So I did it. I put myself out there. I took what I was thinking, threw it onto paper (er, the computer), and even threw in an old poem that was banging around in my head.
“Write what you want to write,” they all said. So I did.
I tossed aside the whole parenting thing for a minute, and I was just ME. Then I put it up on my blog for the whole world to see.
One person liked my blog link on Facebook. (Thanks, Glenn.)
Three days went by, and someone said they liked my poem. Which was incredibly generous, I think. (Thanks, Chris.)
My blog readership is very low, and especially low since I’ve been inconsistent in the timing of my posts for the past several months. Truly, I wasn’t expecting people to emerge from the woodwork saying, “Wow, Kirsten, I like this!”
But the lack of comments is disheartening. I am the type of person who believes that no one likes me – until proven otherwise. I probably get that from my ridiculously supportive parents, who have encouraged me to write from the age of 8, and who have positively commented on every single blog post I’ve written for more than three years.
Until the last one.
After the last one, there were only crickets. (Thanks, Mom and Dad.)
But instead of being upset with my parents – who probably never gave it a second thought and may not have even read the blog post – I am going to GROW UP. I am going to hold my head high and say, “Well, I wrote for me, which is all I ever wanted to do.”
And then I am going to keep writing anyway because I’m not writing for positive reinforcement. I am not writing for my parents. I am not writing for anyone who actually read this post the whole way through. I’m writing because it helps me to figure out me.
Truthfully, this is rather dull subject matter for anyone except me. But I’m running with it anyway. And for those of you who really only wanted to hear about my poor, now-ignored children and my revelations about parenting, I would like to apologize.
I have other things to say, and my kids are practically grown. My past is going to leak in, because it’s stuck in my head permanently. And it helps me to remember that there are more important things in this world than chasing what I want, or getting what I want right now.
So I will keep writing. And I will stop looking for validation. I hope people will read this anyway, but I’m okay if no one does.
Thanks for listening.
When I was younger, I went in search of myself in a big way. I’d been a quiet, fearful child with a sensitive heart – and I determined that being such a child was not going to help me in life. I rebelled in a big way, and left my happy home to live a life that was – emotionally and spiritually – as far from my parents’ way of life as I could be.
The only thing I’d ever been sure about, even then, is that I wanted to have kids and dogs. Nothing else much mattered to me (and honestly, I haven’t changed that much). Dogs are my happy place. And I’ve always deeply loved children. In fact, it’s why I now teach.
But one day, while living my rebel life, I walked on a small, sandy beach in my leather boots and torn blue jeans. There, I saw a little girl, maybe five or six years old. Forgetting my own appearance, my inner self reappeared, and I smiled at her.
The child’s eyes grew wide with horror and she started to cry, running back to her family on the sandy bank. And then I remembered: I’m no longer the person I was raised to be.
I had not only changed my lifestyle; I’d changed who I was.
I never forgot that little girl, looking up at the creature I’d become. And today, 30+ years later, I remembered, word for word, a poem I wrote that has been lurking in the back of my brain about that very incident.
It’s not my best writing, but it lives in my head, reminding me that once, long ago, I fought my inner self with such ferocity that even small children couldn’t see through the facade. It’s a painful memory – and one I hope I never lose.
“A child ran from me today,”
I whispered to him as we lay
making love in rows of vegetables somewhere.
“Why?” he whispered, kissing me,
but I just shrugged because he
ran his fingers down through my long hair.
And as we rode out in the sun,
I thought I felt that child run
back in the corner of my mind.
A sign said, “Grapeville, just one mile!”
(I scared that child with my smile.)
And then I turned away from all the signs.
KLMH circa 1987
I keep thinking about March – the day the world started shutting down. I remember telling my kids: “If we all stay indoors and don’t go anywhere for awhile, the virus will die because it won’t have anywhere to go.”
Science supported this, of course, but that didn’t matter. The “world” shut down, except… the hospitals stayed open. Firefighters, police officers and garbage men continued to work. Gas stations and auto repair shops stayed open. Banks. Grocery stores. And lots, lots more were “essential.”
So of course, people went out. The world never actually shut down, because people were too busy taking care of people.
