Category Archives: Motherhood



Last month… and the month before December, and the years before 2006, I got through pretty damned well, in spite of it.

But Tonight — Oh Dear God… I’ve always wondered what a nervous break down felt like…

and since I’m not checked into a mental ward, yet, I might still not know —

but the scream.  All I could do was scream.


My kids ran for cover, picked up their crap, ran for cover and I screamed.

To no one.

begging for mercy…

and then tears, followed by all the thoughts of why? and why not? and why the hell am I fighting:

Autism, weak employment, obsessive screenwriting, visions of grandeur, Diabetes and carb counts, single motherhood, poverty, debt, broken vehicles — (as in dead vehicles), friggin’ chickens (Yes Sorine, Friggin’ chickens), contest deadlines, daydreams, school schedules, syllables, class schedules and work that is not mine:  papers to write that I sign with my son’s name, university requirements that don’t belong to me. Why am I beating my head against this same, damned, wall?  The emails, the phone calls, the waiting lists, the rotation of caseworkers, the letters, the appointments, the conferences, the meetings, the clutter, the cats, the dog, the mess, the colds, the vomit (not mine), the tears (not mine) , the loneliness, (mine, his, theirs), the guilt, (all mine), the shame (mine again) — Why THE HELL did I leave L.A.?  Why did I feel like I OWED because I fell in love and had children? Why can’t I be a gambler, a Meth addict, a stoner, a smoker, a thief, a slut, a villain, a Party Girl, a wino, a cheat, a scoundrel, a racist, a lawyer, a politician, work on Wall Street, work in “sales,” be a lousy shit of a mother who doesn’t give a crap? Why am I not those things?

Why am I THIS?

This is no Lion’s Den that will ever be praised, written about or documented.  This is no proud moment of achievement in spite of great odds.  This is no shining moment that shows Your Awesomeness. (Yet?) Where’s the power? Where’s the strength to get through?  Lead me to that pile of ashes — Let me soak in it, bathe in it, roll in it. Give me a bag of marshmallows to roast if I am not a Phoenix.  I’ve run out of the ability to keep it up, stay focused, faithful, trusting.  I’m down to an 1/8 of a mustard seed.  That’s it.  I’m tired.

I’m so ineffectual…


Jesus H. Christ — I’m begging you.

believing and having faith in you as always — but please, please I’m waiting for this promise:

Matthew 11:28-30 – Come Unto Me. “Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Any time at all…


I admit I have knack for digging more tunnel the minute I see a crack of light.  Seems it is the way I was crafted…

Not pointing fingers or anything…





The kids have been out of school for two days because of the weather.  Snow and ice too heavy and thick to clear away so that folks may travel to school safely.

They’ve built snow forts, dragged out the X- country skis, plowed out tunnels like hamsters in a cage – and yeah — it’s starting to feel like a cage.

Spring will be welcome.  I suppose I will tolerate the time change eventually if it means the sun will shine again and I’ll be able to ride my bike to the grocery store.

Too much time indoors is not a good thing.  I spend most of my time on the computer — it’s not healthy.  Something about it makes me start to feel foreign to myself.  Panic attacks happen often — It’s my mind pinging back to myself.  It makes for a shallow existence.  I can feel it – the need to connect with another human.  You would think my kids would count in this aspect, but they are looking up to me for answers.  It’s a horrid feeling to realize you simply don’t have any except my favorite:  Don’t quit.

Pissy Mood

I spent six hours today working toward what ended up being 2 hours of actual solid writing.  Writing a SPEC screenplay – for whatever that is worth at this moment.

I am sure I have ADD.  Or maybe I just want the excuse.   Right now — I just need to say, I hate Autism.  I hate what it has done to my son.  I hate what it has done to our family.

I hate that I have nowhere to turn for help. There is nothing anyone can say.  Nothing anyone can do.  One more sympathetic look from outsiders just doesn’t cut it.

An outsider is anyone who is not part of this family — including my betrothed.  This long distance marriage is just… not.

Nothing helps.

Not even beer, not wine.




And to top it off — WORDPRESS has started to include these STINKING ADS ( see below).  Ridiculous.  I may have to join BLOGGER instead.

The Birthday I Wasn’t Going to Celebrate.

My birthday… was incredible.  The event at my son’s cross-country awards dinner — was overwhelmingly beautiful.  The boys on my son’s team, and even the girls on their cross-country team, the coaches, the parents — all showed such a level of kindness — that I will never forget it.  I pray I never will.  I pray too, that I can return such kindness and good will.

Word got out about it…and the local paper will interview my son, his teammates and some of the Mom’s that were involved, on Sunday to do an article — pretty cool.  I will post the article when it comes out.  Stay tuned.

