound by the words – the words were bound by him.

Years later I discovered another gem of a writer who was also fascinated with word play and forgoing the rules of grammar and placement.  e.e. cummings.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

I love how playful his poems are and how he makes up his own words to suit the needs of the poem.

In fifth grade a habit-wearing nun named Sr. Vincentine had us keep journals as a part of our grade, and thus began my love of writing.  At first it was a chore.  What in the world did I have to write about?  I can remember copying passages down from magazines just to fill the pages up since she never read them.  But as time went on, I realized I did have things to say.  Maybe not profound things, but things nonetheless.

The journal trend continued in high school and it evolved into something so much more.  An outlet.  There was a lot going on, as there usually is with teenage girls and my journal was the bandage, temporarily healing my wounds.

I was dramatic in typical fashion for an angst-ridden teen, and my journals reflect that in a way that makes me cringe now.  For example and excerpt from my class journal circa 1984ish:

I’ve come to the fact that I’ll never quite be over him.  I’ll always regard him as someone very special to me.  I wish I could see him.  I’d just like to say, “Hey, how’ve you been?”  I could say this to him to.

It hurts me to see you hurt like you do.  I feel your pain when I think of you.  I want to hold you, oh so tight, and I won’t let go ’til the morning light.  I can’t promise to provide you with an answer, but I’ll listen and I’ll catch each tear one by one as they glisten.  The pain that you feel is set deep in your eyes, though your smile appears, it’s no disguise.  I want you to know that I really do care and if you need someone please know I’ll always be there.

Oh YIKES!  Heart on sleeve?  That was me.  No need to discuss who I was talking about.  If you read my blog, then you already know.

So my writing has always been there for me.  I have a box of journals in the attic that I went through yesterday.  Oh how fun to be faced with your heartbreaks again.  I sat and read and cried.  But the tears weren’t the ones you would think.  I was laughing my ass off at the absurdity of the drama.  Oh to be a teenager again…uh, no thanks.

So fast forward many years and many bad poems later and look at me now.  Putting my sass out there for all to judge.  And to think it was all because of some nonsense alphabet book and a mother who took the time to read to me.

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My Life in Letters – “V” is for Voice

photo credit: woodleywonderworks

The letter “V” stumped me.  What is “V” in my life?  Vampire?  Been there, done that.

For the life of me I couldn’t come up with anything.  I could have gone all feminista on you and used “V” is for vagina, but Eve Ensler already had a monologue with that particular body part and honestly, I don’t talk to mine much…we coexist but rarely converse.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re still friends and all that, it’s just life, you know, it gets in the way even with BFFs.

Over Thai food with a friend the other night we were brainstorming the whole “V’ thing and she said, “V is for voice.”  Bingo!

For someone who uses the written word with ease, I have never been one to be able to express myself on the fly.  Give me a pen and paper or computer and I can write you one hell of a response, but I’m guessing that might put a damper on our conversation.

I’m not talking about everyday conversations – I’m good at those.  I can hang with the best of them.  I’ll make you laugh, and I’ll listen better than anyone else.

But if I need to confront someone and share some really big emotion, whether it be anger, fear, or even love, I have a hard time.  I guess I’ve been writing for so long and spilling my life out in journal form that it’s my natural voice.

But I have had so many moments where I wish I would have spoken up to someone.  Moments where I walked away thinking I had a chance to say what I really felt and I chickened out.

I’m not sure what makes me speechless when I’m face to face.  I have the words in me, I just can’t seem to get them out.  When I do they seem all wrong.  The editor in me cringes as the words fly from my mouth.  We did not just say that did we?  Oh, now that sounds stupid.  That isn’t at all what we meant.  That’s surely going to come back to bite us in the ass.

Maybe it’s that I don’t want to be misunderstood.  Maybe it’s that I trust my written words more because they are not spontaneous, and even if they are I can monitor them on the page better and edit them as needed.

In an argument, I tend to shut down.  I lose my voice completely.  I don’t speak.  And then I get mad at myself because by not speaking I have forfeited my right to have an opinion.  And I usually do have an opinion.  And it usually shows up in my writing…when it doesn’t matter anymore.

