For those of you who come to my blog for lighthearted humor over marital laundry rules or comebacks to anti-feminist Super Bowl commercials, I’m sorry, this post is not for you. Or maybe it is. Who am I to say you won’t click away from this entry without gaining something from it?

But as I sit down to write this, I’m thinking of the other moms of quirky kids who read my blog; all three or four of you. Or maybe there are more (I hope) of you lurking, which is FINE. (Although my blogging ego loves a comment so if you ever feel inspired to say hey, I’m out here too, go for it.)

I have no other way of connecting to other parents like me than here. Even though I live in a city with a greater area population of more than half a million people, it’s as if I am walking among foreigners, speaking a language they don’t understand.

If I spoke in terms of sensory integration disorder, pervasive development disorder, social impairment, Aspergers, disorder, dysfunction, disorder, disorder, I would speak a language recognized by many different support groups and networks where I live.

But since I speak of giftedness, creativity, multiple intelligences, higher meaning, introversion, and intuition, my words tumble to the ground, seen but not heard, and then swiftly erased by the herd as it stampedes around me.

Oh no, my alien dialect done spooked the herd!

I know there has to be other moms here like me, others I could relate to and share and vent with. But I think we’ve been trained by society to keep our mouths shut. The strange looks that imply you’re in denial, the blank look that says okaaaayyy, the heated disagreements with professionals, the number of times we have to defend our kid, only to do it again and again and again.

I rarely share my perspectives on raising a quirky kid to people in real life any more. Hell, I rarely share that my kid is somehow different than typical. I can’t share his uncommon gifts without appearing to brag. I can’t share his unique challenges without being put under the microscope.

I don’t suppose parents like me were ever really able to talk about these things much, though now with the hysteria over any deviation in childhood development, it feels harder. I wish I could go back and take away every discussion I had with a doctor about his out-of-control temper as a toddler, his hypersensitive hearing, his hypersensitive touch, his appearance of social withdrawal, his obsession with hot wheels/Thomas the Train/sharks/marine science. Would their ignorance be my bliss?

Even though I have learned all of those traits are characteristics of gifted children and have gained a new (and different) understanding of how those traits actually work together for the gifted child’s higher good, my hours and hours of research, my self-taught knowledge doesn’t matter. At least to professionals. All they see is what they are trained to see – disease and dysfunction.

I don’t want to defend again (and again and again) how my son doesn’t have Aspergers, or sensory integration, or ADHD, or what the fuck ever the media wants to obsess over that week.

There are a select few people in real life, maybe two or three, that I’ll share the special parenting challenges I face, bounce off my ideas, ask for advice, or even just vent to.

For the rest, I try to pretend to be your average parent.

I’ve learned most people aren’t open to alternative ideas that differ from conventional understanding. I should have clued in when pregnant and people discovered one way or another (okay, mostly because I was mouthy) that we weren’t planning to circumcise our son. It didn’t matter if I explained the thorough research we did before making the decision. It was still received with odd looks, even looks of disgust, the questions of why, he’ll look different than other boys, etc.

Oh, if they only knew how different he would turn out to be as a human being, his foreskin the very least of it.

So I continue building a reservoir inside myself. Hope springs eternal, so they say. For me, it springs internal. I retreat into myself, my home, and my select few people.

I slowly build a collection of books that support my beliefs so I can turn to them and remind myself yet again I am on the right path when the outside world tells me I’m not. Not that it matters to Them that I’ve done my research. That hasn’t changed. But it matters to me, so I do it. I read, collect, read again, collect some more.

Instead of vibrators with beads and knobby shafts, I have a nightstand drawer devoted to print-outs and pamphlets and tidbits of information I’ve gleaned here and there on raising gifted kids. The contents literally spill over when I open it.

That drawer, my bookcase reaffirms my path and helps me carry on. These things are my rosary beads, this blog is my confessional, and my few confidants my ministers.

It is very much like a religion – faith is the only thing that gets me through.

Note: I have NO idea where this came from. I sat down to write a post on when to fire your doctor. And this came out instead. Weird, this little, insecure Heather. I seriously considered not letting her see the public light of day, because really, who is that voice?! Not me! Oh, no, no, no. I don’t have such self-pity moments! (ahem) But then I wonder, if I did let her out, would the light help her heal?