I may write about it before then as well.

Gratitude.  Gratitude.

Learning to trust God even during hard times — even years and years and years of hard times is such a hard lesson. But with Gratitude, grace and strength sometimes comes.  Hang in there.  Never, ever give up.


Update; 50a9430d60ba8.preview-620The Article:


This single Mom…

This single Mom thing is getting old.

The Longest Month

It is August, the final month of summer break. I accomplish the least during this month, partly due to the heat, but mostly due to the fact I can’t seem to get control of the remaining time.  I feel the air changing.  In the morning, a hint of fall crispness provokes unwanted sentimental emotion.  It tells me that this will be over some day.  I will miss all the chaos and unknown.  It tells me to enjoy what I’ve got.  Enjoy my children now. Enjoy it all now.

There is an accumulation of mud and unknown sticky stuff on my floors.  We’ve already begun the month-before school-starts obligatory doctor’s and dentist appointments. My oldest son is on the cross-country team and his 6-day a week practices have begun.  Which, for me includes a 6 to 12 mile bike ride to his high school and back.  I ride with my son (he has autism), until I know he can do it safely on his own.  Once school starts, he’ll ride the bus.  I’ve bought the kids very few new school clothes and supplies this year, but at least,  I’m done with the “shopping.”  This week, I will look through closets and drawers, repair anything I can stitch up, then arrange it all neat and easy for them to find in the mornings.

By September, my kids will be off to school and my oldest daughter back to college.   I will miss them all — but especially my oldest.  She won’t be home at night.  I won’t see her in the mornings.  I will miss talking with her, watching trashy reality TV with her, baking and cooking with her. I will miss comparing diet status and weigh ins, and her showing me yet another dress in which she looks stunning.  (This weight loss thing is a Big Deal.  I am proud of her).  Nor will she be here to celebrate her 20th birthday.  I know no other way of saying it: It makes me feel so sad.   (Sadness has become a character in the room here.  I would love for him to leave).

For now, we have the few weeks left of August. Gosh — not even two weeks!  We all are staying up later, trying to squeeze in one last moment of time to do things that must be done before school starts.   For me the list includes cleaning the fridge, having a yard sale (or taking it all to Good Will), and finishing a script.  For the kids the list includes squeezing in another sleep over, another day at the swim park, another hike somewhere,  another jaunt over to DQ for an Oreo Blizzard.  My boys will increase their late-night-time by watching another old episode of Twilight Zone or Family Guy.  They will sneak in another level of a game to brag of their accomplishments and heroics. Nora will be with them through it all, playing with them, proving how tough she is (not) until I intervene saying the classic phrase, “before someone gets hurt.”   Nick will be up and down the stairway, annoyed by his siblings’ noise and use of his computer, yet unable to keep himself away from them. Maybe I’ll attempt another go at Gin Rummy, teaching them the basic rules. They aren’t thrilled with card games.  I might have to introduce gambling. Ritz crackers, I’ve got.

After I yell again for them to finally go to sleep, they will 10 minutes later be in the kitchen for another drink of water or milk.  They will tell me that they can’t sleep, that their stomachs hurt or ask for another hug.   Of course I will hug them.  I’m always happy to give another one of those.  I need the hugs just as much as they do.  For the remainder of August, they all will have a new excuse each night until the last hour before School-Starts-Tomorrow Eve.  By September 1st, they, including Emily away at school, will all be exhausted, but ready and excited for the school year because it is once again new.

I want to feel that same newness, that same expectancy.  If I finish my script before Emily leaves (August 31), maybe it is possible.  That would be an accomplishment that could buoy against an attack of emotions.  After that, I would also be ready to buckle down and rewrite my second script in the line up.  I tell myself:  It’s my job.  My non paying until it pays off job.  I must put the time in and fight the urge to nap.  (When I can’t solve a script problem, I become incredibly sleepy.  Funny).   But my usual excuses for failing my job will all be off to school.   During summer, I blame the noise, the consistent interruptions —  but soon the quiet here will make me weepy.  I must write as a way to interrupt the meaner, more depressing characters that often start talking there.

For now, this month drags on.  Chores must be done before it all hits.  I will make my lists and knock them off one at a time.  Deadlines loom, I know.  I will meet them.  But for now… though I know I should be working, maybe I can view August as other families do, as vacation time.  We aren’t going anywhere in reality, but I can view it as a vacation of the mind.  For the remaining weeks I can shut down the voices in my head that tell me I am doing it all wrong, and instead, simply be happy that my kids are with me.  Maybe, for once I can relax and be happy.  There is no place I need to be but here.

