Tea with T.

CNCR

Cancer.  Nasty little word, isn’t it?  It might as well be a four-letter word, what with the intense emotional impact it carries.  I am willing to bet a buck that even reading it right now you had some sort of physical response, maybe a chill down your spine or an ache in your heart.  From the moment the word is uttered aloud, cancer begins its negative effect, so strong is its power.  It’s even worse when the word is spoken close to home.

 

My household first heard the word five weeks after my son was born in ‘96 and instead of attending to the bleary-eyed task of new daddy duty, my husband was instead forced to travel teary-eyed from Los Angeles to Las Vegas and back again to take begin taking care of the first woman he ever loved with all his heart, his mother.  My mother-in-law was facing down the most unwelcome enemy of pancreatic cancer, a cancer that has historically been beaten back – but never down.

 

We had just moved into our new home and having never had a true baby’s room with my daughter (she shared her crib and changing table with a computer and filing cabinets) I had lovingly and painstakingly turned my newborn son’s room into my dream nursery.  I was looking forward to welcoming and cuddling my baby boy in the room but it instead we welcomed grandma and began nursing her back to health after her Whipple Procedure – a surgery to remove the head of the pancreas, most of the duodenum/small intestine, a portion of the bile duct and sometimes a portion of the stomach. It’s one of the most invasive surgeries doctors perform (perform -- one of the oddest words used by the medical field, like we should applaud at the conclusion of the procedure?), but it gave my mother-in-law the best chance at having quality, and extended quantity, of life.

 

In the last decade, the word cancer has refused to go away as people we know and love have been forced to deal with the crap-disturber known as cancer in its many evil forms.  Lung.  Bone.  Bladder.  Breast.  Prostate.  Lymphatic.  Pretty harmless words, until you attach the curse word cancer to them.

 

Over the years, my husband and I have attended events and fundraisers to raise money and awareness to eradicate the disease in every form.  When the children came along, they began to accompany us to many of the events that occur throughout each year.  Cancer had always been on the periphery, but in the last decade it has touched our lives so deeply, that my daughter has decided to pursue a career in nursing (specializing in geriatrics) – I’m sure because all she has ever known is caregiving in one form or another.  Her compassionate nature astounds me, so deep is her feeling for mankind.

 

Cancer is once again in our hearts and line of vision as we gear up for battle, as one of my closest friends has begun her own fight against breast cancer.  Cancer.  When the word was first whispered in my ear, so as not to be overheard by loved ones who might (and eventually did) dissolve at the sound, I choked back whatever initial emotions I had in order to be strong for her.  I knew it would do no good to have both of us down and out, as one of us had to stand guard against the hostile forces hiding nearby.

 

Knowing from experience that laughter has always been the best medicine, I decided from the beginning to don not only armor, but the proverbial jester’s hat to distract my friend so that she could get down to the business of eradicating the nasty evil cells infiltrating her body.  One of my most favorite soothsayers, disguised as comedian, Bill Cosby, says that “Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.”  Sounds like a plan to me.  An excellent battle plan, to be sure.

 

Soon, my friend will begin her multiple-modality therapy against her form of cancer and the best thing about this story?  This is a battle that can and will be won.  Why?  Because early screening and treatment are the one-two punch needed to kick breast cancer’s worthless, sorry, hateful butt.  My friend will fight and she will win, but not without casualties, as the treatment can be tough on a body and soul.  Part of my strategy to help her is to be there every step of the way, wherever and whenever she wants and as much as she can tolerate (it has been said that I am a dish best served in small doses).  It breaks my heart that I can’t take the hits for her, but I vow to be there to prop her up, hold her hand and help her heal.

 

Before this month of “sweethearts and declarations of love” draws to a close, I’d like to encourage one more act of love, on behalf of those you care about.  Many men and women out there put the health of their families above their own – one of the things that cancer is counting on – so I want to encourage you to arm yourself and your loved ones with the knowledge necessary to keep cancer at bay or to obtain the tools to fight, if needed.  Some of the best information available can be found at www.mayoclinic.com, www.cancer.org or www.komen.org.  There you’ll find advice about healthy lifestyles and screening… two of the main strategies in the battle against any cancer. 

 

A great man who knew a thing or two about war, Winston Churchill, said, “When you’re going through hell … keep going.”  Take a left at laughter and as the war rages around you, know that you as your enemy retreats, s/he who laughs best -- laughs last.  Take that CNCR < pardon my Klatchian >, you no good #&*%!

CNCR

Cancer.  Nasty little word, isn’t it?  It might as well be a four-letter word, what with the intense emotional impact it carries.  I am willing to bet a buck that even reading it right now you had some sort of physical response, maybe a chill down your spine or an ache in your heart.  From the moment the word is uttered aloud, cancer begins its negative effect, so strong is its power.  It’s even worse when the word is spoken close to home.

 

My household first heard the word five weeks after my son was born in ‘96 and instead of attending to the bleary-eyed task of new daddy duty, my husband was instead forced to travel teary-eyed from Los Angeles to Las Vegas and back again to take begin taking care of the first woman he ever loved with all his heart, his mother.  My mother-in-law was facing down the most unwelcome enemy of pancreatic cancer, a cancer that has historically been beaten back – but never down.

 

We had just moved into our new home and having never had a true baby’s room with my daughter (she shared her crib and changing table with a computer and filing cabinets) I had lovingly and painstakingly turned my newborn son’s room into my dream nursery.  I was looking forward to welcoming and cuddling my baby boy in the room but it instead we welcomed grandma and began nursing her back to health after her Whipple Procedure – a surgery to remove the head of the pancreas, most of the duodenum/small intestine, a portion of the bile duct and sometimes a portion of the stomach. It’s one of the most invasive surgeries doctors perform (perform -- one of the oddest words used by the medical field, like we should applaud at the conclusion of the procedure?), but it gave my mother-in-law the best chance at having quality, and extended quantity, of life.

 

In the last decade, the word cancer has refused to go away as people we know and love have been forced to deal with the crap-disturber known as cancer in its many evil forms.  Lung.  Bone.  Bladder.  Breast.  Prostate.  Lymphatic.  Pretty harmless words, until you attach the curse word cancer to them.

 

Over the years, my husband and I have attended events and fundraisers to raise money and awareness to eradicate the disease in every form.  When the children came along, they began to accompany us to many of the events that occur throughout each year.  Cancer had always been on the periphery, but in the last decade it has touched our lives so deeply, that my daughter has decided to pursue a career in nursing (specializing in geriatrics) – I’m sure because all she has ever known is caregiving in one form or another.  Her compassionate nature astounds me, so deep is her feeling for mankind.