And the virus continued to spread. At first, we bemoaned the losses of great doctors and nurses who were trying to heal the sick. I remember watching a video of a doctor in the spring, with the doctor saying, “Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.” He was demonstrating how you get COVID, while assuring us that we could stay healthy by staying clean.
That doctor was on national TV. Then he disappeared, like viral sensations often do. Theories of how to stay safe abounded, vanished, started anew.
More than six months later, the country is “open for business as usual” in many places. Where I live, it is not. Our county is still on the uptick with viral counts and, like many places, we plan to stay closed until we have the illusion of control again.
But every day, since I am doing nothing else, I read the news. There is a great divide between people. There are those who are still in their homes – like me – carrying a mask in my pocket even while I walk the dog in solace. And then there are people who talk about “not being afraid,” who seemingly don’t care if they get – or transmit – the virus. The most frightening photos are the White House photos from September 26. But politics doesn’t determine common sense, does it?
Like everyone else, I want it to be over. I want to go back to my life, my job, my friends. I want to find a way to exist – for my family to exist – outside of this bubble. But I’m not going to contribute to the problem while I’m waiting for a vaccine.
I believe with every ounce of my being that there will be a vaccine, and that it will be available by summer of next year. It’s going to be a very long, agonizing wait to see if I’m right. But one day at a time, I am willing to wait, to stay masked, to stay away from people, to do the right thing.
It’s working in other countries. Yes – there’s virus everywhere. But the numbers – the sheer numbers – are staggering. Spain, Italy, Germany, France, and the U.K. combined have only 152, 271 deaths as of today. We have almost 210,000.
Lest we think it’s a population thing, Brazil – which is struggling mightily – has 4.9 million cases and it’s still nowhere near our 7.4 million. And Brazil didn’t even report cases until May – more than two months after we found the virus here. We had 35,500 cases JUST YESTERDAY! Brazil? They had less than 8,500 yesterday.
On this side of the pond, Canada swiftly shut its borders, which proved to be an act of brilliance. Canada – the entire country – has 2,000 fewer cases of coronavirus than our state of Pennsylvania.
There are three times as many people living in Canada. If that doesn’t say something about being spread out and staying away from people, I don’t know what does.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why so many people refuse to just do what is needed to get us out of this mess.
I nearly tiptoed to Dylan’s room today, wanting to make sure he got enough food to eat before he left for work. Dylan has a tendency to race out the door for a 10-hour shift with nothing but a jar of peanuts and a bottle of water.
I knocked quietly and Dylan opened the bedroom door. I started speaking quietly. “I’m sorry to bother you but I am hoping that you will get enough to eat today….”
Within a span of two minutes, I had blown up. I was screeching like a crow. “YOU DIDN’T WASH YOUR WORK CLOTHES YET?!?” Screeeech screeech screeeech…. An awful sound.
A few minutes later, I apologized for my behavior. Again.
Dylan said, “It’s interesting timing because I just realized that I beat myself up now every single time I make a mistake.”
A mistake? He made a mistake?
I didn’t even know what Dylan was talking about: “mistake.” Whatever it was that made me yell, Dylan had not done it on purpose.
I suddenly realized that Dylan wasn’t doing the stupid things he does on purpose. He wasn’t “not caring” about the things I’d asked him to do, which is the way I always see it. Dylan was not being obstinate.
He just made a mistake.
And I screamed at him as if he’d clubbed some frail old woman in the knee.
This wasn’t the first time this had happened. In fact, I’ve been doing this for his entire life. Every time he made a mistake, I yelled at him. Because I truly believed that Dylan – with all his ADHD and quirkiness – was deliberately doing the wrong thing.
I remember the first time I yelled at Dylan. He was tiny – not even two – and I handed him a very fragile Christmas ornament. I said, “Be very careful. Don’t drop it or it will break!” I was trying to show him that I trusted him to take care of something important.
And I swear: Dylan slammed that ornament down on the tile floor like it was his only mission in life to break it.
As it shattered, I exploded too. He had purposefully broken my prized ornament! As I screamed, I could see his tiny face go from its normally smiling position to one of complete confusion.
