Authors Note:

The purpose behind all Ancient Brologues are to provide a rough translation from the traditionally oral and inebriated communication stylings of ancient Fratbronese into a middle-ground written variant of modern American English: Bromish.

It is important to note that in both the oral and text translations, the terms “dude, bro, brah, man, my guy, bruh, broseph, and dude bro,” are all non-gendered and unrelated to ones ethnicity, race, or social class. Once you are a bro, you are, henceforth, always a bro. This was always true then as much as it has always been true in modern day times forever and always with no complications or problematic indications what-so-ever that this author should be sensitive to or aware of and could therefore be accused of infranchising upon or discrediting within this academic undertaking, for this is a work of science and science does not flinch from truth. And the truth, dear reader, is that this is how the people of that day and age did talk t…

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You chased and pulled,
Teased and poked.
Until I screamed so loud
your eardrum broke.


You stole and lied,
Blamed and abused.
Until that day you shoved,
But I didn’t budge, 
and your own hand got bruised.


You twisted truths,
Played trust to your ends.
And just as I thought
we might make amends,

you threw a kick—
which I caught with a palm.

I held you
at 
an 
odd 
angle.
While a crowd looked on.

I gave you a choice—
fight 
or sit, 

you wriggled and jerked,
and I didn’t loose my grip.

Finally,
you sat,
hard on the bench.

And thanks to the crowd,
I wasn’t bullied ever since.


This crowd was bigger,
And didn’t know like them..

But I was no longer
the only one suffering
your malicious intent.

And so, as you stood at that stage
playing martyrs for praise.
I shook in my seat,
fists cocked back in rage.

All three of you went,
Had stood solemn from the crowd,
put on quite the show,
got applause,
took a bow. 

And when you each left
and returned to your seat

I rose
from the back
of the darkest
auditorium seats.

I stomped down to the mic
shaking with fear,
Not from what I would say 
but from what they all
might hear.


The teachers watched
as I turned to the crowd,
a thousand pairs of eyes,
group B 
of our school’s
two-thousand-strong pride.

I did something then
I’d done countless times,
but never with such distilled anger
waiting with an acid sharp diatribe,

and never with the decision 
to address them all

Being
completely
And utterly
My
call.


I allowed myself to do it,
to sense them then.
Ground myself down,
Feel the soul of my kin.

Find their pain,
Sense their boredom,
frustration.

Taste their curiosity,
smell their disgust,
and hear disdains vibrations.

My heart caught,
an undercurrent,
familiar, hard, and 
always in range.

Our shared desperation for something,
God, for anything,
to
just
finally
change.

“I think it’s great,
That you all came down to say, 
you believe 
and want 
inclusion
today.

But.


It bears pointing out:
this is not the first
nor the second
Or fourth, 
eighth,
or thirteenth time,

that the district has sat us down
to feed us the, 
“stop being hateful, homophobic, ableist, racist, asshats”
plea line.


None
of
this
is
new.

neither the problems
not you.

Not even the message of love and acceptance
they try to convey.

But hey,

Those of you 
who came down before,
If you have 
Somehow
Truly been changed
over this last half a day?

How ‘bout you make it stick this time
instead of wiping it from your memory
as soon as you feel so inclined?

Maybe.
To start.
Don’t say that you care,
but then do
nothing
once you clique up 
out 
there.

Quit the gossip.
Quit the teasing. 
Stop with the 
passive 
aggressive
fights.

and for godssake,

stop.
back-stabbing.
everyone
who walks out of sight.

Can you give that a shot?
Is it too much to ask
That you try to care for
Longer than a bathroom hall pass?

How about going a whole month?
before one of you jokes 
about that 
“Hilarious”
hate-crime,
You heard about
from your folks?

We
are 
all 
tired 
of listening to this shit,
while you pretend to shift from it.


We slog through this crap,
do the political dance, 
for the benefit of our donors,
—your parents.
All so the district doesn’t 
embarrass Mr. Moneybags’
little offspring 
piss-ants.


You all know who you are.
I won’t mark you by name.
You do it yourselves
with your hateful little games.