 

Cancer is once again in our hearts and line of vision as we gear up for battle, as one of my closest friends has begun her own fight against breast cancer.  Cancer.  When the word was first whispered in my ear, so as not to be overheard by loved ones who might (and eventually did) dissolve at the sound, I choked back whatever initial emotions I had in order to be strong for her.  I knew it would do no good to have both of us down and out, as one of us had to stand guard against the hostile forces hiding nearby.

 

Knowing from experience that laughter has always been the best medicine, I decided from the beginning to don not only armor, but the proverbial jester’s hat to distract my friend so that she could get down to the business of eradicating the nasty evil cells infiltrating her body.  One of my most favorite soothsayers, disguised as comedian, Bill Cosby, says that “Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.”  Sounds like a plan to me.  An excellent battle plan, to be sure.

 

Soon, my friend will begin her multiple-modality therapy against her form of cancer and the best thing about this story?  This is a battle that can and will be won.  Why?  Because early screening and treatment are the one-two punch needed to kick breast cancer’s worthless, sorry, hateful butt.  My friend will fight and she will win, but not without casualties, as the treatment can be tough on a body and soul.  Part of my strategy to help her is to be there every step of the way, wherever and whenever she wants and as much as she can tolerate (it has been said that I am a dish best served in small doses).  It breaks my heart that I can’t take the hits for her, but I vow to be there to prop her up, hold her hand and help her heal.

 

Before this month of “sweethearts and declarations of love” draws to a close, I’d like to encourage one more act of love, on behalf of those you care about.  Many men and women out there put the health of their families above their own – one of the things that cancer is counting on – so I want to encourage you to arm yourself and your loved ones with the knowledge necessary to keep cancer at bay or to obtain the tools to fight, if needed.  Some of the best information available can be found at www.mayoclinic.com, www.cancer.org or www.komen.org.  There you’ll find advice about healthy lifestyles and screening… two of the main strategies in the battle against any cancer. 

 

A great man who knew a thing or two about war, Winston Churchill, said, “When you’re going through hell … keep going.”  Take a left at laughter and as the war rages around you, know that you as your enemy retreats, s/he who laughs best -- laughs last.  Take that CNCR < pardon my Klatchian >, you no good #&*%!

CNCR

Cancer.  Nasty little word, isn’t it?  It might as well be a four-letter word, what with the intense emotional impact it carries.  I am willing to bet a buck that even reading it right now you had some sort of physical response, maybe a chill down your spine or an ache in your heart.  From the moment the word is uttered aloud, cancer begins its negative effect, so strong is its power.  It’s even worse when the word is spoken close to home.

 

My household first heard the word five weeks after my son was born in ‘96 and instead of attending to the bleary-eyed task of new daddy duty, my husband was instead forced to travel teary-eyed from Los Angeles to Las Vegas and back again to take begin taking care of the first woman he ever loved with all his heart, his mother.  My mother-in-law was facing down the most unwelcome enemy of pancreatic cancer, a cancer that has historically been beaten back – but never down.

 

We had just moved into our new home and having never had a true baby’s room with my daughter (she shared her crib and changing table with a computer and filing cabinets) I had lovingly and painstakingly turned my newborn son’s room into my dream nursery.  I was looking forward to welcoming and cuddling my baby boy in the room but it instead we welcomed grandma and began nursing her back to health after her Whipple Procedure – a surgery to remove the head of the pancreas, most of the duodenum/small intestine, a portion of the bile duct and sometimes a portion of the stomach. It’s one of the most invasive surgeries doctors perform (perform -- one of the oddest words used by the medical field, like we should applaud at the conclusion of the procedure?), but it gave my mother-in-law the best chance at having quality, and extended quantity, of life.

 

In the last decade, the word cancer has refused to go away as people we know and love have been forced to deal with the crap-disturber known as cancer in its many evil forms.  Lung.  Bone.  Bladder.  Breast.  Prostate.  Lymphatic.  Pretty harmless words, until you attach the curse word cancer to them.

 

Over the years, my husband and I have attended events and fundraisers to raise money and awareness to eradicate the disease in every form.  When the children came along, they began to accompany us to many of the events that occur throughout each year.  Cancer had always been on the periphery, but in the last decade it has touched our lives so deeply, that my daughter has decided to pursue a career in nursing (specializing in geriatrics) – I’m sure because all she has ever known is caregiving in one form or another.  Her compassionate nature astounds me, so deep is her feeling for mankind.

 

Cancer is once again in our hearts and line of vision as we gear up for battle, as one of my closest friends has begun her own fight against breast cancer.  Cancer.  When the word was first whispered in my ear, so as not to be overheard by loved ones who might (and eventually did) dissolve at the sound, I choked back whatever initial emotions I had in order to be strong for her.  I knew it would do no good to have both of us down and out, as one of us had to stand guard against the hostile forces hiding nearby.

 

Knowing from experience that laughter has always been the best medicine, I decided from the beginning to don not only armor, but the proverbial jester’s hat to distract my friend so that she could get down to the business of eradicating the nasty evil cells infiltrating her body.  One of my most favorite soothsayers, disguised as comedian, Bill Cosby, says that “Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.”  Sounds like a plan to me.  An excellent battle plan, to be sure.

 

Soon, my friend will begin her multiple-modality therapy against her form of cancer and the best thing about this story?  This is a battle that can and will be won.  Why?  Because early screening and treatment are the one-two punch needed to kick breast cancer’s worthless, sorry, hateful butt.  My friend will fight and she will win, but not without casualties, as the treatment can be tough on a body and soul.  Part of my strategy to help her is to be there every step of the way, wherever and whenever she wants and as much as she can tolerate (it has been said that I am a dish best served in small doses).  It breaks my heart that I can’t take the hits for her, but I vow to be there to prop her up, hold her hand and help her heal.

 

Before this month of “sweethearts and declarations of love” draws to a close, I’d like to encourage one more act of love, on behalf of those you care about.  Many men and women out there put the health of their families above their own – one of the things that cancer is counting on – so I want to encourage you to arm yourself and your loved ones with the knowledge necessary to keep cancer at bay or to obtain the tools to fight, if needed.  Some of the best information available can be found at www.mayoclinic.com, www.cancer.org or www.komen.org.  There you’ll find advice about healthy lifestyles and screening… two of the main strategies in the battle against any cancer. 

 

A great man who knew a thing or two about war, Winston Churchill, said, “When you’re going through hell … keep going.”  Take a left at laughter and as the war rages around you, know that you as your enemy retreats, s/he who laughs best -- laughs last.  Take that CNCR < pardon my Klatchian >, you no good #&*%!

The old gray mare ain't ... gray anymore.