So the latest mommy blogger angst that has everyone gnashing their teeth while girdling their loins is about PR and blog ethics. Or is it free products and FTC regulation? Or liars and soothsayers? Hell, there’s even something about the energy crisis in there. I keep hearing about a blackout so I’m a bit confused.

I admit I haven’t closely followed this most recent knicker bunching because, frankly, I become bored reading about it. I mean, my husband works in advertising and PR so you have no idea how much of this I already pretend to listen to every night at the dinner table. My talent for feigning interest is reserved for my husband. You can’t accuse me of having my priorities mixed up.

Maybe this makes me an uninformed blogger, maybe it makes me a blogger with just enough of a life outside the computer to say – can we all get over ourselves a little? I’m not really sure which.

I’m confident my blog will survive the energy crisis blackout, but I’m not sure if it will survive if I go against some popular mommy bloggers by not mindlessly agreeing to a sidebar badge proclaiming my integrity.

Obviously this bugs me – this idea of having to publicly declare my honesty. The way I see it, if I have to visually assure you in my sidebar of my integrity, then it’s a lost cause.

The only person who needs to feel secure in my integrity is myself and I don’t need a badge to remind me. As long as I feel secure in my honesty so will you, my lovely reader, and we can all click away from my blog happy and aesthetically pleased by the uncluttered sidebar.

So no, no badges saying I’m not a two-faced lying whore who uses her keyboard to perform dishonest consumer mind-control tricks. Besides, my karma and charisma are so forceful I don’t need one.

The one time I did come face-to-face with a PR rep interested in mommy bloggers, I was a little tipsy during a blog conference cocktail party and I just had to tell him all about the benefits and usage of silicone menstrual cups.

When the inebriated conversation was over, he asked (perhaps jokingly) that I not mention their company on my blog. So now I can only say I don’t pack Fiddle Freddie Sack Cakes in my kids’ lunch boxes because they contain high fructose corn syrup.

People, learn from me. This is how you build good blog karma and avoid unnecessary sidebar badges. Talk about your period to perfect strangers while drunk. PR people won’t touch you and your integrity will be as safe as a virgin’s hymen in a nunnery.

I was ready to record my video job application for the Island Reef Job two weeks ago. I wrote a kick ass script. And rewrote it. Again and again, until it was perfect.

I checked out the competition, watching a few dozen video applications, which caused me to promptly fell asleep. Clearly my video would kick their ass.

I saw people showing off their buff, sleek bodies in swimsuits, as if I were jealous cared. And talking like they are all sorts of more qualified than me with their exotic world travels and EMT/Lifeguard experience.  Finally, I was like, to hell with y’all! You should be scared of me!

Thanks to my marine biology prodigy, I know if a cone snail stings you (if you can call it a sting. It’s more like a tiny harpoon injection) you’re pretty much dead before you even know you’ve been hit. What good is an EMT for that?

I’m all about prevention. I know what one looks like and can instruct you to STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM IT, even though its shell is oh-so-pretty.

What’s more, I know what a blue-ring octopus looks like (it will kill you), a sea snake (kill you!), and a box jelly fish (super kill you!) – all of which are found around Australia. My preventative message is you should pretty much stay the hell out of Australian waters.

Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

I won’t be applying for this dream job.

(can you hear the collective sigh of relief from the competition?)

We were in the car, heading down to Dauphin Island to the aquarium to film my “I got the smarts” segment of the application, when Payton burst into tears.

“I can’t leave Gabby!” (Gabby is his 4-year-old calico cat)

“What are you talking about?”

“We can’t move to Australia for six months! I can’t leave Gabby! Who will take care of our cats? Who will take care of my fish tank? waaaahhhhhh! I just want to visit on vacation, not live there! Waaaaahhhh!”

I swear to god, I need to move to Hollywood instead and have Payton kick Freddie Highmore’s ass at the Oscars because, dramatically speaking, he could.

“But Payton, Grandma would take care of our cats for six months.”

This? Is a total lie. Grandma travels on her job and is gone for two weeks at a time. My sister is mean and cruel to animals, no way would she take them. My dad, well, let’s just say my sister got it from somewhere.

What would we do with our pets?

Parker has never been on board with the idea of entering this contest, bursting out in tears himself every time I mentioned it. Have you ever seen Robert Redford’s famous blue eyes cry a torrent of anguished tears? No? Then you cannot understand my plight.

