New Year!

Welcome, 2011!!! I am so frickin' glad to see you! 2010 was not my favorite, not by a long shot. You, 2011, you I have high hopes and expectations for. You will bring new starts, new changes, new chances. You will bring new friends! You will carry me back to the Rockies. And you will not pull any rugs out from under me, okay? Can we shake on that? Alrighty then.

New Year's Eve was a very chill event this year. Really, it usually is. We don't go out in the crazy crowds of drunken revelers. Some years, we've spent drunkenish revelry safely at a neighbor's house while kids sledded the teensy hill at the end of the block. But mostly, we're major New Year's Eve homebodies. This year was amplified by it being Friday, and I had done quite a bit more than usual on Friday this week, and I was tired. I got some silly string and some sparklers, some orange juice to mix with my icky-tummy Fresca. We mixed some virgin mimosas, toasted with Connor, chased each other around (well, me and Connor) with the two cans of silly string, then swept up the carnage, got him in his pull-up and his puppy-footed jammies and froggy boots, and out on the deck we went with sparklers. It was about 7:30. We yelled, "Happy New Year!!!" and hooted and hollered and danced about with our sparklers (one each. It went quickly). I'm sure the neighbors suspected we couldn't tell time... but who gives a rip?

Then back inside, I retreated to my upstairs domain of Tylenol and cough syrup, Connor went to bed shortly thereafter, Jim came up at 11:59 and we counted down from 10, the end. Yay! 2010 goes into the books. 2011 is HERE! I have been so anticipating 2011. Why, you may ask? So many things are in the works for this year! And when I can say, "This year we're going to ________________" it just feels so much more imminent and real than saying "Next summer we're going to ________________". I'm going to try out a few of these, just to demonstrate...

This year, we're leaving west Michigan!
This year, my treatment will be over!
This year, we are moving to Montana!
This year, Connor will be 5!
This year, I will sew, open an Etsy shop with the MI-Ties, and begin to rely on my craftiness rather than the establishment for my income and well-being.
This year, Connor will go to kindergarten! (Holy holy holy shit!!! Already?! Finally?! Time is sooooo weird watching a kid grow.)
This year, I will learn new outdoorsy skills. Maybe kayaking? Maybe whitewater rafting? Definitely skiing once the snow falls in Montana.

See? See how much more imminent and real it sounds when you get to preface a statement with 'this year'? And I get so much hope and energy and motivation from those words: 'This Year'.

Also this year, no resolutions. Only resolve to remember some things...

I can trust the universe.
I am capable.
I am talented.
My life is more full when it is more simple.
Taking care of myself IS taking care of my family.

So:
Simplify
Trust
Accept the challenges that find their way to me with grace
Take risks
BE fucking PRESENT

I will turn 45 this spring. That feels like a nice, solid, strong number-place from which to launch into the world again. A good place to go find my bliss, my grown-up bliss this time. My authentic, true, honest self. And having made that determination... I feel free, and alive, and purposeful.

Wishing all good things for all those that I love, those that I know, those that I'm going to meet on this next leg of my journey.

Bull-headed little monkey... wonder where he gets that...

Oy. The Boy was truly amazingly stubborn today. He was sooooo cute in the doing of it though. He finally spilled his little dudely guts to Papa once Papa got home. It was all cool, though not as minor as I would have hoped...

So, this afternoon, I'm sitting on the couch after working on Mom's book for a while. Connor, who has been hanging in the dining room with some Johnny Test on Netflix, comes slinking through the living room, in monkey print footie jammies and his silky blue cape, looking much like Rilo does when she has pooped in a carpeted closet. Seriously. We have two carpeted areas in the house; Connor's room and my closet. Those are the only places in the house she ever poops, and damn, can you see it in her little doggie slink. Anyway...
Here comes Connor all slinky-ass. He says,
"I need to go to my room." This is completely out of the ordinary, other than when he is trying to avoid getting caught at something, for instance, cutting all his shoelaces up with my kitchen scissors, or having taken my Blackberry apart and put the battery, cover and base phone unit in three different places. Argh...
Me: "What happened, sweetie? Why don't you show me?"
Him: "Nope. You won't like it."
Me: "Ummm... well, why don't you show me anyway. I'm not going to get mad at you, but I need to see what happened. If you spilled something, or broke something, it needs to get cleaned up."
Him: "Well, you won't like it. I don't feel like telling you."
Me: (Internally) goddammit kid, what the fuck? really?! what the hell did you do?
       (To him): "Okay. I'm going to go in the dining room, and see what it looks like happened."

There is nothing obvious in the dining room. My computer is not wet, it is not sticky. Connor suggest I look near the drawers, in which are the electronic gizmos like chargers and cords, and various and sundry other things... not all electronic, but... lots of stuff. I look under. Can't see anything that would for even a moment cause the cageyness that he's demonstrating. I think. I check in the drawers. I check Papa's guitar, which is leaned against the pass-through. All fine. I check the bookshelves for damage or missing items. Nada. Holy hell! What has gotten him sooooo knowing that I will not like whatever it is that a) he's willing to go take himself to his room to be alone and b) I can't fucking find whatever it is? Like, this should be something major, and I'm just not seeing ANYTHING!!