After spending three years letting the universe be my colorist, the colorist who chose white, gray and nearly black for my head – sort of like morning-after campfire hair.  Kingsford Charcoal, I could’ve been a great spokeswoman, but that’s all changed.  On Saturday, my real stylist waved a magic wand (a goo application brush, at any rate) and turned my mane into the glossy coppery-brown of a sorrel (aka chestnut horse).  These descriptions all sounds very outdoorsy for a woman who lives in the suburbs.  But, don’t let that fool you.  A hotel room without a coffee maker is still my idea of camping.

 

My son is the most overjoyed that the gray has gone away.  He should be.  It was his idea.

 

Normally, I’m not the kind of woman who lets her children make sartorial or tonsorial decisions for her.  The one time I did involved hair accessories from Claire’s Boutique in the mall when my daughter was seven and it didn’t end well for either of us (I’ll spare you the details, but in my heart-of-hearts I always knew that Britney was nothin’ but trouble).

 

Around my 25^th birthday my hair developed a streak of white at the left temple and my parental units encouraged me to hide it at all costs and the ball and chain of the six week dye came to be.  Of course, the idea of putting color in my hair wasn’t new to me, as lemon juice, Sun-In, pool chlorine, California surf and sun left my brown hair with a dozen other tints to it from the time I was 16.  So, Miss Clairol became my roommate for next 20 years.

 

You know how some men grow a mustache in their youth and by middle age they have no idea what their face looks like without it?  By the time middle-age rang my doorbell, my head was having an identity crisis (mostly on the outside, the inside has remained pretty stable, I must say).  The decision was made, by a committee of one, to stop coloring, continue watering and see what grew.  For a year all sorts of shades showed up on my head.  It’s a good thing I married a guy named Katz, because I started to resemble a Calico one.

 

As far as social experiments go, having my hair return to its roots which, due to age, stress and heredity, in no way resembled their original roots, was a mixed bag of nuts.  Some people loved it and a handful reallllly didn’t like it.  Mostly, it seems those old enough to purchase alcohol by the end of WWII voted nay on the gray.  But, younger folk raised on a steady diet of Marvel Comics were in the hooray (Rogue!) and yay (Storm!) column.  As far as superhero moms go, my hair apparently rocked most young people, but not my son, who recently formed an opinion and threw it in the ring at me.  Climbing into my lap at the beginning last week and apropos of nothing my son said, “Mom.  I don’t like your gray hair.” 

 

Being the strong, opinionated woman that I am I replied, “Too bad, get over it.  My head -- My hair.  Move along, nothing to see here.”

 

He persisted.  “No, I really don’t like your gray hair and I want it to go away.”

 

Irritated, chip on shoulder firmly in place, I said, “Me?  You want ME to go away?  Because we’re connected, my gray hair and I.”

 

“No.  I just want the gray gone.”

 

Irritated and extremely under-caffeinated, I attempted to use the conversation as a life lesson.  “But mommy likes her hair the way it is.  You can’t just say you don’t like something, out of nowhere, ‘just because’.  If you’re going to tell someone that you don’t like something, it would be so much better if you gave a reason.  Be specific.” [Large highlighted Post-it Note to self: Be careful what you ask for.]

 

“I don’t like it because old people have gray hair and sometimes they die and I don’t want you to die.”

 

< Insert sound of tears, knife removal from heart and dialing of the above-mentioned stylist’s cell phone here. >

 

Having my son voice his opinion, having only truly developed his expressive language skills (the hardest part of communication for autistic kids) over the last two years (he is 13 now) was HUGE.  I am not so easily manipulated, but I know how difficult it was for him to share what was in his heart.  If getting rid of the gray would put his mind at ease about abstract life and death issues, then I was going to have to do it.  I considered this to be a show now, tell later teaching tool, as eventually he will have to learn to deal with changes (another incredibly difficult task for the autistic mind).

 

Sitting in the salon chair Saturday morning, I informed the woman who wrangles my unruly hair that she had free rein (sorry, the horse analogy refuses to die) and to do whatever she wanted.  Eight women within earshot gasped and whooped, evenly divided into two camps (apparently that theme won’t go away either) – four stylists were thrilled at the prospect and four clients in chairs, in alternate states of hair-do & done, shuddered in fear for me.

 

The salon buzzed a bit about what color should be used and the stylist mumbled something about wanting something to match my brown eyes.  It was SUCH a Dorothy in Oz moment: “Can you really dye my eyes to match my gown?”) – and all I could think was really?  The oldest part of my face and you want to call attention to it?  What about my hands?  They still look pretty good!  What do you have in that cabinet to draw attention to those?!

 

For two days now, I walk past mirrors like a stranger in a strange land, asking, “Who’s that?” every time I catch my reflection.  It’s a bit ghostlike, to see a head of hair that once belonged to a younger me.  It’s also a bit Dorian Gray, too – except my face is the crumbling portrait and my follicles are Dorian … just not gray anymore.

 

Bill Cosby’s opinion on gray hair is that it is “God’s graffiti.”  I like that.  Eventually, my gray hair will return and I will warmly welcome it back and walk (and talk) my son through the process, sharing Mr. Cosby’s thoughts and the opinions of others along the way.   I will tell him that Hunter S. Thompson once said, “The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs” and that I plan on a long life of brushing and combing gray hairs.

 

Personally, I think gray hair is just nature’s way of recording how much information we’ve taken in over the years and our willingness to continue to learn as we get older.  You know, sort of a gray hair/gray matter thing?  The nursery rhyme could be right, I ain’t what I used to be many long years ago, but it is my sincere desire to be better and hopefully smarter, me and my head full of optimistic silver linings.

The old gray mare ain ' t ... gray anymore.

After spending three years letting the universe be my colorist, the colorist who chose white, gray and nearly black for my head – sort of like morning-after campfire hair.  Kingsford Charcoal, I could’ve been a great spokeswoman, but that’s all changed.  On Saturday, my real stylist waved a magic wand (a goo application brush, at any rate) and turned my mane into the glossy coppery-brown of a sorrel (aka chestnut horse).  These descriptions all sounds very outdoorsy for a woman who lives in the suburbs.  But, don’t let that fool you.  A hotel room without a coffee maker is still my idea of camping.

 

My son is the most overjoyed that the gray has gone away.  He should be.  It was his idea.

 

Normally, I’m not the kind of woman who lets her children make sartorial or tonsorial decisions for her.  The one time I did involved hair accessories from Claire’s Boutique in the mall when my daughter was seven and it didn’t end well for either of us (I’ll spare you the details, but in my heart-of-hearts I always knew that Britney was nothin’ but trouble).