You can imagine how thrilled I was to discover texting.  A way to have an instant written conversation?  Brilliant!

I have been practicing lately though. Attempting to find my voice in the heat of the moment.  I gave one local doctor a piece of my mind when he made an insulting remark to me.  I was lucky that he was a regular in the coffee shop where I wrote every day because I lost my voice right after he made the comment.  I slept fitfully that night and played over and over again in my mind what I needed to say when I saw him the next day.  I was a wreck.

When I got there he was sitting in the corner.  It took a cup of coffee and an internal pep talk to give me the kick I needed to approach him and give him a piece of my mind.  But I did it!  And it felt good.  I was so proud of myself for finding my voice.  Of course, before I found my voice I wrote about the initial experience.  (You can read it here.) So it wasn’t spontaneous, but I did it.

I’m working on being a better talker.  Finding my words in my heart instead of on my paper.  I never dreamed that a girl so full of words would have such a difficult time giving those words a voice.

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My Life in Letters – “U” is for Ugly Duckling

Me and my theater friend Richard

The other day I was reading the story of “The Ugly Duckling” to Nicholas when it occurred to me how appropriate that story was to my life.

I’ve talked before about how I was never the most popular girl in school. I was never really unpopular,  I just wasn’t popular in the cool I’ve-got-a-boyfriend-and-I-get-invited-to-parties sort of way. I was the girl who didn’t really stand out much. It’s not that I was trying to blend in really, it’s just that I was sort of lacking in the esteem department – apparently mine was on back order. And while I can’t say that the full order has arrived yet, I have, over the years received partial shipments here and there.

In high school I was too busy trying to decide who I was based on other people’s opinions of me.  What I didn’t realize is that the opinion that I was convinced they held of me really only existed in my head.  But I still  “felt” ugly.  And in high school it was all about appearance.   I had short hair, braces and occasionally (when I wanted to see) glasses.  My moxie was undiscovered.

After high school, I grew my hair out, got a job in a record store and started to learn a little bit about myself.  I loved music.  I loved words.  I loved working at that record store.

I found a place where fitting in was actually not necessary – being different worked in a music store.  I wore torn jeans and black jackets.  I had crazy, long, curly, big hair and I sort of thought I might be a little bit cool, maybe.  I still hid behind my self-deprecating humor though because it gave me something to fall back on just in case I wasn’t as cool as I thought.

Me and the record store crew

It’s taken me 42 years to realize that every girl in high school, regardless of her popularity or boyfriend status felt some measure of what I did – some measure of self-doubt and even self-loathing at times.  It’s hard not to when glossy cover girls taunt you at every grocery store check out as their hollow eyes peer into your basket questioning your need for the Cheez-Its and Pop Tarts.  How can one ever measure up?

Now I know that all those years I spent trying to perfect the outer me, would have been better spent nurturing the inner me, the part that would benefit most from the attention.  Hindsight and all that.  Even today I struggle with the esteem issue but I’m learning that in some small way everyone is.  It’s sort of a human plight, I think.  We all feel a bit like the ugly duckling at times, wondering why we don’t fit in, why we’re not like everyone else.

But isn’t that the beauty of it all, that we’re not like everyone else?  Jacob has helped me to embrace this issue.  He’s certainly different from everyone and yet he exudes confidence.  When I was 12 I was so self-conscious, I dropped out of dancing class because I felt out of place.  I wanted to be there so badly, but the discomfort of feeling different far outweighed my desire to keep dancing.  I wish I had stuck with it.  I may not have been the best, but now I”ll never know.  I’ll just play the what-if game every time I watch Dancing With The Stars.

Finally, I found my Moxie

Today I get it.  I know we have all been ugly ducklings, and it’s not ugly in the physical sense I’m talking about.  It’s that ugly feeling we get when we doubt our worth.  Somehow, just knowing that I shared the pond with a whole flock of other girls, whether I realized it then or not, is comforting.

At the end of the story, the Ugly Ducking finds his peeps.  I’ve found mine too and they are what hold me up on the days when I start quacking again.

I discovered this song last year and it pretty much summed everything up for me.  Enjoy!