Now,
last time, you’ll remember,
I gave you a choice,

This time, however,
I’m using my voice.

I’m throwing you a challenge.

And given that ‘performance’ we just saw 
I think it’s one you can manage,

Instead of playing the saint today,
and only in here,
Go act like you aren’t piss-ant bigots 
for the rest of the fucking year.”


A gasp and whoop went through the hall,
I looked to my friends, 
but the noise had not come from them at all, 

Their jaws were all slack 
and each looked …aggrieved? 
Not one of their expressions
looked impressed or pleased;

Just embarrassed.
Mortified. Almost… 
bereaved?

Irritated, then
that I’d need a new crew, 

I handed the mic back,
and up the stairs
I flew.


I went to my seat
ignoring the dramatic high-five attempts,
and all the false bravado
which just made my jaw clench.

Even pre-internet, I found karma farmers
vile horrid things.
Secondhand valor
just shame
with fake golden wings.


My friends let me scoot past
to my seat and sit down,
but all that was said was,
“you were… different.”
 With a frown.

I sighed
and said nothing, 
zoned out ‘til the end,

then snuck to the library,
to sit with my only
true friends.


I waited until no one was
left in the hall, 
no one to  give me weird looks
or yell
more dumbass
catcalls.

My mask had blown off,
my guy friends
were too stunned.

Until now, they’d just seen me
as a quiet recluse.
The reject all girl groups 
had shunned
and set loose.


They no longer saw
a helpless meek pet, 
they, and everyone else,
would see
an inferno,
just waiting
to be set.

And that,
in my experience,
no one
ever
wants
to protect.


The librarian caught me
before I could leave.
And looked at me slyly,
winking mischievously.


“I knew you had that in you,” 
she said,
“always did.”

“Never underestimate
the voice
that hides
in the quiet kid.”


I took that to heart, more than I knew.
And from that point forward,
the voice I’d hidden
grew.

It burns bridges
and builds them,
fights for clarity
and nuance.

It makes sure I don’t falter,
I risk and advance.

It got me stronger,
so I could rely on myself,
No need for protection
given by anyone else.

I keep my voice close,
bring it out only when I must.
It sits
and it waits,
collecting details,
but
never
rust.

I keep it sharp,
and wicked,
always ready to wail,

Because here’s the truth
of this quiet child’s tale—

My quiet is as alive,
Holding back armies
of truth in my head.

But.

Push me
too far
and

My quiet is dead.

Nostalgia, MomBlog Varietal, circa June 2015 

There I was. Minding my own business, playing with the little munchkin, when I had the fantastic idea to do some developmental games with him.

Because that’s how we anal retentive moms do.

I opened my go-to hover-mom app: BabySparks. On today’s uber-excessive developmental schedule for my savvy 7 month old we are scheduled to “explore texture with baby-safe playdough!”

A lightbulb went off in my brain.

“I pinned something like that…”

Oh.

Hell.

Yes.

People. We get to use Pinterest.

Best Friday ever.

After my ovaries stopped their enthusiastic happy girl dance, I did a quick search.

As required by law, Pinterest threw me into the ever familiar land of high expectations and unachievable standards.

In an instant I went from “oh yay! I still have that play dough pinned!” To

“Pssh. Who needs that basic-bitch playdough that I originally pinned when I can have FABULOUS rainbow playdough!? 

“I mean my God, look how cute. It’s a fucking rainbow-tacular caterpillar. I can teach the little nugget about colors and caterpillars and… OH MY GOD it’s pride month! I must do this for the people, because #LoveWins.”

And so I entered this pin-deavor with high hopes, as one usually does in this sort sleep-deprived and self-worth questioning stage of life.

Come, join me won’t you? Travel with me as we navigate the adventure of believing you know more than you do. Learn from my mistakes.

Imminent Failure Indicator #1: Didn’t have all of the ingredients.

Hmm, this recipe calls for applesauce. Don’t have applesauce… It says I can use water, but the other recipe said I could use any fresh fruit puree. Fresh fruit puree sounds like it would taste better, this is supposed to be edible, and it makes it seem like I did more… so fresh fruit puree it is!