 

Around my 25^th birthday my hair developed a streak of white at the left temple and my parental units encouraged me to hide it at all costs and the ball and chain of the six week dye came to be.  Of course, the idea of putting color in my hair wasn’t new to me, as lemon juice, Sun-In, pool chlorine, California surf and sun left my brown hair with a dozen other tints to it from the time I was 16.  So, Miss Clairol became my roommate for next 20 years.

 

You know how some men grow a mustache in their youth and by middle age they have no idea what their face looks like without it?  By the time middle-age rang my doorbell, my head was having an identity crisis (mostly on the outside, the inside has remained pretty stable, I must say).  The decision was made, by a committee of one, to stop coloring, continue watering and see what grew.  For a year all sorts of shades showed up on my head.  It’s a good thing I married a guy named Katz, because I started to resemble a Calico one.

 

As far as social experiments go, having my hair return to its roots which, due to age, stress and heredity, in no way resembled their original roots, was a mixed bag of nuts.  Some people loved it and a handful reallllly didn’t like it.  Mostly, it seems those old enough to purchase alcohol by the end of WWII voted nay on the gray.  But, younger folk raised on a steady diet of Marvel Comics were in the hooray (Rogue!) and yay (Storm!) column.  As far as superhero moms go, my hair apparently rocked most young people, but not my son, who recently formed an opinion and threw it in the ring at me.  Climbing into my lap at the beginning last week and apropos of nothing my son said, “Mom.  I don’t like your gray hair.” 

 

Being the strong, opinionated woman that I am I replied, “Too bad, get over it.  My head -- My hair.  Move along, nothing to see here.”

 

He persisted.  “No, I really don’t like your gray hair and I want it to go away.”

 

Irritated, chip on shoulder firmly in place, I said, “Me?  You want ME to go away?  Because we’re connected, my gray hair and I.”

 

“No.  I just want the gray gone.”

 

Irritated and extremely under-caffeinated, I attempted to use the conversation as a life lesson.  “But mommy likes her hair the way it is.  You can’t just say you don’t like something, out of nowhere, ‘just because’.  If you’re going to tell someone that you don’t like something, it would be so much better if you gave a reason.  Be specific.” [Large highlighted Post-it Note to self: Be careful what you ask for.]

 

“I don’t like it because old people have gray hair and sometimes they die and I don’t want you to die.”

 

< Insert sound of tears, knife removal from heart and dialing of the above-mentioned stylist’s cell phone here. >

 

Having my son voice his opinion, having only truly developed his expressive language skills (the hardest part of communication for autistic kids) over the last two years (he is 13 now) was HUGE.  I am not so easily manipulated, but I know how difficult it was for him to share what was in his heart.  If getting rid of the gray would put his mind at ease about abstract life and death issues, then I was going to have to do it.  I considered this to be a show now, tell later teaching tool, as eventually he will have to learn to deal with changes (another incredibly difficult task for the autistic mind).

 

Sitting in the salon chair Saturday morning, I informed the woman who wrangles my unruly hair that she had free rein (sorry, the horse analogy refuses to die) and to do whatever she wanted.  Eight women within earshot gasped and whooped, evenly divided into two camps (apparently that theme won’t go away either) – four stylists were thrilled at the prospect and four clients in chairs, in alternate states of hair-do & done, shuddered in fear for me.

 

The salon buzzed a bit about what color should be used and the stylist mumbled something about wanting something to match my brown eyes.  It was SUCH a Dorothy in Oz moment: “Can you really dye my eyes to match my gown?”) – and all I could think was really?  The oldest part of my face and you want to call attention to it?  What about my hands?  They still look pretty good!  What do you have in that cabinet to draw attention to those?!

 

For two days now, I walk past mirrors like a stranger in a strange land, asking, “Who’s that?” every time I catch my reflection.  It’s a bit ghostlike, to see a head of hair that once belonged to a younger me.  It’s also a bit Dorian Gray, too – except my face is the crumbling portrait and my follicles are Dorian … just not gray anymore.

 

Bill Cosby’s opinion on gray hair is that it is “God’s graffiti.”  I like that.  Eventually, my gray hair will return and I will warmly welcome it back and walk (and talk) my son through the process, sharing Mr. Cosby’s thoughts and the opinions of others along the way.   I will tell him that Hunter S. Thompson once said, “The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs” and that I plan on a long life of brushing and combing gray hairs.

 

Personally, I think gray hair is just nature’s way of recording how much information we’ve taken in over the years and our willingness to continue to learn as we get older.  You know, sort of a gray hair/gray matter thing?  The nursery rhyme could be right, I ain’t what I used to be many long years ago, but it is my sincere desire to be better and hopefully smarter, me and my head full of optimistic silver linings.

The old gray mare ain ' t ... gray anymore.

After spending three years letting the universe be my colorist, the colorist who chose white, gray and nearly black for my head – sort of like morning-after campfire hair.  Kingsford Charcoal, I could’ve been a great spokeswoman, but that’s all changed.  On Saturday, my real stylist waved a magic wand (a goo application brush, at any rate) and turned my mane into the glossy coppery-brown of a sorrel (aka chestnut horse).  These descriptions all sounds very outdoorsy for a woman who lives in the suburbs.  But, don’t let that fool you.  A hotel room without a coffee maker is still my idea of camping.

 

My son is the most overjoyed that the gray has gone away.  He should be.  It was his idea.

 

Normally, I’m not the kind of woman who lets her children make sartorial or tonsorial decisions for her.  The one time I did involved hair accessories from Claire’s Boutique in the mall when my daughter was seven and it didn’t end well for either of us (I’ll spare you the details, but in my heart-of-hearts I always knew that Britney was nothin’ but trouble).

 

Around my 25^th birthday my hair developed a streak of white at the left temple and my parental units encouraged me to hide it at all costs and the ball and chain of the six week dye came to be.  Of course, the idea of putting color in my hair wasn’t new to me, as lemon juice, Sun-In, pool chlorine, California surf and sun left my brown hair with a dozen other tints to it from the time I was 16.  So, Miss Clairol became my roommate for next 20 years.

 

You know how some men grow a mustache in their youth and by middle age they have no idea what their face looks like without it?  By the time middle-age rang my doorbell, my head was having an identity crisis (mostly on the outside, the inside has remained pretty stable, I must say).  The decision was made, by a committee of one, to stop coloring, continue watering and see what grew.  For a year all sorts of shades showed up on my head.  It’s a good thing I married a guy named Katz, because I started to resemble a Calico one.