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My Life in Letters – “T” is for Tourette, Tic and Twitch

Jacob and one of his amazing counselors Rhett

I just got back from picking my oldest up from summer camp.  It was exactly what you would expect from a summer camp – swimming, archery, fishing, arts and crafts, s’mores and campfires mixed with the noise of a hundred plus excited kids.  Some of the noise, however, might surprise some people – grunting, snorting, barking, screaming the sound of a hundred plus kids who have Tourette Syndrome (TS).

Jacob and his counselor Ayan

For these kids Camp Twitch and Shout represents so much more than a chance to  experience a parent-free week surrounded by new friends and plenty of fun.  Camp Twitch and Shout is a refuge for many of them, maybe the only time during the whole year when they can tic without having people judge them.  And for the parents who entrust their children to the camp counselors for 5 days with absolutely no contact, Camp Twitch and Shout is perhaps the only time when they can rest easy knowing their children are not being bullied or made fun of.

Landon, Jacob and David

During the closing ceremonies on Friday I sat back and watched these kids in amazement. One child was pounding his fists into his thighs as hard as he could.  One little girl let out a shrill scream to rival that of any horror flick.  Each one of them struggles on a daily basis to have some control over the tics that have taken over their bodies.  And yet I saw nothing but strength in every one of them.

One of the counselors took the stage and spoke to the crowd.  “I just wanted to say that this is a camp for kids with superpowers.”  At that very moment one of the younger girls screamed.  “See,” he continued, “there’s one now.”  Another camper ticced.  “And there’s another and another over there.”

And I couldn’t agree more.  Are these kids different?  Absolutely.  And although to many the differences to be seen are only the obvious ones, the ticcing ones, to me and to every other parent of a child with TS, the differences go far deeper than that and only serve to validate what we have always known in our hearts, our kids are superheroes.

Our kids are different because they get it.  They live with adversity, so they will seek to banish it in the lives of others.  They stand out wherever they go and it’s not because they have TS, it’s because they are accepting of others who are different.  They are compassionate and tolerant and seek justice for all regardless of what their challenges might be.  They are fearless and truly extraordinary.

How lucky are we as parents to be raising  a new breed of superheros who are certain to make the Justice League look like the comic book characters that they are?

Truth, justice and Tourette Syndrome – history in the making.

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My Life in Letters – “S” is for speed

Jacob and Nick at Camp Twitch and Shout

Built for speed. Hooked on speed. The need for speed. Full speed ahead.

Seems like speed is something everyone is trying to get. The faster the better sort of thinking. I used to think that too.

When I was in high school I couldn’t grow up fast enough. I trudged through each day with my sights on the horizon, looking forward to when I was old enough to do my own thing, no strings attached.

I miss those strings. I wish someone had told me they were simply there to keep me connected, not to tie me down.

And now I have two kids of my own – one who is nearing his teenage years and probably feels a bit tethered at times.

Today we dropped him off in Winder, GA for a week-long overnight camp for kids with Tourette’s- Camp Twitch and Shout. As I was hanging out in his cabin with him, making his bed, fiddling around he sort of turned to me and said, “Well, okay, bye.”

Subtle, right? Here was the child who slept in my bed for the first 7 years of his life. The child who clung to my leg as if it was the only thing keeping him from floating away most days. The child who made my heart beat with a whole new rhythm the day he chose me. Here was my first born fraying the edges of his own strings.

And there I was thinking why in the world did I ever pray for time to move more quickly, because it appears that God was listening and now I can’t seem to get it to slow down enough.

Now I’m all about slowing down, making time stretch as much as I can.

I was reminded of just how quickly times passes on Saturday when we took Nicholas to his first movie – Toy Story 3.  Jacob’s first movie (9 years ago) was the first Toy Story,  so it was a bit bittersweet for me.

On top of that initial heart-tugging memory was the fact that this was the last  Toy Story because Andy is all grows up now.  By this time I was feeling all tangled up in strings and it was nearly too much to bear as I watched Andy part with his beloved Woody and Buzz before he left for college.

College? C’mon Disney give a mother a break.  I can only take so much, you know.

So it’s been a weekend of strings being pulled, wings being stretched, hearts being tugged.  But it’s all good.  I know it’s the way life unfolds – at breakneck speed, once you move that tassel from one side of the mortar board to the other.