The Round Up (or) How I Failed Again At Mother Of The Year

Tonight was the night my kids look forward to all year, other than Christmas and their birthdays. It is the night I succumb to the ritual of taking them to The Fair. I would name the actual title of said, “Fair” but then it would end up in a Google search and all traces would lead back to me — that crazy psychotic mother who screamed at her beautiful seven-year-old daughter, after she forced her to ride THE ROUND UP.

Bad, bad mother. Many points lost already.

My daughter cried at the base of the steps, cried on the platform and cried as I strapped the tiny, absolutely worthless, decaying cable across her chest and said: “Look at me. Look at my face. It’s not scary.”  (I meant the ride, of course. She probably thought I meant my face.)  Either way — she was absolutely terrified.

Inside my head, two, no maybe it was three or more voices argued. One said — Don’t do it. Don’t make her go. She’s a little girl. Let her be. Another voice said: She’ll love it. Once she feels how the centrifugal force holds her back — she’ll absolutely dig the physics of it. After all, that logic worked with the boys. A third voice, no doubt an ancestral voice from the Dark Ages said: If she cries to get out of this, she’ll cry to get out of everything. Make her get on the thing and teach her to face her fears. Burn! Burn!  There were more voices, too, but those were my sons’ actual voices as they pecked and needled: “Please, Mom, make her go. She has to go on it!”

And no, thank you for asking (I heard you mutter it), since I’ve already admitted to the complete loss of  Mother of the Year Award, I also admit I am not beneath blaming my sons ( just a bit) for twisting my mind into being stupidly cruel. Ask any woman with three sons — that woman will never be normal or reasonable again. I gave in or they won — you choose.  Both are correct. But my seven-year-old knows how to work payback…  I am not saying she faked it, because she certainly did not. But her particular level of fear beat us all.

So, the ride starts and before it’s turned once around, my baby girl starts sinking down, her knees buckling…

I held her hand, told her it would be all right, to look at my face, to not look down — but she kept sinking further down, and FORWARD! How the hell is she sinking and moving forward? Do the Laws of Physics not apply to my angel baby? Here is where panic set in and I lost it: As she dropped nearly to her knees and forward, from my perspective it appeared the cable was at her throat and potentially choking her. Her face was colorless —

I screamed for her to stand up. I mean — I am SCREAMING for her to STAND UP!

But she remained forward, her throat seemingly at the cable and her face contorted and crying — not hearing a bloody word I said. Then her older brother yells for her to stand up, then her next older brother yells for her to stand up and then her oldest brother (with autism), starts screaming and yelling because he hears us screaming and yelling and he HATES it when we all start that shit.  It was mayhem. It got worse.

I swore. I dropped F-bombs while DEMANDING she stand up because in my mind all I could imagine was her hanging herself on the friggin’ Round Up and the night ending up as just one of those freak accidents you hear about on the evening news. Meanwhile, all I could do was hold her little hand and watch her go? It was horrible — I mean really — it looked horrible. It was also about then that I noticed how friggin’ terrifying the stupid ride really was! Holy Shit! I mean – GAWD — I could see the ground right in front of me! My attention back on my baby, choking, (she wasn’t actually choking, but she looked like she was), I decided to pull out all the stops to get her to stand up and her throat off that cable wire.  I yelled that if she didn’t stand up right then, I was going to kill her when we got off the ride.

Yes, may God have mercy on my stupid-ass soul, doggone it  — I said THAT. Brilliant.  Now, not only were we all yelling for my baby to stand up and not die, but my youngest son was screaming at me: “MOM! WHY DID YOU SAY THAT? HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?”  (Please, please understand: I said it for effect.  She’s my love — I couldn’t stop the ride.  I couldn’t make her stand up from that wire.  I wanted to be scarier than the ride so that she would get up).

And this was all done loudly, in public, around many young children not my own, in a Twirling Cage — right next to the “Fun House.”

Thankfully, mercifully, the ride did slow down…

My baby girl took a breath and cried as she finally was able to stand, moving her throat from the Son-of-a-bitch cable wire, “helped” somewhat because I pushed her head up and back to the cushioned part of the ride by her chin.  (I’m sure that looked great…)

Embarrassingly, it was then that I noticed the terrified and rather shocked expressions of all the riders within my view. I did not, could not, look back over my shoulder at the others behind me — but boy — I could  feel them… (If anyone ever said that mental telepathy was a myth or a simple carnival side-show, they were wrong).

Ahh…yes… Drama. It’s what I do.  Apparently, my offspring have the knack, too. : /

Tomorrow — my two oldest boys are going back to The Fair for another day of fun and I am bringing my two youngest swimming at a (nameless) Swim Park.  Have I mentioned I am not a good swimmer and am afraid of heights? Yeah.

I cannot wait for summer to be over.