 

As far as social experiments go, having my hair return to its roots which, due to age, stress and heredity, in no way resembled their original roots, was a mixed bag of nuts.  Some people loved it and a handful reallllly didn’t like it.  Mostly, it seems those old enough to purchase alcohol by the end of WWII voted nay on the gray.  But, younger folk raised on a steady diet of Marvel Comics were in the hooray (Rogue!) and yay (Storm!) column.  As far as superhero moms go, my hair apparently rocked most young people, but not my son, who recently formed an opinion and threw it in the ring at me.  Climbing into my lap at the beginning last week and apropos of nothing my son said, “Mom.  I don’t like your gray hair.” 

 

Being the strong, opinionated woman that I am I replied, “Too bad, get over it.  My head -- My hair.  Move along, nothing to see here.”

 

He persisted.  “No, I really don’t like your gray hair and I want it to go away.”

 

Irritated, chip on shoulder firmly in place, I said, “Me?  You want ME to go away?  Because we’re connected, my gray hair and I.”

 

“No.  I just want the gray gone.”

 

Irritated and extremely under-caffeinated, I attempted to use the conversation as a life lesson.  “But mommy likes her hair the way it is.  You can’t just say you don’t like something, out of nowhere, ‘just because’.  If you’re going to tell someone that you don’t like something, it would be so much better if you gave a reason.  Be specific.” [Large highlighted Post-it Note to self: Be careful what you ask for.]

 

“I don’t like it because old people have gray hair and sometimes they die and I don’t want you to die.”

 

< Insert sound of tears, knife removal from heart and dialing of the above-mentioned stylist’s cell phone here. >

 

Having my son voice his opinion, having only truly developed his expressive language skills (the hardest part of communication for autistic kids) over the last two years (he is 13 now) was HUGE.  I am not so easily manipulated, but I know how difficult it was for him to share what was in his heart.  If getting rid of the gray would put his mind at ease about abstract life and death issues, then I was going to have to do it.  I considered this to be a show now, tell later teaching tool, as eventually he will have to learn to deal with changes (another incredibly difficult task for the autistic mind).

 

Sitting in the salon chair Saturday morning, I informed the woman who wrangles my unruly hair that she had free rein (sorry, the horse analogy refuses to die) and to do whatever she wanted.  Eight women within earshot gasped and whooped, evenly divided into two camps (apparently that theme won’t go away either) – four stylists were thrilled at the prospect and four clients in chairs, in alternate states of hair-do & done, shuddered in fear for me.

 

The salon buzzed a bit about what color should be used and the stylist mumbled something about wanting something to match my brown eyes.  It was SUCH a Dorothy in Oz moment: “Can you really dye my eyes to match my gown?”) – and all I could think was really?  The oldest part of my face and you want to call attention to it?  What about my hands?  They still look pretty good!  What do you have in that cabinet to draw attention to those?!

 

For two days now, I walk past mirrors like a stranger in a strange land, asking, “Who’s that?” every time I catch my reflection.  It’s a bit ghostlike, to see a head of hair that once belonged to a younger me.  It’s also a bit Dorian Gray, too – except my face is the crumbling portrait and my follicles are Dorian … just not gray anymore.

 

Bill Cosby’s opinion on gray hair is that it is “God’s graffiti.”  I like that.  Eventually, my gray hair will return and I will warmly welcome it back and walk (and talk) my son through the process, sharing Mr. Cosby’s thoughts and the opinions of others along the way.   I will tell him that Hunter S. Thompson once said, “The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs” and that I plan on a long life of brushing and combing gray hairs.

 

Personally, I think gray hair is just nature’s way of recording how much information we’ve taken in over the years and our willingness to continue to learn as we get older.  You know, sort of a gray hair/gray matter thing?  The nursery rhyme could be right, I ain’t what I used to be many long years ago, but it is my sincere desire to be better and hopefully smarter, me and my head full of optimistic silver linings.

Autism = Evolution

Whenever I say those words out loud it turns more than a few heads in the room and raises eyebrows.  Before you raise yours in my general direction, you should know I’ve put a lot of thought into it, as it’s not a subject I take lightly – as I am the mother of a 13 year old son who was diagnosed with autism in 2000 – just hear me out. 

 

For the past decade, our family has lived with the shrapnel of autism flying all around our heads: a series of screeching tantrums (the terrible twos stretched out from 2 – 8 years old); wild episodes of fight and flight; self-injurious behavior; multiple methods of intervention, therapies and special restrictive diets.  There was also a good chunk of change given away to what amounted to snake oil funds (when all was said and done), because although many childhood disabilities and diseases bring out the altruism in people, the murky waters of autism seem to have parted to reveal loads of unproven methods by fly-by-night therapists who feed on the hopelessness of families willing to sacrifice everything to find a “cure” for their child.  What exactly is it about autism that we, as loving, caring parents, are so eager to cure?  Well, the diagnosis criterion for autism is divided into three domains:

 

• Impaired social interaction
• Delayed, impaired or complete lack of communication
• Restricted, stereotyped and repetitive patterns of behavior, interests and activities

 

These three areas of basic human interaction are crucial to the normal development of a child and some autistic kids are slow to retrain their behaviors to the neurologically typical standards while others never do during their lifetime.

 

Developmental Pediatricians all shout, “Early intervention!” but I believe they sugarcoat and should say, “Early, relentless, seemingly never-ending intervention, at any cost!”  As parents we are desperate and right away start to jump through hoops in an attempt to push-and-push our little square autistic pegs to fit the round neurologically typical holes of society, but taking a step back, I am questioning the logic in that.

 

Having lived with autism for quite a while now, I can tell you that it has been a long process that constantly proves one thing: growth is painful.  Developmental growth, as childhood textbooks define it, is all a bit “through the looking glass” and comes in spurts or not at all.  It can be disheartening, yet, there are days when I look at my son and I truly perceive him to be so far above us, it’s a bit spooky.  While he doesn’t quite fit the so-called normal social mold (to the point of ridicule from some of his school peers), most of it rolls off his stiffly arched and awkward back, seemingly unnoticed.  He is not very comfortable around crowds of people, which he sometimes literally defines as three’s a crowd and he’ll retreat to his room to interact with his computer -- antisocial behavior at it’s finest, but after all, isn’t that the way we’re all moving?

 

Think about it.  Technology has made such advances over the last twenty years that face-to-face interaction is no longer necessary in nearly every aspect of day-to-day living.  Practically everything you need can arrive at your doorstep via a delivery person whose eyes don’t even need to be seen under the brim of their cap… it’s all just sign here, m’am or simply left on the porch.  Countless products and services can be viewed via your computer monitor, television set, magazine or catalog.  A simple phone call, click of a mouse or touch of app button from anywhere and items can be ordered instantly 24 hours a day.  The people who tend to those ordering centers are, more often than not, housed in tiny personal cubicles where they can choose whether or not to intermingle with their fellow employees … usually opting not to.