His eyes got wide; a frown appeared. I’d never seen that face before. It’s the face of a child who’s truly hurt.
Dylan had no idea what he’d done wrong. And since he was so young, I will never know if he broke that ornament on purpose. Heck, maybe he just wanted to see if I was right that it would break.
The only thing I remember is: my yelling hurt my baby.
I picked him up, then, and cuddled him and apologized and said it was okay. I told him we would learn how to clean up the pieces together, and we did. And from that moment on, things that were obvious mistakes – spilled milk, a broken glass, a button off a shirt – those things were received with calm reassurance that it wasn’t the end of the world.
But the rest of Dylan’s mistakes – those where that I thought he should have known better, but he didn’t? Those were met with the horrific, roaring monster that “Mommy” became. For his entire life.
So today – far, far, far too late – that stops. It just stops.
That kind of hurt – the kind I’ve instilled – will never go away. But at least I can stop instilling more pain.
Please, God, help me stop.
Since there is a pandemic, I am not working. My job was to substitute teach – which I loved – and to teach sick kids who couldn’t regularly attend school.
Since no one is regularly attending school right now, my job is on temporary hold. But I am okay with this. Work is not my favorite thing.
Still, it would be nice to have some purpose. Fortunately, I have a dog. Loki sleeps in my room – something I now wish fervently that I had done with my prior dog – a dog I miss dearly every day.
Even my husband doesn’t sleep in my room, because he wakes me up every time he moves. So having the dog nearby isn’t necessarily my favorite thing either. Fortunately, the dog sleeps on the floor.
Still, he wakes me up every morning. Sometimes it’s 8:00 – which is still better than a regular school day – and sometimes it’s 10:00. Otherwise I would sleep all day long.
I get up and feed the dog. On most days, I then walk the dog. And then I look around aimlessly for something to do. Mostly, I plop myself down on the computer and look at colleges for Shane. Sometimes I research food issues and autoimmune disorders. If I’m feeling really bored, I play SongPop, my favorite – and only – video game addiction.
Since the pandemic, though, even SongPop is dull. It used to be an escape from my everyday life. Now I am always “escaped” from my everyday life.
Some days, I go for a bike ride, or I read a book, or I sit on the porch. But it’s not quite the same, no matter what happens. There are things I can do – like volunteer – but I am choosing to stay home and safe(r).
Last week, Shane had a big day, and he hit the nail on the head. His big day included picking up books at the library, driving practice, and helping a friend walk her foster dog.
Shane said, “I’m going to the library, but I’m not going in the library. And then I’m going to drive, but not on actual roads. Then I’m going to walk dogs, but I’m not walking not my dog.”
Everything feels that way right now – almost normal, but not quite.
Shane and I went to the grocery store last night, late. We go late so that we can avoid the majority of the people who shop. The store was fairly empty and we were running through, grabbing stuff, when I came around a corner and nearly bumped into someone.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice muffled by my mask.
As soon as I spoke, I froze. I talked to someone, I thought. I wasn’t thinking. I wanted to yell after him, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to speak!” I didn’t want any of my germs somehow spewing through the mask in his direction.
We made a quick exit to the empty parking lot, and unloaded the cart. Then we got into the car and slathered ourselves in hand sanitizer. When we got home, we unloaded the car, put the groceries away, and then slathered again. It was almost normal, but not quite.
Maybe next month, we’ll go to a store again.
I am a parent. It is my life, it is my greatest joy, and it is all I ever wanted to be. I didn’t know this until I became a parent – but I won’t apologize for changing my entire perspective on the universe when I transferred from “Kirsten” to “Mom.”
Some people don’t understand why I “changed” when my kids were born. My priorities shifted to: Kids First; Everything Else Second. Some people didn’t get it.
Others – who knew me as a self-absorbed, immature adult – were grateful for my new priorities. Regardless, the change was for the better. I am a better person because I am a parent.
But this pandemic has brought into focus one very clear fact: I am not only a parent. Social isolation has forced a kind of early “empty nest” feeling. After six months of feeling useless, I’ve recognized that I am still a human being. I have a whole personal history of my own. I have opinions and thoughts and beliefs about things other than parenting.