And then there is Wally’s job. He finally has the job he always wanted and is actually in charge of people. He can’t just up and take a six month leave of absence. He would have to quit, which would mean we’d have to sell our house and then move away from Mobile because there isn’t another agency of the same level here.

So we’d have to move away from the coast with no guarantee we’d relocate along another coast. That means leaving behind the Sea Lab, which has some of the most awesome people who help us support Payton’s gift with marine science.

How many other places would let an eight year old be a docent?

I’m pretty sure this is how life goes on, each day just like another. Dreams sound so wonderful when you talk about them, but then reality (that term is used loosely, as always on this blog) creeps in in the way of children who don’t want to go, spouse careers, and marine biology opportunities that are already in your lap.

Life’s a gamble, so they say. But I keep finding myself playing the safe hand and I’m not sure if I like that.

So I ask myself, what does it mean to live?

Does it mean having exotic adventures? World travel? Eating snails in France?

Or does it mean being present and aware, no matter where you are, even if it’s Alabama?

I’m not sure I know the answer, but there is such a thing as being too comfortable no matter where you are.

It’s time to get uncomfortable. I feel the need for a new adventure, even if it isn’t a chance to move across the world to live on a tropical island for six months.

I’m going to make Wally call about getting his vasectomy reversed.

(I didn’t specify who would be uncomfortable.)

I watched the inauguration on Tuesday.  For an apoliticalist like myself, that’s a testament to my boredom to just how big of a historic moment this inauguration was.  It’s such a testament, in fact, that I hope you are sitting down and prepared to be amazed at my forthcoming political commentary and analysis of President Obama’s inaugural address.

This is what I heard President Obama say:

“Blah, blah, blah, pretty words, blah, blah, blah……We will restore science to its rightful place…”

Now, that right there? Got my attention.  Seems like Obama got himself elected on this idea of change and I hope I can interpret that part of his address to mean he will change the No Child Left Behind Act because is there is anything in this country that does more to displace science than that act of legislation?

Can we put science back in its rightful place while future generations spend almost half of their school day on Language Arts and Reading, and science lessons happen maybe every other week?

I don’t think so.

That needs to change if science is to be restored to its rightful place.  And I’m sure President Obama is going to get on that change straightaway because politicians who make it all the way to the White House are never known for speaking pretty, but empty words.  (i.e. “No new taxes”)

Moving on with the address, President Obama had this to say:

“Blah, blah, blah, more pretty words, blah, blah, great metaphor, blah, blah, PEACE, PEACE, PEACE.”

I picked up on a common thread towards the end of his speech and it seems that PEACE is something he’s excited about.

Yay! Me, too!

Yesterday, as I sat in the school parking lot, waiting for school to dismiss, a big-honking Tahoe parked in the spot right beside me.  The mom in the Tahoe had such a friendly attitude of sharing.  She wanted to share her radio with me because she had it SO DAMN LOUD that I could hear it word-for-word through her rolled-up windows and my own.

There was a talk show on at the time discussing the current mortgage crisis, and how banks are refusing to restructure the terms of loans of homeowners in trouble.  The people on the radio thought the banks should offer low interest rates for these about-to-default people.

I could go off on a tangent here of how I think I should be awarded with a lower interest rate just being smart enough to MORTGAGE ONLY WHAT I CAN AFFORD EVEN THOUGH LENDERS WANTED TO GIVE US ABOUT $50,000 MORE.  Don’t I deserve a low rate just for, like, having prodigious skills with a check register, a paycheck and calculator?

But I won’t go off on that tangent.  Insetad, we’re going to talk about titles.

The show had a caller all afire because a reporter somewhere didn’t use the title of “President” but called Barack Obama, um, Barack Obama.  (Because that’s his name.)

This caller had much to say about respect and earning that title and blah, blah, blah, misplaced righteous anger, blah, and every other President had been referred to with the title.

Suddenly, the show took a very, hmmm, let’s call it racial tone. I read the vibes of the radio waves that this caller was attempting to imply it’s because Obama is a black President, though I still say the man is both black and white, so what the fuck ever.

I wanted to tell this caller that during the Clinton/Bush debates of 1990whenever, that I disctinctly remember Bill Clinton referring to then President George H. W. Bush as “Mr. Bush” and not “Presdient Bush.”