 

We don’t ever have to contemplate folding, spindling or mutilating currency as our finances are bandied about via Direct Deposit or ATM machines, then disbursed by debit and credit cards -- requiring no human interaction, not even a perfunctory, “Here’s your change.” from clerks is needed anymore.  The machines handle all of our transactions and we’re issued a mechanical, “Have a nice day” as we exit through electronic doors.

 

If we don’t want any human interaction at all we can visit the self-service pay island where we become shopper, checker and bagger never needing to see a human being unless we require assistance.  Very Jetsons, indeed. Very autism-friendly.

 

The Space Age is upon us and we’ve barely noticed its arrival, just thinking that all of these technological advances were introduced for our convenience.  But I believe that the children of autism are adapting and evolving to the world WE are creating, whether we like it or not.  Again, growth is painful – more so for us, than them.

 

It may sound all conspiracy theorist of me, but I sometimes I wonder if it isn’t actually technology’s fault that more and more children are being diagnosed with autism.  With the increase of wireless electrical activity in our world, little developing brains are bombarded with electrical impulses.  And I’m not completely wacko, alone and mad in my thinking either.  Dr. Rodolfo Llinas, chairman of the physiology and neuroscience department at the New York University School of Medicine says, “All brain activity is basically electrical chattering between cells."  According to biophysicist Dr. Gerard Hyland of the UK, “Our brain is a very delicate biochemical and electrical instrument and incoming oscillating waves affect our health.”   Hmmm… wouldn’t it sort of make sense then, that there would be a hitch in the giddyup somewhere?

 

Despite however the outside world may have contributed to the possibility of altered brain patterns, it doesn’t change the simple fact that people with autism are very uncomfortable with human interaction.  Neurological deficits make it physically painful to subject themselves to sound, touch, smell, sight and even taste, which is a pretty big detriment to socialization since so much of our social interaction is through eating.  So, it stands to reason that the world that technology is creating suits an entire body of people with autism just fine, thank you very much.  The world of technology brings tremendous comfort in many ways to a person with autism.  Hence, my autism = evolution theory.

 

While I have watched legions of therapists and educators working to push, prod, pull and coax my boy into “a normal world”, I think they all might be missing the boat, ignoring the possible beauty of the world he inhabits.  When my son retreats to the technological realm that soothes and comforts his anti-social savage beast, I wonder who’s right and who’s wrong?

 

Anthropologists have seen evidence of man’s social ways throughout the centuries – ceremonial artifacts and writings that show man’s need to connect with other human beings, whether to war or woo.  The lives we live today will not offer as much proof of that same need to bond when they go digging through the rubble (or landfills) of the 21^st century.  Perhaps history will eventually prove that our scientific advances propelled man in another direction – away from basic human interaction.  Maybe it’s even as drastic a notion as over-population leading us to down-size.  Scary thought, but nobody ever said evolution was gentle on those left behind in the dust as fossils.

 

When first told about my child’s diagnosis of autism it was devastating and each day after brought waves of anguish, anger, guilt and grief – but not any more.  I have decided that I prefer not to view autism as a disability, but as a new generation’s coping ability, as I watch my son and others like him change as the world around them changes.  Despite my having developed the way the textbooks deemed “typical”, many of my child’s currently perceived deficits may truly turn out to be bonuses that will assist him in a world I might not recognize ... or even fit into one day.  I have a whole other theory about space travel and benefits of being autistic, too – if you want to email me ([email protected]) or chat via Facebook (after all, heaven forbid we try to meet in person and make <gasp!> eye contact)!

Autism = Evolution

Whenever I say those words out loud it turns more than a few heads in the room and raises eyebrows.  Before you raise yours in my general direction, you should know I’ve put a lot of thought into it, as it’s not a subject I take lightly – as I am the mother of a 13 year old son who was diagnosed with autism in 2000 – just hear me out. 

 

For the past decade, our family has lived with the shrapnel of autism flying all around our heads: a series of screeching tantrums (the terrible twos stretched out from 2 – 8 years old); wild episodes of fight and flight; self-injurious behavior; multiple methods of intervention, therapies and special restrictive diets.  There was also a good chunk of change given away to what amounted to snake oil funds (when all was said and done), because although many childhood disabilities and diseases bring out the altruism in people, the murky waters of autism seem to have parted to reveal loads of unproven methods by fly-by-night therapists who feed on the hopelessness of families willing to sacrifice everything to find a “cure” for their child.  What exactly is it about autism that we, as loving, caring parents, are so eager to cure?  Well, the diagnosis criterion for autism is divided into three domains:

 

• Impaired social interaction
• Delayed, impaired or complete lack of communication
• Restricted, stereotyped and repetitive patterns of behavior, interests and activities

 

These three areas of basic human interaction are crucial to the normal development of a child and some autistic kids are slow to retrain their behaviors to the neurologically typical standards while others never do during their lifetime.

 

Developmental Pediatricians all shout, “Early intervention!” but I believe they sugarcoat and should say, “Early, relentless, seemingly never-ending intervention, at any cost!”  As parents we are desperate and right away start to jump through hoops in an attempt to push-and-push our little square autistic pegs to fit the round neurologically typical holes of society, but taking a step back, I am questioning the logic in that.

 

Having lived with autism for quite a while now, I can tell you that it has been a long process that constantly proves one thing: growth is painful.  Developmental growth, as childhood textbooks define it, is all a bit “through the looking glass” and comes in spurts or not at all.  It can be disheartening, yet, there are days when I look at my son and I truly perceive him to be so far above us, it’s a bit spooky.  While he doesn’t quite fit the so-called normal social mold (to the point of ridicule from some of his school peers), most of it rolls off his stiffly arched and awkward back, seemingly unnoticed.  He is not very comfortable around crowds of people, which he sometimes literally defines as three’s a crowd and he’ll retreat to his room to interact with his computer -- antisocial behavior at it’s finest, but after all, isn’t that the way we’re all moving?

 

Think about it.  Technology has made such advances over the last twenty years that face-to-face interaction is no longer necessary in nearly every aspect of day-to-day living.  Practically everything you need can arrive at your doorstep via a delivery person whose eyes don’t even need to be seen under the brim of their cap… it’s all just sign here, m’am or simply left on the porch.  Countless products and services can be viewed via your computer monitor, television set, magazine or catalog.  A simple phone call, click of a mouse or touch of app button from anywhere and items can be ordered instantly 24 hours a day.  The people who tend to those ordering centers are, more often than not, housed in tiny personal cubicles where they can choose whether or not to intermingle with their fellow employees … usually opting not to.