[Looks in fridge]

Okay, well I have some V8 fusion and about 1/4 cup of apple and banana baby puree.

Well goddamnit, that is practically applesauce right there!

This is totally going to work.

Imminent Failure Indicator #2: Took a short cut on step two of the recipe.

“Use a kitchen aid to blend the dough”Pssh. Ain’t nobody got time for that. My hands will work just fine.

This is quite dry though… better add more V8.

Imminent Failure Indicator #3: Second improvisation.

Well, okay.

Damn…

Now it’s too sticky.

Better add more…

…

cornstarch?

Sure. Cornstarch.

[knead, knead, knead]

…

Okay. More cornstartch.

[knead, knead, knead]

…

Fine.

All the cornstarch and a dump of rice cereal.

[knead, knead, knead]

Imminent Failure Indicator #4: Let recipe sit, half done, on the counter for an hour.

Aww, baby is fussing.

[looks to unfinished dough, looks to wailing baby, looks back to unfinished dough]

Right.

I guess I’ll just leave this the way it is and come back to it after he is down for his nap.

[deep down knows her window for success has now closed, ignores this]

I can just cover it and put it in the fridge.

[Baby starts sabotagiarly screaming]

Nope. No time. 

Imminent Failure Indicator #5: Realize a step was skipped back in the beginning. Improvise a third time.

Damn, that V8 fusion made it smell good but it looks kinda like cat puke… I will definitely have to add food coloring. Oh crap, I was supposed to add that before kneading it? Oh well, I can add it now, I just need gloves…

Gloves…

Meh. Recycled plastic sandwich baggies work. Look at me being all eco-friendly. I am the shit.

Imminent Failure Indicator #6: Losing steam for the project followed by immediate over-confidence that it will be awesome.

(Still kneading the coloring into the dough an hour later) 

Good. Fucking. God. Why did I decide to do this. My hands look like a Jackson Pollock painting. 

Can’t turn back now though.

Look baby! Mommy is making you playdough see? Look at the pretty colors! Did you know that it is pride month?

I rock at parenting.

Imminent Failure Indicator #7: Over-confidence turns to arrogance which turns to self-doubt.

There! Done! That’s a goddamned Pinterest win right there. Alright baby, are you ready for your tiny little mind to be blown by a rainbow caterpillar?

(Smooshes down the orange ball onto his high chair tray and shows him how to poke at it. Little man pokes, pokes, pokes, grabs and shoves the entire ball into his mouth.)

No no no! Oooookay… Let’s try this again. Look! We just explore the texture gently…

(He gently grabs ball, squishes between fingers, looks at mommy, shoves the whole thing in his mouth)

No no no! Ugh… what am I doing wrong?

(Looks at BabySparks for more instructions. Finds none. Googles baby playdough activities by age.)

Moment of Complete Failure: A realization that should have occurred before the project even started finally sinks in.

Google results show that baby isn’t ready for playdough until 15 months of age.

Little man is 7 months old. This playdough recipe is perishable after one week.

God. Dammit.

But hey, at least the dough turned out.

I wonder if I can make it into cookies… Better consult Pinterest.

I know what a lot of other parents might be thinking: “Then, maybe don’t yell?” I know this because I tell myself the exact same thing and feel that exact same eye-rolling way about my parenting choices every other day.

“Just don’t yell,” is an easy trap to fall into for me even though I know that it isn’t always an option. It’s appealing because the logic seems solid: if you yell they will learn to only respond to yelling, so …don’t yell. Just to add to the pressure, if you watch parenting video about disciplining ADHD kids they double down on that same recommendation.

The problem with this approach, like most of the standard and adhd-specific parenting tips, is that for my kids the logic the tips are based on dissolves as soon as it comes anywhere close to them.

Our family is a special sort of breed. Gifted, Autistic, and ADHD plus an accompaniment of anxiety, sensory processing difficulties, dyslexia, dyspraxia, panic, and obsessiveness. So, we are 2E, or “twice exceptional.” Except for us it is more like 2E plus an extra dollop of intermittent chaos. We’ll call it insan2E.