Lately, as I’ve contemplated writing my next blog post, I keep hitting a wall. This wall has giant, neon-spray-painted lettering on it that says: YOU NEED TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE.
I have been hesitating to say anything for fear of I might start writing about myself and never look back.
Then … what about Shane? I feel like Shane is getting the short end of the stick, because he’s still a junior in high school and I haven’t talked much about him. He does have issues, of course, but he’s really taking care of himself. The kid has OCD, survived a vision processing disorder, has trouble with tests, takes things too literally and is finally looking at colleges. So I feel bad, not having written a sufficient amount about Shane.
I am sure Dylan won’t mind if I don’t write about him. (By the way, he got a new job – one that actually requires training, in a place where they actually care about their employees.)
I can still write about parenting, of course, as it affects me. And it will – always and forever – affect me.
I also wonder if I continue to write, and I write about things not related to my kids, will people still want to read it? Who cares about my opinions and beliefs? Why would anyone bother?
And how far down the rabbit hole should I go? What if I start writing about my personal history – one that includes more than a decade of delinquency – and it somehow impacts my children? I don’t want their friends talking about “your mama” any more than they already do.
And… Should I change the website address? If I write about myself, nothing in the world will make me rise to the level of either “brilliant” or “bouncy.” I am a more of a somewhat-bright, couch-potato sort.
I don’t know exactly how to proceed – or even if I should proceed. I like to write. I like to express my feelings. I don’t like that my feelings sometimes upset other people, but I can’t actually control that.
Even though most people on this earth don’t know this blog exists, it means something to me. So … do I continue? Do I keep writing only about parenting? Or do I forget about the whole blog and just keep my thoughts to myself? Or do I write about the pandemic, the issues, my feelings, my personal history, or … whatever I want to write?
Feel free to comment below or email me directly at brilliantbutbouncy@verizon.net.
I thank you, in advance, for any input.
While Shane is in his second week of school, Dylan is now in his second week as a pizza delivery driver.
Yep. He got a job delivering pizzas. He’s got some experience, having done “door dashing,” but this is his first real delivery job.
Day 1: Dylan went to work on time, and discovered that the other delivery driver thought it was sufficient to wear his mask on his chin. Dylan stayed four feet back, or as far away as he could, while wearing his mask securely over his nose and mouth.
Dylan accidentally gave away one pizza because he’d never heard the term “cash delivery.” None of us can quite understand why the pizza place is accepting cash deliveries, but we really can’t understand why no one told their brand new delivery driver about them.
Day 2: Dylan went back to work and discovered that the people in the kitchen also aren’t wearing masks. This time, he stayed way out of everyone’s way. Still no one bothered training him about delivery practices. No one told him how to distinguish between “paid” and “unpaid.” Fortunately, he didn’t lose any pizzas to “cash” deliveries on Day 2.
Day 3: Someone stole $80 worth of food from Dylan – this time a “cash” delivery that, everyone (including Dylan and the customer) thought was pre-paid. Customers gave him no tip because it was “already on the card.” Dylan nearly got fired.
Still no one bothered to train Dylan. Their favorite line seems to be, “You know how to do this, right?” But he does not know. Everyone is frustrated by this, no one more so than Dylan.
Still no one in the store seems to care about wearing their masks. Except Dylan.
Day 4: Customer who “stole” $80 worth of food called before Dylan’s shift began, wanting to know why their payment hadn’t gone through online. Dylan’s integrity and sanity was restored in one phone call. Best of all, Dylan was tipped $20 on the order.
The manager, who hired Dylan, finally stopped by for a few minutes during Dylan’s shift. People seem to behave better when he’s around. Dylan finally asked the manager about getting paid. He learned that he might actually be paid for his work, as long as he emails the manager to get a W-2 form.
No one is quite sure how long this job will last. I love these pizza people but I’m not sure how much longer I can handle having my son go completely untrained in a mask-free, untamed environment.
Dylan suggested, between Days 2 and 4, that maybe he’s just not right for this kind of job. He loves the driving, and enjoys delivery work. “But I just don’t really trust my coworkers,” he said.
There’s a reason this boy is in college. He is very bright.