100% true.  (and pretty impressive that a) I watched it, being all apolitical and b) that the alcohol hasn’t killed all my memory. I think this proves all the PSAs telling us alcohol kills brains cells are complete lies made up by the government.  I know you’re shocked to find out the government would actually lie to us citizens, but again, 100% true.)

But the host of this show, well, he said they would find out who this reporter was and “blow him up.”

Well fucking hell, that’s violent, I thought.  I wanted to roll down my window and yell at the mom, “Hey! Do you buy that blowing up shit? Isn’t that, like, totally fucked up?!  What would Jesus do?!”  But I didn’t because she had a preschooler with her and might not appreciate a vocabulary lesson from me.

But then, as the host kept talking about “blowing them up,” (because it was his most favorite solution) I figured out “blow them up” is some new slang for “rip a new one” or “snatch you baldheaded.”

But regardless, isn’t that taking it a bit far, blowing people up for not using the title “President” each and every time we talk about Barack Obama?

How does that fit into Obama’s message of peace?

We’re looking towards Obama to bring about change.  Something tells me we should be looking toward ourselves instead.

Do I have to get out of bed?

Do I really have to take a shower, dry my hair, put on make-up, and generally be presentable? Who really cares what I look like?

Do I really have to make breakfast for my kids? Again? Didn’t I do that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and that, and that, that, that, that?

Look. There’s 10,000 loads of laundry that I really should get up and do. But I’d rather lie here on the couch. In these jogging pants. Without a shower. And no make-up.

Do I really have to parent my children? Can’t I just sit here and stare at them until they read the disciplinary thoughts in my head? Otherwise I’d have to get up and act on this misbehavior, and oh, the effort it takes to, you know, get up.

Good god, if I have to clean this kitchen one! more! damn! time!, I’m going to do things to myself with a steak knife that would give Edward a raging hard on.

These are but a few thoughts that have been running willy-nilly in my head lately. I sigh and huff at my kids more than I laugh and smile at them. I yell more than I should. I scream at the boys to shut up. Anger and frustration twist me into something I don’t want to recognize.

How long has this been going on? I don’t know exactly; long enough for me to notice them. Off and on, off and on they go, I’m sure much like they go off and on in other people’s mind.

Usually I’m quick to get over these thoughts since I’m just not the type to stay down long. But this time, they’re lingering and I don’t understand why.

Could I be *gasp* depressed? More than just the normal lows everyone goes though? Clinical depression does run in my family. This could be the start of it for me!

Certified insanity also runs in my family, but clearly we do not need to worry about me being insane. There are no signs whatsoever on this blog that I could be even the tiniest bit insane.

But depression? Is this its fingers creeping crawling into my mind?

For the first time in my life, I seriously began to wonder if heredity was out to get me.

My grandmother was clinically depressed. So much so that doctors recommended shock treatments as the solution. Though certainly, with “modern” medicine, these were a kinder and gentler shock treatment than years past.

Hahahaha! The shit doctors tell you! Electrical currents straight to the brain works wonders, and is kind and gentle! Ha ha!

What’s funnier is the speed in which we’re willing to believe them, even when they say crazy shit like let’s shoot electricity straight into your brain. Honestly, how are you to tell which one is insane? The one behind or in front of the desk?

What if all my grandmother really needed was to not be such a self-absorbed asshat?

The bug was put in my ear a few weeks ago that depression stems from too much self-absorption.  I’ve been pondering the idea since.

(Disclaimer: I am not dismissing someone else’s depression. I try not to freely mock other people’s pain, only my own. All I’m doing is raising the question that maybe there isn’t a history of clinical depression in my family. Maybe it’s a history of self-absorbed assholes instead.)

I think of my grandmother as I knew her, and she lived until I was 31 so, unlike my paternal grandmother who died when I was 8, I’ve the experience of an adult grandchild and I saw things a child wouldn’t.

Nanny never had any friends.  Not a one.  She didn’t socialized, never had a knitting group or the like. She never worked.   She didn’t volunteer her time to any programs or groups.  She stayed home, ran the household (which, hello?, I know is 1400 jobs within itself) and took a weekly outing to the grocery store.

No damn wonder she was depressed.

I think about the weeks where my emotional state was what could be called depressed.

What was I doing?

I was absorbed with myself.

There were no thoughts of others, even my children, other than the resentment of the work I had to do as a mother.