 

We don’t ever have to contemplate folding, spindling or mutilating currency as our finances are bandied about via Direct Deposit or ATM machines, then disbursed by debit and credit cards -- requiring no human interaction, not even a perfunctory, “Here’s your change.” from clerks is needed anymore.  The machines handle all of our transactions and we’re issued a mechanical, “Have a nice day” as we exit through electronic doors.

 

If we don’t want any human interaction at all we can visit the self-service pay island where we become shopper, checker and bagger never needing to see a human being unless we require assistance.  Very Jetsons, indeed. Very autism-friendly.

 

The Space Age is upon us and we’ve barely noticed its arrival, just thinking that all of these technological advances were introduced for our convenience.  But I believe that the children of autism are adapting and evolving to the world WE are creating, whether we like it or not.  Again, growth is painful – more so for us, than them.

 

It may sound all conspiracy theorist of me, but I sometimes I wonder if it isn’t actually technology’s fault that more and more children are being diagnosed with autism.  With the increase of wireless electrical activity in our world, little developing brains are bombarded with electrical impulses.  And I’m not completely wacko, alone and mad in my thinking either.  Dr. Rodolfo Llinas, chairman of the physiology and neuroscience department at the New York University School of Medicine says, “All brain activity is basically electrical chattering between cells."  According to biophysicist Dr. Gerard Hyland of the UK, “Our brain is a very delicate biochemical and electrical instrument and incoming oscillating waves affect our health.”   Hmmm… wouldn’t it sort of make sense then, that there would be a hitch in the giddyup somewhere?

 

Despite however the outside world may have contributed to the possibility of altered brain patterns, it doesn’t change the simple fact that people with autism are very uncomfortable with human interaction.  Neurological deficits make it physically painful to subject themselves to sound, touch, smell, sight and even taste, which is a pretty big detriment to socialization since so much of our social interaction is through eating.  So, it stands to reason that the world that technology is creating suits an entire body of people with autism just fine, thank you very much.  The world of technology brings tremendous comfort in many ways to a person with autism.  Hence, my autism = evolution theory.

 

While I have watched legions of therapists and educators working to push, prod, pull and coax my boy into “a normal world”, I think they all might be missing the boat, ignoring the possible beauty of the world he inhabits.  When my son retreats to the technological realm that soothes and comforts his anti-social savage beast, I wonder who’s right and who’s wrong?

 

Anthropologists have seen evidence of man’s social ways throughout the centuries – ceremonial artifacts and writings that show man’s need to connect with other human beings, whether to war or woo.  The lives we live today will not offer as much proof of that same need to bond when they go digging through the rubble (or landfills) of the 21^st century.  Perhaps history will eventually prove that our scientific advances propelled man in another direction – away from basic human interaction.  Maybe it’s even as drastic a notion as over-population leading us to down-size.  Scary thought, but nobody ever said evolution was gentle on those left behind in the dust as fossils.

 

When first told about my child’s diagnosis of autism it was devastating and each day after brought waves of anguish, anger, guilt and grief – but not any more.  I have decided that I prefer not to view autism as a disability, but as a new generation’s coping ability, as I watch my son and others like him change as the world around them changes.  Despite my having developed the way the textbooks deemed “typical”, many of my child’s currently perceived deficits may truly turn out to be bonuses that will assist him in a world I might not recognize ... or even fit into one day.  I have a whole other theory about space travel and benefits of being autistic, too – if you want to email me ([email protected]) or chat via Facebook (after all, heaven forbid we try to meet in person and make <gasp!> eye contact)!

Autism = Evolution

Whenever I say those words out loud it turns more than a few heads in the room and raises eyebrows.  Before you raise yours in my general direction, you should know I’ve put a lot of thought into it, as it’s not a subject I take lightly – as I am the mother of a 13 year old son who was diagnosed with autism in 2000 – just hear me out. 

 

For the past decade, our family has lived with the shrapnel of autism flying all around our heads: a series of screeching tantrums (the terrible twos stretched out from 2 – 8 years old); wild episodes of fight and flight; self-injurious behavior; multiple methods of intervention, therapies and special restrictive diets.  There was also a good chunk of change given away to what amounted to snake oil funds (when all was said and done), because although many childhood disabilities and diseases bring out the altruism in people, the murky waters of autism seem to have parted to reveal loads of unproven methods by fly-by-night therapists who feed on the hopelessness of families willing to sacrifice everything to find a “cure” for their child.  What exactly is it about autism that we, as loving, caring parents, are so eager to cure?  Well, the diagnosis criterion for autism is divided into three domains:

 

• Impaired social interaction
• Delayed, impaired or complete lack of communication
• Restricted, stereotyped and repetitive patterns of behavior, interests and activities

 

These three areas of basic human interaction are crucial to the normal development of a child and some autistic kids are slow to retrain their behaviors to the neurologically typical standards while others never do during their lifetime.

 

Developmental Pediatricians all shout, “Early intervention!” but I believe they sugarcoat and should say, “Early, relentless, seemingly never-ending intervention, at any cost!”  As parents we are desperate and right away start to jump through hoops in an attempt to push-and-push our little square autistic pegs to fit the round neurologically typical holes of society, but taking a step back, I am questioning the logic in that.

 

Having lived with autism for quite a while now, I can tell you that it has been a long process that constantly proves one thing: growth is painful.  Developmental growth, as childhood textbooks define it, is all a bit “through the looking glass” and comes in spurts or not at all.  It can be disheartening, yet, there are days when I look at my son and I truly perceive him to be so far above us, it’s a bit spooky.  While he doesn’t quite fit the so-called normal social mold (to the point of ridicule from some of his school peers), most of it rolls off his stiffly arched and awkward back, seemingly unnoticed.  He is not very comfortable around crowds of people, which he sometimes literally defines as three’s a crowd and he’ll retreat to his room to interact with his computer -- antisocial behavior at it’s finest, but after all, isn’t that the way we’re all moving?

 

Think about it.  Technology has made such advances over the last twenty years that face-to-face interaction is no longer necessary in nearly every aspect of day-to-day living.  Practically everything you need can arrive at your doorstep via a delivery person whose eyes don’t even need to be seen under the brim of their cap… it’s all just sign here, m’am or simply left on the porch.  Countless products and services can be viewed via your computer monitor, television set, magazine or catalog.  A simple phone call, click of a mouse or touch of app button from anywhere and items can be ordered instantly 24 hours a day.  The people who tend to those ordering centers are, more often than not, housed in tiny personal cubicles where they can choose whether or not to intermingle with their fellow employees … usually opting not to.

 

We don’t ever have to contemplate folding, spindling or mutilating currency as our finances are bandied about via Direct Deposit or ATM machines, then disbursed by debit and credit cards -- requiring no human interaction, not even a perfunctory, “Here’s your change.” from clerks is needed anymore.  The machines handle all of our transactions and we’re issued a mechanical, “Have a nice day” as we exit through electronic doors.