But I also know that I need to slow down and enjoy each day I have with my boys.  I need to soak up the moments, even the difficult ones because there will come a day that I wish I could have just one more argument over why Jacob feels the need to litter the floor with pieces of his electronic deconstructions.

I’ll try to remember two of my favorite quotes as I go about each day.  I will try to remember that life happens whether I pay attention or not,  whether I savor the sweetness even when it’s tinged with a bit of bitterness or not.  But I’ll have so many more memories when my boys are gone if I slow down and take it all in.

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. – Lennon

Nothing is worth more than this day. – Goethe

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My Life in Letters – “R” is for Religion

God is in the details

Yeah, I’m brave enough to write about a subject as touchy as religion, because I’m not going to preach here.  In fact, I’m going to do quite the opposite.

I was born into the Primitive Southern Baptist faith.  All I can really remember is that girls could only wear dresses or skirts, and I remember lots of sad, monotonous songs.  I also remember lots of potluck, but that’s an entirely different story.

When I was 8 my mother was in the hospital.  The preacher from our church didn’t come to visit her, but a little Leprechaun of an Irish priest knocked on her door one day and asked if she would like some company.  It just so happened the priest’s name was Fr. Collins.  Collins is my maiden name.

Shortly after that we converted to Catholicism and I left public school to attend private Catholic school.  It was a shock to say the least.  I was terrified at first because I had heard stories about nuns – ruler toting, knuckle -hitting nuns.  Of course, being the good little girl who hadn’t quite found her Moxie yet,  I never had a run-in with any of them.

After I finished Catholic school and its countless mandatory church days, I didn’t attend mass very much.  As years went by I grew further away from the physical church, but found myself feeling more connected spiritually in my own self.

It’s not that I had anything against the church, it’s just that much of the mass had become so mundane to me – not much about the service moved me anymore.  I could recite the prayers without even thinking about them and, to me, that was wrong.

Along the way I’ve tried other churches, other faiths, but I just keep returning to the one that came with me when I was born – my internal spirituality.  My church is within and that works just fine for me.

I have no problem with religion, per se.  In fact, there are several aspects of  my Catholic faith that still resonate with me and give me a great deal of comfort.  It’s just that the organized part of it sort of stopped working for me.

I think spirituality is God-made and religion is man-made. And I’ve seen some of the things that man-made stuff can do.

Religion is no different.  All the rules and regulations, the dogma, the mine is better than yours attitude is very unGod-like to me.

I know I’m treading on thin ground here and I’m not trying to ruffle any feathers, this is a personal choice, not a judgment of others.

Believe me, I have friends who are Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, Agnostic, Atheist, and a whole host of other things.  And I respect each of them equally.

And the way I see it God can go by many names.  I know I do, depending on who  is talking to me.  I can be Michelle, Chell, Moxie, Ginger (yes, that’s my first name), Mom, Momma.  It’s all me.

But one problem I have is when people start to preach to me.  On several occasions I have been judged for having been Catholic.  I was once told, in no uncertain terms, that I was going to hell because I was Catholic.  This was by a religious person – a person who felt he was speaking God’s truth.  Really?

So despite the fact that I’m a good person, who is kind and tries very hard to always do the right thing, despite the fact that I am not a murderer, but a mother of two beautiful boys who teaches them to be compassionate toward others, despite the fact that I pray to God each night – I am going to hell because I was raised Catholic?  Nice.

The God I believe in doesn’t judge me that way.  The God I believe in is in the details.  And I’m a detail.

I wonder what would happen if we all dropped the labels and focused on being kind, compassionate human beings.

I wonder what would happen if we stopped being so judgmental and started just being.

I wonder what would happen if we allowed ourselves to listen to what our internal God is telling us and put on hold the man-made God.  I wonder.

Will you judge today or will you be tolerant of differences and revel in the fact that we all have the same God inside of us?

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My Life in Letters – “Q” is for Quest

photo credit: Gastev

Me and Don Quixote, we have stuff in common. No, I’m not Spanish, and no I don’t have an affinity for windmills or chicks named Dulcinea, but I do have a few quests that I consider myself to be on.  One of which, right now, is personal salvation.