Either I had been sick, or the boys were sick, or there was testing and I missed three weeks in a row of working in Parker’s classroom.   Wally had taken the two most recent shifts at the Sea Lab.

It was all me, me, me.  Oh, and let’s not forget the poor, pitiful me; pitiful because my life pretty much sucked at the time.

Well, whose damn fault is that?

Now, I don’t think throwing myself into mindless busyness is necessarily the answer.  I’m sure underneath the depression there’s something needing to come up.  But I also don’t think sitting and wallowing in the depression is necessarily going to make it come up any faster.

Won’t the issue rise when the time is right for it it rise?

In the meantime, if giving my time to others (or projects, or whatever it I feel I could do, not out of guilt, but of the simple joy of giving) helps save me from a possible future of electric shock treatments, or even psychotropic medication, and gets me through to the right time for the bubble to rise, then why the hell not?

I mean, before doctors prescribe Lexapro, or whatever the current favored antidepressant medication is at the time, do they ask if the patient a self-absorbed jerk? Do they ask how much time you spend thinking of yourself compared to thinking of others?  Or what have you done for someone else lately?

Maybe they should?

I don’t know.  I just know once I heard that statement and began to think and give to others, I started to feel better.

That’s not to say the depressing feeling hasn’t crept back in. I know there’s something I need to deal with, and I think I have a good idea what it is, but I can’t force the answer to come to me right now.  I can’t force the magical solution, though I wish I could.

But in the meantime, I have some other people to think about.

I’m so sorry I left you hanging on Friday with the story of THE PHONE CALL. Right now, I wish I hadn’t posted on Friday because I myself am tired of the in-law story.

Le yawn.

But I hate to not follow through on something I started. It’s a pet peeve of mine, really, not following through on something I said I’d do, so I’ll try to write this in a way that doesn’t make you le yawn also. I’ll do us both a favor and shorten this to only the enlightened half of the conversation, leaving the sad part out for now.

And watch how I sneak religious talk in here. You know what they say about that and politics. Controversy and in-law angst all in one post!

While my conscience, aka Susan, uses the Paradoxical Commandments as a sort of compass while playing this human game, that’s not all my conscience is about.

Oh no! We could never ever live by one creed alone. That would be boring and dull and very dogmatic. We are the anti-Dogma (not to be confused with the anti-Christ.)

My conscience (or Susan) is a potpourri of wisdom. Not only do we pull from these Commandments (not to be confused with the Ten) and quantum physics, but we use pretty much any teaching that lends to the wisdom of humanity, and this can include The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.

When faced with a sticky situation, Susan often advises me to seek first to understand, then be understood. Like the Paradoxical Commandments, I find this idea appealing, however, there are times (like these) when I must modify it.

Before I called my MIL, I made myself the strongest screwdriver in the history of the world. I knew this was a delicate phone call and I needed my wits but the nonchalant air one strong cocktail brings me.

Me: I’m confused. I don’t understand the problem with Parker’s birthday party.

Her: Problem? There’s no problem except the pond isn’t anywhere to hold a party. The bathroom there is awful, there’s no where to sit, it’s a complete mess out there, there’s no shelter, what if it rains? It’s an embarrassment, really.

Me: Really?

Her: I swear, I swear, I swear that’s all there is to that. It has nothing to do with anyone. I swear.

I’m paraphrasing, of course. Already, this post is too long for late November, the God-forsaken month known as NaBloPoMo. Who wants to read super long posts when your Google reader reaches out to choke you every single time you open it?

This quick into the phone call, I have two options:

A) I can give her the benefit of the doubt and believe that’s all there is to it.

Or?

B) I can look back at history and count the number of times she’s denied there was a problem when there really was one, and believe she’s a lying hag who hasn’t changed a bit.

If I choose A, I could feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. And isn’t that how good people feel on the inside, warm and fuzzy?

If I choose B, it fucks with all sorts of beliefs. This is where studying quantum physics mixed with spirituality gets fun because it makes you own your shit. You create your own reality and you know what that means? I’m creating this reality with my MIL for my human self.

Even Jesus talked quantum physics, but back then it was called Matthew 9:29 and not quantum physics. It is done unto you as you believe = create your own reality. Tada! Quantum physics straight from the Bible.

Honestly, I can’t understand the separation of science and religion? It’s right there in the book.

Choosing option B, I would fall back to the old idea that people can’t change. Do you know what that means? It means you and I can’t change either and we’re still the know-it-all asses we were in our early 20’s.