Today is the first day of school for Shane.
Everything is virtual for the entire semester. Thank you, Governor of Maryland and public school system, for keeping our children – and our teachers – safe and healthy.
We picked up Shane’s Chromebook last week, and we’d checked out his schedule then, too.
So today, Shane was ready to go. He got up, showered, ate breakfast, and was relaxing in his room when I found him for his First Day photo. Then he wandered down the hall with his Chromebook two minutes before his first class.
I was excited to see a bright smile on his teacher’s face as he logged in – and just before Shane threw me out of the room.
Later, I found out that the teacher I saw – the one teacher I saw – was actually the interpreter for deaf and hard-of-hearing students. Sigh. I technically didn’t “see” any of his teachers at all – and who knows if his first period teacher was even smiling?
I didn’t hear from Shane for an hour. By second period, I figured he didn’t need my help, so I took the dog for a walk. I didn’t have pockets, so I left my phone at home.
I came home to this text message:
I’m having some serious connection problems can someone help
Thinking, as usual, that I’m a terrible mother for leaving my son, I raced upstairs. Shane wasn’t where I’d left him!
I found him in his bedroom, sitting in a spider-web chair that he loves (but that seems tremendously uncomfortable).
“Are you okay?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t too late to be helpful.
Shane didn’t move his eyes from the screen. (He wants to always be paying attention.) “It’s fine now,” he said, barely moving his lips.
“Okay, well let me know if I can do anything,” I whispered.
I went back downstairs, defeated.
The next “class” was lunch.
Last week, I was excited to make Shane’s lunch during school – but Shane said, “I’ve been making my own breakfast and lunch for six months. Why don’t I see if I can just make my own lunches?”
In other words, Shane doesn’t want me to make food for him. So I didn’t. I encouraged him to eat on the porch, rather than in front of a TV or computer screen – which he did.
With his phone.
Then he went back “to school,” where he had the same teacher for both of his afternoon classes. Fortunately he already knows (and loves) the teacher, so he had a somewhat fun afternoon.
As always, Shane has zero friends in his classes. Since middle school, when they started switching classes, Shane’s friends have somehow always been in other classes. And every year, he makes a new friend or two – then those friends aren’t in his classes the following semester.
It’s a conundrum.
Still – Shane likes his teachers, and he’s happy with Day 1 of his new virtual schedule.
Truly, during a pandemic with the whole world upside down, this is the best it can be.
Generally, I am afraid.
I am afraid people won’t like me. I have an offbeat sense of humor and a lot of what I say is misinterpreted, no matter how hard I try. I am honest but I am weird, and most people would prefer that I just act more “mainstream.”
But I can’t. My personality type is not only introverted, but also rather lost in a dreamland of non-reality.
So most people just don’t get me.
My intentions are always pure. I do my best to be kind and loving and considerate, because that’s The Golden Rule.
Still, I am afraid people will stomp on my heart. Sometimes I am blindsided by people who don’t understand me, who consider me to be hurtful or rude. It happens often – sometimes in my own house – and I am always surprised.
Because my intent is always to be genuine and helpful.
I share frequently from a vulnerable place inside myself that most people are loathe to share. I believe with everything I am that being honest and open is the only way to be.
Somehow, though, I can come across as callous and hurtful.
When email was invented, I was elated. I could finally edit what I said before I said it, so I could sound less brash. Writing a blog is even better: I write, read, re-read, edit, re-write, and then post. I make sure that what I say is exactly what I intended to say.
I try to limit myself to sharing how I feel. I try to not blame or judge other people, because that’s not my place. I’ve learned that nearly every ounce of my being is ruled by fear. I want to put all the people I love into a little bubble – especially now – and keep them all safe.
Over and over, I discover that faith and fear cannot coexist. But I have to keep learning, and keep rediscovering that faith works. It’s a tough lesson for me.
So I write about my fear. Knowing that many people have similar feelings, I think I am being helpful. I open myself up with a vulnerability that few people are willing to admit they even have – let alone discuss.
I write about my life, my trepidations. My blog is a place where I throw myself, wide open and naked, onto a table for all the world to see. While I hope that readers will empathize, that’s not always going to be the case.