Okay. So, Jim calls, we go pick him up at the bus stop downtown. We go pick up pizza, and I tell Jim about this most confusing behavior, and that after many attempts, we have decided that Connor will hang out upstairs until he is completely ready to tell Gramma what happened that he is so worried about, and to trust Gramma to not lose her marbles IF he provides the information, and Gramma doesn't have to have any, ahem, nasty surprises. We've traveled the 'nasty surprise' road. Blech. He played in his room for like 2 hours, coming down for a hug and another couple minutes of talking every 15 or so. He would come down, get real snuggly, tell me he was ready, he thought, to talk to me about his worries. I had to close my eyes and my mouth, and hold him, and he put his fingers IN my ears, and told some truly imaginative stories.
"I was drinking icicles." (Yeah, no. I knew for a fact he hadn't opened any doors, and besides, he can't reach the icicles yet. They aren't that long. Not to mention, who the hell d'ya think showed the kid that icicles are yummy? That's right... that would be Gramma.)
"I was climbing the highest tree. With all the ice." See above re: sliding door.

*sigh*

But really, it was kind of awesome! He played really happily, and very creatively, and I hung on the couch at the bottom of the stairs, waiting, and reading, and kinda vegging, which is pretty much my MO this winter. Really, if fear of getting in trouble is all it takes for him to take himself upstairs to his room and not even want TV, we should do this more often. No. Wait. Kidding...

So, we get home, having told the tale to Papa, and I swear, about 5 minutes after coming in the door, and finding absolutely nothing of concern in the dining room, Papa looked at Connor and said,
"Was it IN the dining room? Or where you downstairs?"
Holy shit. Duh!!!
"I was in the basement... Sorry Papa."
"Let's go take a look. It's okay."
*sigh* "Oooookaaaaayyyy...."
Resignedly, Connor follows Papa downstairs.

Turns out, the little mongrel, for whatever reason, decided he felt like he should climb up on the washing machine, and had used the door to the dryer as a step. It apparently made a noise that freaked him out, and he hightailed it upstairs and slunk through the living room on his way up to his bedroom, at which time he ran into me.

So, no yelling ensued, it appears the dryer still functions, although I won't know for sure until I run a load tomorrow. Hopefully, we don't have to add 'dryer' to the list of things in need of replacement when we leave...
And most importantly, hopefully Connor will be a little more willing to tell us what's up, and also develop an awareness that he cannot slink past Gramma without her noticing. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, as it were.

Ooooooo!!! Turnips!!! I should get some turnips...
God I'm easily distracted these days... someday, my brain will figure out a way to ooze back into my skull. Like, when Kindergarten starts next fall? At least maybe it can ride around on my shoulder then, rather than having to be hunted down every. damn. time. I need it?

It never rains...

So, my daughter, my lovely wonderful smart funny thoughtful daughter, is imploding again.

The phone calls apparently started around 8:30 on Saturday evening. Usually this means she wants a ride, or me to bring her something. With the current state of things here, me being on the icky medication and tired tired tired all. the. time. and her being 20, I am not down. So, I ignored it, and turned off my ringer so I could go back to sleep. Apparently, the calls didn't stop.

Around 2am Jim comes up and says, Cassady is calling again. I ignored it. Was that bad? My response? No! It's fucking 2am!!! Not cool, not okay, she's not 15, she's 20. She's chosen to be a party girl despite everything, we have other things to think about, like, who's getting up with Connor (HER son!) in another 3 hours. She makes her choices, she has to deal with her consequences. And we parent her seriously major life choice every day while she continues to flail. Then, a bit later, 2am again, only 3 to our brains as the clocks had JUST gone back that hour, our son calls. He is with his sister. She is not in good shape. She is covered in blood and cuts and bruises, and is high as a kite, and has just seen a friend completely freak out on acid, smashing all of his material possessions and putting his arms through his bedroom window, resulting in life-threatening arterial slice to an arm. Jorma asks if we want him to take her to his house for the night, he's got her out at the 24 hour diner having coffee, and she can crash on his couch, but can we please come get her sometime on Sunday? Holy hell. Oh. My. God. Yes, please, and of course we can.

This was the culmination of a couple rough weeks for her... stress with a straight job, a boy doing the 'it's not you, it's me' thing, too much alcohol, checking herself into a mental health crisis center for a week, missing all the Halloween parties. Gotta make up for missing those... yeah. How'd that work out for ya'?

*sigh*

So, she got sent back to California, back to her grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins, where she usually does well, where people get her, get us, get her life history, and adore her in all her crass, loud, emotional, creative, brilliance. By the time she gets to her usual desire to split from there, we'll be gone from here, so if she wants to come back to the cesspool again, it's all on her. She'll be 21 in March. I'll be in Montana by mid-June. Her brother will likely be in Ann Arbor. No family to come back to. If these people she thinks are her friends are enough to pull her in again, well, nothing I can do to stop it, but for sure nothing I'm going to do to facilitate it. I'm quite sure she can and will eventually pull her head out of her ass and be just fine. Just hoping that can happen without prison or death coming first.