Now, I know I’ve changed over the years, so that puts a big fail whale in option B, unless we consider the unprovable but interesting quantum possibility of split universes and half dead cats in a box.

See, just like religion, quantum physics has many unanswered questions. And dear reader, I can hear your questions now…

Not all people are capable of change, right? You may have changed, but what if the in-laws haven’t? Or you may have both changed, but the change could be in different directions? Say, a direction to another semi-parallel universe?

Yes, dear reader, those are all valid questions. But I have a new question to add in the mix.

What if I’m the only one who has to change?

If nothing is real until it is observed, then me changing my observation will change the observed.

Wait. Was that all sorts of crazy that just farted out of my brain straight to the keyboard?

Oops, I’ve really fucked up now, letting you into the vast depths of my brain. Let’s back up so I can eat my words and then simplify them into something more sane-sounding.

What I’ve learned so far is that deep, deep down, I must wish to see less phone calls in the world. My MIL said they would call us back about Parker’s party, but we’ve yet to hear from them. There’s still time, I suppose, so I’ll keep holding my naive breath just a little longer.

P.S. I was completely sober the entire time I wrote this post.

P.P.S. That one sentence above is probably scarier than this entire post, isn’t it?

Have you heard about our new President? His name is Obama and apparently this is some kind of a historic moment for our country; one that will change history and supposedly unite our country once again.

I have just one question, though.

How in the hell do we expect one man to unite an entire nation when we can’t even unite with our own families?

Because, really? If you read the comments, there’s some serious non-united family crap going on.

There were many opinions (which I did ask for and you were kind, so thank you!) that I stay out of the in-law business and let Wally handle it. I have just one thing to say to that.

Boo!

People, it’s obvious I am all up Wally’s ass with this reunited-and-it-feels-so-good family mantra for the GOOD OF OUR COUNTRY! I’m making Obama’s job easier for him.

Right here? Right at this point in the story I started writing two weeks ago but didn’t finish? This is where my moral high horse bucks me off and I come *this close* to a landing face first in pile of bullshit.

I thought I was wrong, oh so wrong, to believe things could be different. I thought I would have to revert to using the word “ass-laws” again. But that’s putting it politely. I really thought things that included words like ‘motherfucking assholes’ and other curse words that start with a ‘c,’ which I won’t utter here.

What? As few as they are, I actually have some writing standards on my blog.

To make a long story as short as I can, I’ll forgo creative writing and tell it like it is:

Parker’s birthday is the week following Thanksgiving. Since our entire family, Wally’s sister included, would be gathered in the same town during Thanksgiving, we plan to have his birthday party while there. It would be the first opportunity my sister-in-law has ever had to attend one of her nephew’s birthdays.

My sister-in-law announced she would be too tired to attend. I love how these people predict the future, don’t you? They know an entire two weeks ahead how they are going to feel on a certain day. It’s amazing!

My father-in-law announced he didn’t want to attend. I don’t remember the reason except that it was total bullshit and I’m pretty sure it involved not wanting to be around my family. Because all my family has ever done to them is accept and love their son.

My mother-in-law actually wanted to come.

Wally and I are ever resourceful, so we worked around FIL’s excuses and asked to have Parker’s party out on their land, which has a stocked pond. We made the party a wienie roast/bonfire party. The boys love to spend time out on the pond and Parker was excited to have his party there.

Father-in-law says yes, we can do that, so we proceed with plans.

But then, a week later? He tells Wally we can’t have the party there. Again, there were bullshit reasons such as they didn’t do parties like this for Wally and his sister and being too tired from cleaning house. Again with the future predictions. It’s amazing! Clearly my in-laws are not familiar with the current over-the-top birthday parties of my generation and can’t appreciate how very toned down and simple this party is.

When Wally says, “Fine, we’ll move it to Heather’s sister’s house,” there is immediate balking on FIL’s part. Something about a road they won’t go down. I’m not really sure BECAUSE ALL I HEARD IN MY HEAD WERE MORE COLORFUL CURSE WORD COLLECTIONS!

I wanted to shoot my moral high horse in the head I was that angry. How dare these *insert colorful curse word collection here* treat not just Wally, but our son this way. HOW DARE THEY! WHAT KIND OF *more colorful curse word* GRANDPARENT DOESN’T WANT TO GO TO THEIR GRANDCHILD’S BIRTHDAY PARTY?