We have the insan2E.

So, what does that look like?

Here’s an example of how me trying exceedingly hard to “not yell” plays out in a house with four insan2E having humans:

I’ll call it: Putting on Shoes

“Hey, boys. It’s almost time to go. Please put your shoes on.”

My 9 year old, “Ok, got it!”

My 6 year old doesn’t respond.

I say, “6? It’s time for shoes. Please go put them on honey.”

No response.

I walk over to tap on 6’s shoulder to get his attention but I am stopped by 9.

“Hey, mom?”

“Yeah?”

“So. I had an awesome idea for a Minecraft mod I could code.”

I am now at 6 who is hyperfocusing on sorting their blueberries by size in their bowl .

“Cool bud, you can tell me after you put your shoes on.”

6 finally speaks, “What kind of mod?”

9 says, “Well, so I was thinking that you know how when we took apart — “

I interrupt, “9, bud, shoes, we can talk about this after.”

“Oh, right.”

9 then walks off toward his bedroom. Where his shoes are not.

I call after him, “Dude, they are by the front door.”

“No, I took them off in my room.”

I glance back at the door and immediately see shoes sitting by his backpack at the front door.

“No, bud they — “ but 9 is already in his room and has closed the door. I shift back to 6 who miraculously is now walking to the front door.

6 points, “His shoes are right here.”

“Yup, it’s ok. He’ll figure it out. Can you put your shoes on?”

6 flys into an instant rage. “I AM!”

I blink once, and then literally watch as he picks up his backpack and starts taking things out of it .

“Buddy, they aren’t in your bag, they are right there — “

6 growls at his backpack, “I NEED TO FIND MY PEN FIRST!”

“What? No, you need to get your shoes on dude. We can look for your pen after. Well, actually…”

I pick up a pen that is sitting next to his backpack and hold it up.

“…this pen?”

“Yay!! How did you find it?!”

“Really?”

9 then screams bloody murder from his bedroom.

I hand 6 the pen and his shoes — “Here, and please put them on.”

“Ok!”

9 then yells for me from his room, “MOM!!!!”

I take a few deep breaths as I check the clock and walk back to his room.

“Yeah?”

“I CANT FIND MY SHOES!!”

“ Well, yeah buddy. That’s because they are out by the front door.”

“NO THEY ARENT!!! I LOOKED THERE!”

“What? No you didn’t. And I was just there with 6. They are by the door where you left them last night after we went to your appointment.”

“Oh… right.”

I smile at his embarrassed grimace and give him a side hug: “It’s ok, I forget whenever I move things around all the time.”

“I didn’t forget.” He shrugs me off gently. “I just didn’t remember we went to the appointment.”

“Ah. Ok.”

We walk back to front door and find 6’s shoes in the middle of the entry space. 6, however, is not in them.

“6? Where’d you go?”

6 calls out from his room, “I’m changing my pants!”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE THEY ARE WRONG!”

9 stops putting his shoes on and looks up at me, “Should I change my pants, too?”

“No bud you’re fine.”

I walk back to 6’s room. He is not changing his pants. He is holding his pants in one hand and writing with his pen in the other — while standing in his underwear.

I try to sigh my frustration out, and then walk into the room.

“6, we don’t have time for this. Please, just finish changing your pants and go put your shoes on.”

“I will. I just need to write down my idea.”

I reach to take the pen, “Here, I can write it down while you put on your pants.”

6 grabs it away from my reach, “No! This won’t take long!”

I know better, but I am picking my battles. So I start helping him put on his pants.

6 starts chattering in excitement about his idea, “It’s about what I want to build today in the yard.”

I nod along, struggling to get his non-responsive 6 year old twiggy legs to put themselves in his pants without him falling over. All of his body awareness and coordination has been abandoned. He is in thinking time only mode.

I interrupt him, “All of that is awesome, but.” I take a deep breath . “I need your leg. No not that one. Your other leg. No, this one. The one I am tapping on. Please lift your leg.”