Sometimes I am on that table, instead, to be dissected and pulverized.
Last week, I wrote about my fears. I am scared for my fellow softball players; I am scared for my family. I am not judging anyone else’s decisions, nor am I trying to control them. I desperately want everyone to be okay during a time where everything is, quite simply, not okay.
I am devastated that I can’t be a part of the fun stuff, a part of the world. Where I live, thanks to COVID, I don’t congregate. There is currently no safe way to gather. This terrifies me, and it breaks my heart.
Yet somehow, in my last blog, my intentions were misconstrued. I offended people by highlighting things about their choices that worried me. And for that offense, I am deeply sorry.
But I thought they knew – even if no one else did – that I would never speak negatively about them. I thought they understood that I love them unconditionally. I admire them. I cherish them to the depths of my very soul.
The people I offended have been my rocks when I had nowhere to stand, and they have been my soul when I was searching inside myself. They are the people who made me believe in goodness and light.
They are the people who – I thought – got me. And like everything else in my current world, this belief has now crumbled.
Like most people, I just want to be loved for who I am. But here I sit, wide open again, afraid to ask even to be forgiven.
It’s my blog; it’s my life; it’s my fear. This summer has threatened to choke the very life out of me. It’s been almost impossible to write. But I pull myself out of bed every day.
And I write, essentially, for myself. My blog averages 16 readers per post; I’m not in it for the fame. But I’m also never – not ever – trying to hurt anyone.
It’s not who I am.
I’m not perfect. I have to live with myself every day. And it’s hard. But I hope to learn and grow, even though I am old. I keep learning and learning, but I can never quite catch up to the rest of the world and its perceived but elusive serenity.
Maybe this is where faith steps in – again.
I feel like my world is falling apart.
To be fair, everyone’s world has fallen apart – at least a little. But I just got some great news that is, for me, awful news.
In fact, I got awful/great news twice.
I found out that many of my senior softball friends are planning to play softball this fall. They are gearing up for a short, but intense, season. Our teams are comprised mostly of men aged 60 and up. Some of these guys are 80+.
Playing sports, to me, is a glorious team effort, where we high-five each other and yell in each other’s faces with both anguish and glee. It is a jumping-up-and-down, try-not-to-run-over-anyone-at-the-plate kind of experience.
We can’t play that kind of game right now. We can’t even safely stand near one another, for fear of killing our friends.
My former softball coach died of coronavirus. Next spring, I expect to read a roster of deaths the same length as a full softball team. And some of those deaths will be from playing fall ball.
I also recently learned that my beloved extended family – the cousins and aunts and uncles who form my most solid base of “family,” – are planning to hold an event that will put everyone I love together in one place. Everyone is older than me (55), and three of them are over the age of 90.
This frightens me. But the worst part is that they will be inviting hundreds of complete strangers into the fray. They are having a yard sale. People will come – with and without masks – and stand two feet away from them, and they will talk and spew and exchange money and probably shake hands. They will break bread together in the most literal way, and they will do it for two solid days with only a short break to rest in between.
I’ve been to this yard sale annually for ten years, but I will not be a part of this endeavor.
Instead, when it is all over, 250 miles away, I will hold my breath for two weeks. I’ll wait and see if they all escape without coronavirus. I’ll wait to see if everyone lives.
In my hometown, an immensely populated area, our county has recently declined to 105 cases per day. Where my yard-sale family lives, the number of cases has recently risen to 100 new cases per day. And while my family canceled the same yard sale in May – when there were only 14 new cases per day – they are forging ahead with the same event just as their area experiences a 700% increase in COVID cases.
I’m so scared – for them, and to live without them. I’ve been hopeful that this virus would eliminate only those people I didn’t know. (I am a selfish sort.) But already, that’s not been the case.
While my two mature, responsible teenagers stay home from school and talk to their friends only on Instagram and Facetime, my teammates and family have decided they’re tired of waiting for this pandemic to pass.
They’ve decided it’s time, right now, to risk their lives.
The way I see it, we have to work together. We have to hang in there for a few more months, and be responsible, and get this under control before we go back to doing fun things.
But I can’t make decisions for everybody.