And worse? I thought I’d been a naive fool to believe it could be different. I thought this is the end of the relationship. Mostly, I thought that because that’s what Wally said over and over after that phone call.

Dear reader, this is where I was sorely tempted to follow the advice some of you gave. This is where I was ready to relinquish the idea that we could somehow mend this rift, and the spend the rest of my days resenting these people.

If I stacked up the reasons, I’d be well justified to do just that.

The only problem is that I actually do have a conscience and it’s name is Susan.

Susan frequently brings up the Paradoxical Commandments to me. (see her comment) Something about those commandments ring true, as least as true as things can get when you study quantum physics as part of your religion.

I reread those commandments, and then I did the exact opposite of what so many people tell me to do.

I stuck my nose right into the big pile of bullshit.

I called my mother-in-law.

It was the saddest yet most enlightening conversation I’ve had with her.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story.

Ok, so I’m going to admit that I don’t really believe I’m a dull wallflower.

I tell myself that but then I read about my friend, Ali and the famous people she’s photographing or meeting, and how her butt looks good in a g-string, and pictures of her drinking with friends on her birthday. Sigh

It’s not that I’m a dull wallflower, it’s just that I lead a dull life. Let’s blame Ali for my sudden obsession with moving away to Scotland, which is really nothing more than me overcompensating for my insecurities.

But no, once you get to know me, I’m not dull. I’m a very complex and intriguing person who can go from fart jokes to deep metaphysical theory in 6.5 seconds.

For example…

I made a bold move yesterday and called the mom of one of Payton’s friends from class. She and I chatted about room stuff, homework, and other general things, including how long we had until our kids found out about Santa Claus.

It was all moving right along and I thought, oh look at me! Making a new friend. See! This isn’t hard after all! Go me!

So we were talking about Santa Claus and how we hoped we had another 2 years to pretend and blah, blah, blah, that’s when I decided to go from the Gapmom who tells fart jokes to my deep metaphysical theorist self.

“Well, I’m not entirely convinced Santa Claus isn’t real. I mean, he could be. For all I know, I am a figment of Santa’s imagination and he’s the real one. Maybe he has made me and everyone else up just so he has something to do on December 24th.”

Silence from the other end of the phone. For some insane reason, I take this as my cue to continue with the psychobabble.

“It’s entirely possible, you know. I can’t prove that I exist, so how can I prove Santa doesn’t exist?”

Dead silence followed by nervous laughter from the other end of the line.

I suppose the fact that I have few real-life female friendships has nothing to do with being dull. With a mind like this, how could I be dull?

It really has to do with the mental flatulence that comes out of my mouth in 6.5 seconds.

I wrote this post yesterday morning, after I dropped the boys off for their first day at school…

Today is the first day of school and I’m sitting here in a house of absolute silence. Except for the refrigerator humming, which I’ve never really noticed before, probably due to the constant sounds from Nickelodeon, the Wii and the screams from the most recent Band of Brothers battle.

Now the refrigerator stopped and this is total silence. My ears don’t know what to do with themselves.

Both of my boys are in school. Both of them. Even my baby.

I thought I would be a pile of blubbering mess by now, but I’m not. There was a moment in the car when I turned back and looked at Parker, sitting in his booster seat with his school uniform on for the first time and, had I been alone, I would have bawled right then. But I didn’t want to upset Parker, who was feeling a little nervous on his first day, so I sucked it up.

This is my sixth year of first days of school. Payton started mom’s day out when he was 2.5 years old and today started second grade.

For the first time in six years, I’m not an emotional train wreck.

For the first time ever, Payton started school just like every other kid.

For the first time ever, Parker started big school, and he too started just like every other kid.

For the first time ever, I was able to walk out of the school without fighting back a torrential flood of tears. Not because of sentimentality, but because I didn’t literally drag anyone (read: Payton) into the building, pry my son (read again: Payton) off of my legs, have the teacher physically restrain him and then walk away as I hear him screaming, as if I’m breaking his heart from abandonment, “Mama! Don’t leave me! Come back, Mama! Come back!”

Today is a bigger milestone in my life than even I thought it would be.

Parker was such a big boy on his first day of kindergarten. He put his backpack up, turned in his lunch money, found his seat and started his work. He gave me and his dad hugs and kisses and that was it.