“How do you spell concrete barrier?”

I inhale sharply and sit back from him. “Bud? Can this wait?”

“No, how do you spell concrete barrier?”

“We are not building a concrete barrier in the backyard. We are putting on pants and going to school.”

“But we need to if we are going to make the bouldering wall.”

“We are not making a bouldering wall in the backyard.”

“But I need one to get to the zip-line!”

I stop wrestling with his unstable noodle legs, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I try to concentrate on coming up with an answer that will end this train of thought before it spirals into a debate, “We cant make a zip-line unless we can get clearance and a building permit from the city. We can’t do that tonight because you are in school and I have to work. We can absolutely draw out your cool plans later and figure out what parts of it could work. But that has to be after school. But only if you get your pants on and go put your shoes on right. now.”

“Ok!” He then quickly and easily pulls his pants on in less than 10 seconds and then sprints to the front door.

When I arrive, I find 9 staring out at the empty air with one shoe half on. 6 is already grabbing his shoes and starting to undo them.

9 speaks to the air, “Do you think Dad’s computer could handle hosting another server?”

I chuckle to myself a little. “What? No. And dude, come on. SHOES!”

9 looks at me as if I’ve taken away some prized possession, “But I’d need a second server for the mod I want to make! How much would a better processor cost for him?”

6 year old frowns, “No 9. We aren’t buying a new processor for Dad. We are buying a permit for the city.”

9’s interest outweighs his disappointment, “For what?”

6 smiles big, “For the ninja warrior course I’m building you for your birthday.”

9 beams, “You are!?”

I groan under my breath and check the clock again. Not enough time. Have to fast track.

Grumbling to myself, I try to get 6 to put finish putting his shoes that he is still holding in his hands. I take them, undo the straps, and hand them to him. He ignores me while continuing to explain his plan for our backyard remodel .

“Yup. And it’ll have a bouldering wall to a zipline.”

9 is all in on this idea, and enters devil’s advocate mode, “But we don’t have flat enough yard for that.”

6 is ready for this, “That’s ok, because I have a plan.”

I hand 9 his other shoe. “Shoes!”

I then take shoe back from 6 and put it half on for him. “Shoes! Both of you! We can talk about all of this in the car and we can’t make a ninja course in the backyard for 9’s birthday. It’s a nice idea but we aren’t allowed to do that.”

6 demands, “Why not!?”

9 is indignant, “But Dad said we could!!”

Both are thankfully unconsciously putting their final shoe on. So I answer.

“No, dad and I said we could build a ninja play structure. Not a bouldering wall and a zipline. And we aren’t flattening the back yard by putting in a concrete barrier, 6. That DIY video was ridiculously overkill.”

9 stands up and immediately steps on his heels to take shoes off as he stares off into space processing what I’ve said.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Is the first official yell from me.

9 jumps at my yell, looks down at feet and laughs “What? Why did I do that?”

6 starts to laugh, “You took them off!”

“I know! I was like…” 9 then mimes what he did .

“haha! I know you were like…” 6 jumps up and starts to take shoes off.

“NO! 6 stop!” I asked in a raised voice, but at least not another yell.

6 laughs more, “What? It was funny?”

9, ever the class clown, starts pretending he can’t keep his shoes on his feet.

This is my breaking point. I start to raise my voice.

“OH MY GOSH. We are going to be late! Please, just. put. your. shoes on!”

9 panics. “Late? No! I can’t be late! 6 hurry!”

6 laughs and tries to take shoes off again, I stop him. 6 gives me a mischievous grin. Tries to do it again.

9 practically screams, “STOP IT 6! WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I’M NOT!”

“YOU ARE!”

I enter the yelling match:

“OH MY GOD. BOTH OF YOU. JUST STOP. Please put your shoes on and grab your bags.” I am barely audible over their bickering.

9 looks abashed, “You don’t have to yell at me Mom.”

6 is covering his ears dramatically, “Yeah it hurts our ears. You are supposed to take calming breaths.”

End scene.

That my friends, is a MILD version of just ONE morning task.