Wait, don’t navigate away.  I’m not going to preach.  I promise.  I’m not that kind of girl.  What I mean by personal salvation is attempting to save myself from getting lost inside my anxiety and occasional insanity, just like old man Quixote.

And like the bedraggled Man of La Mancha, sometimes it feels like an “impossible dream” to finally feel at peace.  But that won’t stop me from trying.

To try when your arms are too weary -

To reach the unreachable star.

This is my quest.

- “Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha

I am driven.  I am Moxie.  I am woman.  Hear me roar.  Or at least cough up a hairball as I try to digest the crap life keeps throwing my way lately.  I won’t give up. I will keep trying.  I will keep reaching.  And I will succeed.  Because I have to.

I have a family who needs me.  And if that isn’t enough, then what is? Plus, I’ve kinda become attached to this thing called life and have been known to enjoy it from time to time, so I’m going to keep on keeping on and keep on trying to figure out this crazy thing called Michelle McGee.

She’s one hell of a girl, you know?  At least that’s what I’m told by a handful of sources.  Maybe it’s just a bunch of hype.  But I’m going to go with the latter and make every attempt to live up to that “hell of a girl” persona.

I have a lot to say.  I have a lot to do.  I am on a quest and woe be to the person who gets in my way because this momma is all that, and then some and is ready to break out of this junk that makes my funk unfunky.

I got plans.  I got windmills to fight.  So I sit on my horse with no name ready to fight the good fight, ready to stand up for the Moxie that is mine.  It’s time to charge those windmills.  But unlike Quixote, my windmills are real.  They stand for all that keeps me from achieving what I want to. All those negative images that crop up to tell me that I’m not good enough, or don’t deserve it.

Unlike Quixote, I am not mad.  I am a woman in turmoil, yeah, but that’s hormonal, I’m sure.  Something Mr. Quixote never had to deal with.  I’ll be good.  In fact, I’ll be damn good.  Cause that’s how I roll.

Impossible Dream?  I think not Don.  Nope, my dream is not only possible, it’s happening…as I write.

And that star?  Unreachable?  No way.  It’s just going to take some perseverance and imagination. And as it just so happens, I have quite a bit of that stored up.  Get ready world.  Here comes Moxie!

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My Life in Letters – “P” is for Parent

As a parent we all want what’s best for our kids. It’s just that some of us want it a bit too much. When Jacob was born I was determined to be the best mom I could. So I watched him and each time he did something normal or abnormal, cute or disturbing I would rush to Barnes and Noble and find a book on it.

I’m not kidding. In fact, the very night I found out I was pregnant, after telling Warner, I drove my newly pregnant, not even showing self to the book store and proudly bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I wanted to get a head start on this whole expecting thing…in case, something unexpected happened.

When Jacob began to exhibit his stubborn nature, I bought books like Parenting the Difficult Child, Your Spirited Child and several other books along the same line.

I read, highlighter in hand, ready to crack Jacob’s code. And as soon as I’d figure him out, he’d change on me again. So I’d move to the next set of books determined to “fix” him, as if he were sick.

Illness came in many forms during Jacob’s younger days. But it usually didn’t come in the form of stomach upsets or rashes.  It was more along the lines of random upsets and rash behavior. I discovered that Jacob was an Indigo child, a spirited child, a gifted child.

When I was a kid, well, I was just a kid. I had an attitude, was a bit sassy at times but my mom didn’t have any books telling her who I was and what she should do to with me. She decided for herself – belt in hand sometimes.

But it seems I turned out pretty okay despite the fact that, since she had read no books, she probably had no idea who the hell I was. I mean she was practically parenting a stranger, right?

When Nick came along I decided that maybe I could do this thing on my own this go round. I was pretty certain that if he was anything like his brother I could rely on the whole been there done that notion.

Turns out he’s very much like Jacob. Turns out I sort of do know what to do – maybe there is something to this whole intuition thing after all.

I’m proud to say that I haven’t bought one parenting book since Nick was born and I haven’t even reread the highlighted parts of the books I bought about Jacob. It’s quite nice. I am finally realizing that Barnes and Noble isn’t just a How-To-Parent store. They actually sell books NOT on parenting.

Now maybe I can find a book to tell me who the hell I am!

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