So this is the kindergarten experience most other mothers have. I never knew.

Isn’t it funny that of all the things that got to me, the fact that he is going to be a tray-luncher today instead of lunch-boxer is what bothered me? Just imagining him walking through the cafeteria with a green lunchroom tray in his hands somehow screams NOT YOUR BABY ANYMORE! more than anything else. Odd.

Payton?

Wow. Payton on his first day of second grade.

Wow.

He got dressed for school with no drama; no crying, screaming or kicking. He walked into the school. Walked, not dragged. He went to his classroom with no crying, talked to his teacher, and I was able to wave bye and leave him without someone holding him back.

I’m almost speechless at the transformation from the total hell that was last year and the year before (and before that and before that and before that). I don’t know if there are any words to describe how I feel right now.

It’s like the weight from years of worry is suddenly gone and I could float off into the sky, all the way to the moon if I wanted.

Ok, now I start to cry.

I no longer have to hold my breath, swimming blindly in a stormy sea of confusion, desperately trying to convince everyone (including myself) there is nothing wrong with my son, until I’m sure I’ll drown in the emotional hurricane.

Today, I won’t sit here and worry how Payton is all day long, tense and tight until 3:15. I won’t worry that he’ll disrupt the class, require counselor intervention, or that he’ll try to run away from the school again. I’m not flinching when the phone rings, dreading to see the school’s number on caller ID. I’m not scouring my books, lining up my defense and authoritative evidence, ready to shine the light on the real life with gifted children and open people’s eyes to something other than disorder.

Today, I won’t calm myself in a mug of Irish Creme with a splash of coffee.

Instead, I popped open a bottle of champagne and made mimosas in celebration. After the second mimosa, I went straight for the champagne.

This is a big moment and I deserve it.

It was suggested recently that I look into sitting on the PTA board of Payton’s school.

At first I found the idea funny because, if you didn’t know, I’m a bit of a non-conformist. I’m the type who looks at things and wonders why we do this or that and almost never accepts the reason of ‘it’s always been that way’. I’m not sure my authority-flaunting ways would be an asset.

But I am trying to open my mind more. This is a nice way to tell myself I’m trying to not be such a stubborn and pig-headed ass.

There was one position left open on the board and I did consider it. But when reading the duties of the position, I immediately hit a snag.

Part of the responsibility is to secure people to lead the Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer before each PTA meeting.

While I have non-conforming thoughts in regards to teaching children by rote to pledge their allegiance to a country when they can’t grasp meaning of their words, I can actually shove that internal conflict to the side and roll with it.

See, I can compromise at times.

But the prayer before each PTA meeting?

This is a much deeper conflict for me. Without any thought at all, as soon as I read those words, the feeling hit me. I don’t know how to describe it other than repulsion or disgust.

Maybe it’s being raised in the South where we shove religion down your throat. And it isn’t like we’re shoving a positive and loving religion down your throat either. It’s called the Bible Belt for a reason. Religion is here to whoop your ass if you step out of line.

Imagine growing up in a predominately Baptist small town in the deep, deep South like me. When dancing, drinking, and anything that might constitute a good time is wrong, the Belt stays busy whooping that ass.

And you all know how I feel about my dancing, drinking and good times.

What confuses me more is that I’m not un-religious. Well, I take that back. I’m not un-spiritual. I do have issues with organized religion though.

I thought to myself…well, I could introduce my type of prayer. I could see if my spiritual leader would be interested in doing the prayers.

Heh. That’d be fun!

But I still come back to the question.

What does praying have to do with PTA? It’s the PTA for pete’s sake.

And the feeling of religion being thrown in my face at every turn comes back.

Is this a Southern thing? Or do most other PTA meetings across the country start with praying too?

Not that I think that would say a whole lot either seeing how our country was started by Puritans. Not the healthiest mindset in regards to God.

I wonder if European PTA-type meetings pray too. As a white person, I do love all things European. And hey, even the Puritans were too uptight for them.

About my un-religiousness. I do work for a church. That’s the part-time gig I’ve had for three years now. And the minister reads my blog. Each and every post. So do some members of the church. I’m also a board member at this church. The reason why is that I can talk about my hang-ups with religion and God…even to the point of discussing whether God even exists or if we humans made it up. And it’s ok. Especially the drinking, dancing and fun part. That’s way more than just ok with my church.