 

If we don’t want any human interaction at all we can visit the self-service pay island where we become shopper, checker and bagger never needing to see a human being unless we require assistance.  Very Jetsons, indeed. Very autism-friendly.

 

The Space Age is upon us and we’ve barely noticed its arrival, just thinking that all of these technological advances were introduced for our convenience.  But I believe that the children of autism are adapting and evolving to the world WE are creating, whether we like it or not.  Again, growth is painful – more so for us, than them.

 

It may sound all conspiracy theorist of me, but I sometimes I wonder if it isn’t actually technology’s fault that more and more children are being diagnosed with autism.  With the increase of wireless electrical activity in our world, little developing brains are bombarded with electrical impulses.  And I’m not completely wacko, alone and mad in my thinking either.  Dr. Rodolfo Llinas, chairman of the physiology and neuroscience department at the New York University School of Medicine says, “All brain activity is basically electrical chattering between cells."  According to biophysicist Dr. Gerard Hyland of the UK, “Our brain is a very delicate biochemical and electrical instrument and incoming oscillating waves affect our health.”   Hmmm… wouldn’t it sort of make sense then, that there would be a hitch in the giddyup somewhere?

 

Despite however the outside world may have contributed to the possibility of altered brain patterns, it doesn’t change the simple fact that people with autism are very uncomfortable with human interaction.  Neurological deficits make it physically painful to subject themselves to sound, touch, smell, sight and even taste, which is a pretty big detriment to socialization since so much of our social interaction is through eating.  So, it stands to reason that the world that technology is creating suits an entire body of people with autism just fine, thank you very much.  The world of technology brings tremendous comfort in many ways to a person with autism.  Hence, my autism = evolution theory.

 

While I have watched legions of therapists and educators working to push, prod, pull and coax my boy into “a normal world”, I think they all might be missing the boat, ignoring the possible beauty of the world he inhabits.  When my son retreats to the technological realm that soothes and comforts his anti-social savage beast, I wonder who’s right and who’s wrong?

 

Anthropologists have seen evidence of man’s social ways throughout the centuries – ceremonial artifacts and writings that show man’s need to connect with other human beings, whether to war or woo.  The lives we live today will not offer as much proof of that same need to bond when they go digging through the rubble (or landfills) of the 21^st century.  Perhaps history will eventually prove that our scientific advances propelled man in another direction – away from basic human interaction.  Maybe it’s even as drastic a notion as over-population leading us to down-size.  Scary thought, but nobody ever said evolution was gentle on those left behind in the dust as fossils.

 

When first told about my child’s diagnosis of autism it was devastating and each day after brought waves of anguish, anger, guilt and grief – but not any more.  I have decided that I prefer not to view autism as a disability, but as a new generation’s coping ability, as I watch my son and others like him change as the world around them changes.  Despite my having developed the way the textbooks deemed “typical”, many of my child’s currently perceived deficits may truly turn out to be bonuses that will assist him in a world I might not recognize ... or even fit into one day.  I have a whole other theory about space travel and benefits of being autistic, too – if you want to email me ([email protected]) or chat via Facebook (after all, heaven forbid we try to meet in person and make <gasp!> eye contact)!

Sunny skies? No sweaters, thank goodness.

One of my all-time favorite jokes has to do with guilt.  A mother lovingly gives her only son the gift of two beautiful sweaters and to honor and thank her, the son decides to wear one of them when he goes to visit her.  Pleased and doubly warm (inside and out) with his decision, he rings his mother’s doorbell anticipating her smiling face when she sees he chose to wear one of her wonderful gifts.  The door slowly opens, the mother sees her son standing there, looks him up and down and harrumphs, “So, you didn’t like the other sweater?”

 

When I get up in the morning I look in the mirror as I brush my teeth and say, “Today, I will do the best I can in all that I attempt to do.  I will help as many as I am capable of helping and along the way I will harm none.”  Really.  Through minty-fresh breath I mumble my good intentions for a positive, uplifting day and if all else fails and I fall short, I pray that nobody gets hurt.  When day is done (hopefully before midnight), I re-run the day with toothbrush in hand again making a mental checklist of what transpired since the crack of ridiculous (between 5 and 6 am) and try to determine, if this day was my last… would I be proud of it viewed on instant replay two stories high?  Was I successful in my attempts to aid and comfort those in distress?  Were my words, written or spoken, helpful/constructive/positive?  Did I use a firm enough hand when administering the doses of tough love where needed?  Were more frowns turned to laughs when all was said and done (a critically important part of my every day)?

 

I have a deep appreciation for the value of the minutes that are mine to borrow on this planet and, like most of you, have the basic human need of just wanting to love and be loved (heck, even a healthy helping of like makes me pretty darn happy).  Nonetheless, I somehow seem to have grown up to be the poster child for the Wrong Sweater Theorem.  I don’t know about you, but if one interaction goes sour during the day, it has a tendency to burrow in my brain and I spend (waste?) an extraordinary amount of energy wondering what went wrong and what can be done to make it right.  But deep down, I know that more often than not, the people who adhere to the Wrong Sweater school-of-thought cannot be pleased and should probably not be added to our checklists at the end of the day.

 

The thing with Wrong Sweater people is this: you can stand teetering on a decision of what to say or do with them and if you veer to the right, you’ll see in their eyes that you should have gone left and if you go to the left they’re apt to shake their head (often accompanied by a barely disguised “Tsk-tsk”) indicating their disbelief that starboard wasn’t your first and only choice.  Guilt has a way of sucking the joy out of a situation, usually dragging your confidence along behind it and the Wrong Sweater people don’t feel a lick of guilt over these situations (they know you’re carrying enough of it for everyone).

 

You could wear BOTH sweaters, but not only will you literally be hot-under-the-collar, you’ll look silly doing it.  And the Wrong Sweater folks will pull no punches as they laugh and point it (and you) out.

 

During a phone call this afternoon it was brought to my attention that I apparently had a Wrong Sweater moment a few days ago and I didn’t even know it.  For hours, I tried to figure out what I could have done differently and realize now that there was no way I could have chosen the right sweater or worn two at a time to make things right.  I’m going to have to brush my teeth and let it go.

 

Living in Southern California, I am so grateful that as the sun went down it was 57 degrees: no sweater required.  Tomorrow, it will be more of the same as the weather calls for sunny skies and a high close to 80 degrees out here in the high desert.  With any luck, the trend will continue and I won’t be tempted to put on one of those Wrong Sweaters again.  That’s just one less thing on my list.  Thank goodness.