Yes. We have a routine. We have organization and boundaries and responsibilities and reminders. We have all the things and tricks and lessons and CBT and OT and skills practice and mindfulness practice and supplements and diet adjustments etc etc etc. Even with all that, I still have to act as their frontal lobe. And I expect I will have to be for a long time until theirs comes fully on line or whenever they have supports that will make up the difference — and that don’t rely on me being one for them.

For the time being, I am the frontal lobe of the family. And sometimes, to be heard over the rest of the brain, the frontal lobe has to yell.

But it doesn’t make it any less tiring. Particularly when my own frontal lobe has its own insan2E to contend with.

Luckily for me, there is this handy thing called the internet into which I can scream my endless insan2E across the endless void.

You know all those times when people saw you with your newborn and were like, “ermagherd, baby legs, I miss that phase so much, that phase was the best.”

And you understandably wanted to throat punch them but since you were now a grown-up parenty person you instead were like, “wtf are you even talking about, Karen? This stay-puff-pillsbury-baby is a no-sleep, projectile pooping nightmare. Are they cute as hell? Fuck yes they are. But they also make me want to run off and live in the hot sweaty silence of a desert yurt every few minutes.”

And then other people were all, “Don’t worry, it gets easier.” And your parents were like,

“Awww. It’s okay honey. It gets better. I promise.”

And remember how that made you feel better because you were literally about to pull your hair out? So you slumped onto the floor under the pack-and-play and were like, “oh thank god.”

But then a few sleepless days later you were pacing around the parent group all like, “Ya’ll are liars, that’s what ya’ll are. Why tf did none of you all tell me how hard this is. Sneaky mfers. You just wanted turtle-baby-chest-snuggles and another sleep-deprived commiserator, didn’t you? Well I tell you what. It had best be getting better pretty damn quick, cause I got a blow out onesie in a ziploc and I’m not afraid to use it.”

But then you finally got a night of sleep, and when you woke up you no longer felt the urge to burn humanity to the ground.

And hey, remember when someone had the balls of steel to tell you that the newborn phase is nothing in comparison to the teething phase, and your partner had to grab the diaper bag before you grabbed the forgotten blow out onesie?

But then you hit the teething phase and you were like, “what? how… how were they right? Tell me how this is possible. How? Whoa now. Hold up. Is that a tooth?

Is that a fucking baby fang??

Omg. It is.

HONEY!!!! Come quick before the gums change their mind! BOOPY HAS A TOOTH!!!”

But then it got worse again because apparently babies have to poke out all of their freaking fangs in a rolling non-stop cycle of inconsolable wailing and baby drool and then people started to wish you luck when they saw you in public, all coming up and offering sympathy unprompted, like, “yeah, teething is a rough phase. Don’t worry, it’ll get better. You got this.”

And you believed them.

Because it had to right?

Did that happen?

No.

No. It. Did. Not.

Instead, you had a mini-existential crisis and a month-long meltdown.

Then you went and found that one book we all get from Amazon. But not for real-real.

You got it as an ebook at 2:51am because that is when you buy this book as a parent. It’s like a rule.

And then you read the age-sorted lists in the appendix because that’s all you have time and energy for.

You know, THAT one.

Its that wonder phase one that talks about the “regression” phases and “brain growth spurts” and all the reasons you shouldn’t be mad at your baby for being a little punk sometimes.

And then angels sang when you saw that “wonder-book” tells you the wonder-phases should end around the 20 month mark.

End? Is that the mythical gets-better phase?

False hope successfully imparted, you then dug in your dry, cracked, barefoot heels into the gummed-biscuit-shellacked playmat and you were like, “Right. I can do this. We can do this. Right bubs? Course we can. Come on you adorable sleep-stealing drool monster, let’s go pwn this gauntlet. And oh my sweet jeebus. Look at you. You are too cute in your wonder-gauntlet sweatbands. Who has lost their sanity but loves you and wants to bite your cute wittle cheeks? It’s me! Yes that’s right! I do! I do! Okay you adorable little chonk. Let’s do this.”

And then, do you remember? How you busted your ass in that wonder-phase gauntlet of hell but finally got to the 20-month mark and although it was more like 20-month-plus-9-weeks-of-unlabeled-phasery-petering-out, you looked up at your wee snuggle-booper-bug (yes, up. Because you were cleaning up the full plate of lasagna they just price-is-right-palm-slapped out of your hand when you walked by their highchair, remember?)… and you begged them to not do you wrong after their birthday. Which you totally knew was coming up so fast, and definitely won’t plan last minute this time.

“So, booper-bug, can we keep it chill with the Terrible twos? Can we agree on that? Yes? Cool, calm, collected twos? Terrific twos! Am I right?! Yeah. Awesome. Okay. Now, stop giving your plastic bib to the dog.”

And then off you went to conquer age two.

Remember how you arrived on tip-toe, got a good extra long false sense of security going, and then BAM, terrible twos, threenager-ing, the f*cking-fours, five-year-old sleep regression, and SLAM you have hit the insufferable sixes.

That gauntlet had turned into the longest ninja warrior course there ever was, remember?

But you shot up that warp wall anyway didn’t you? Expertly dragging your sixer by his tablet-handle because #screentime waits for no one. Then you danced over in your stained sweatpants to do your own Bob-barker-button slam. Because guess what?

You just dropped wee boople off at kindergarten.

Wait, you did what!?

Haaahhh!!!!

HAAAHHH!!

The crowd goes wild!

HAAAHHH!!!

You did it!

You made it to the “it gets better” phase!!!

But then …

The sound of your child’s screams reached your ears all the way from the elementary school.

Remember?

The imaginary crowd then rubbed their necks and didn’t make eye contact with you did they. Some guffawing voice then asked,

“How do you like having so much time off now that the kids are in school?”

Everyone in the fake crowd glared at them and then rolled their eyes when they realized it was that old lady who haunts your dreams. That war grandma. The one who raised 15 kids in the 1940s. She is yet again laughing her ass off at everyone, but mostly you. Then, after she stopped, she wiped her tears away with a classic “ahhahh haaa, ahaha. *ahem* whew. That was a doozie. Come on everybody. It’s time to fess up.”

And then your heart stopped because all of your imaginary-crowd-friends looked away.

“But. You guys said it gets better. It’s supposed to get better right?”

Everyone, even that c-word of a war granny looked at you with bit lips and a grimace.

“Come on. There’s still a not-feeling-like-I-want-to tear-my-hair-out-24/7 break for a while. Right?

RIGHT?!”

The crowd then dispersed in solemn solidarity and while they drifted into their respective drop-off-line-from-hades-van-parade someone turned to you, patted you on the back and handed you a warehouse sized box of generic cold medicine labeled “elementary school starter kit.”

You sobbed for a while.

Feeling like you got played. It’s ok. We all felt that way when we went through it.

It’s normal to feel played, because, we were.

But like us, you consoled yourself with all those construction paper masterpieces that for some evil reason can’t be folded or stored but are so goddamn amazing that we find a place for them and will never throw them away.

Oh, and then you get school photos. Holy cuteness. You cry a lot when you get the school photos. Because damn, you have an Angel. You saw your grown little nugget all combed and smiling and being the best goddamned photo-taker in the whole goddamned photo-freaking world.

Then you glanced up and they were somehow 8.

It’s ok.

We don’t remember those two years either. No one does.

We can call it the Bermuda Triangle of parenting. It’s just a hamster wheel of bowling alley birthday parties, ignored fundraiser flyers, bungled school breaks, and cough medicine anyway.

So. Much. Cough Medicine.

But don’t worry.

I know you will remember what comes next. ‘Cause guess what buttercup?

You know how they didn’t tell us about all those things they didn’t tell us about when planning to have a kid?

Well, there is more of that.

And it starts to get reaaaal rocky right smack dab where I’m at.

ADRENARCHE!

From 6–9 years old, there is a phase called adrenarche. Did you know this?

“What,” you ask me hesitantly, “what is this hair-ball hack of a far-to-close-to-puberty-sounding word?”

Well.

It’s puberty.

Your kid hit puberty.

What?

Don’t look at me like that.

Pssh. You thought that didn’t happen until like 10 or 11? Well…

SO DID I.

Apparently, while we were wading through all those aww-I-miss-that-phases of public patronization, some scientist did some science and their science spat out some new sciency facts that show kids go through a big hormone surge before the puberty hormone surge.

Double hormones all the way.

WHELP. Ok.

Fine.

No one knew, right?

NO.

NOT right.

It’s the biggest fucking parenting lie ever to tell a new parent “it gets better,” but then fail to mention the teen years start at fucking age 8!

Yeah. They knew.

Theeeeey kneeewwww.

All those parents and family members. All those so-called-friends. And everyone that raised all those generations of children that came before yours.

They fecking knew. The liars.

“BUT IF THEY KNEW WHY DIDN’T THEY TELL ME!?”

Hey, hey. Shhh, it’s ok. No, no, you don’t have to apologize for yelling.

Your anger is perfectly understandable and completely justified, my fellow woeful parental pariah.

Here’s my take.

They didn’t tell us for the same reason no-one told them:

Sometimes, it isn’t a big deal. Sometimes it is.

Every kid is different and they truly don’t write books for this shit.

No, no, those books are crap and you know it.

No one wrote a book for YOUR little drama-tween.

Remember when all of those people were saying, “aww, you poor thing. It’ll get better.”

Yeah, they said that because that is what we say.

Is it true? Fuck no.

Do they know it’s not true?

Yup, every fucking one of them.

WHY?!

Well… What are you going to do, tell a stressed out parent that it never gets better?

That every single second of your child’s life will be equally hard in a myriad of different unlistable and unpredictable ways?

That even after they are out of the house things aren’t ever “better” because you inevitably end up just pacing through their empty room, trying to reassemble your broken brain and — if you are lucky — fit back into that pre-kid-personality that has been lying crumpled under the changing table for almost two decades.

And you’ll do that on repeat until the split second that you get a text from them.

Then you’ll chuck all that shit in the air and run to snuggle their old pillow while you sit on their old bed like a classic gossiping teen who is wearing leg warmers, braces, and bedazzled acid-wash.

You’ll put yourself back together after you’re done teaching them how to find a good dentist.

Oh, and after giving them all their medical records, and school records.

And clean out their stuff from the house, and the closets, and the basement, and the attic, and the living room, and the cars.

And actually, screw it, maybe you’ll just wait to fix your brain and go find that “it gets better” part after they get their car fixed.

Nah, after that new date.

No, the wedding. Definitely after the wedding.

Or …well fuck, when the hell did time start going so damn fast?

How about you just wait until they have kids of their own. That makes sense. Right?

Then, as you watch them go through those first few months of pregnancy hormones and pre-baby stress, emotionally hold their hand as they get scary tests done that never used to be a thing when we had them, and go give them a hug after the baby inevitably breaks their brain for the first time ever (and your heart subsequently swells so large you think it’s going to pop a gold frame like the grinch), and before you know what the hell you are doing you say,

“Awww. It’s okay honey. It gets better. I promise.”

Because it does.

It’s a lie, yes. But only half a lie.

It DOES get better. Just not in the way we sapiens ever talk about things getting “better.”

And not in the way you can see it BEING better until you have a few of those high highs under your belt to carry you through the valleys.

I think. No, I hope.

But I’ll be honest. Even if my particular take is correct, this shit won’t be easy. Not for me, nor anyone like me.

For many of us, especially those of us with 2E AuDHD brains and the resulting far more challenging 2E breed of stay-puff-dough-babies, those high-highs are few and far between.

For many of us they will take forever to get going.

Like, A LOT longer than it was supposed to take. Longer than seems ethical for someone so sleep deprived and parentally burnt out.

But the highs do come.

And for those brief moments, it doesn’t only get “better.”

It gets indescribably, close to holy, expansive, timeless, endless, and barreling rush of joy.

And then it’s gone. And you drift back down into the valley.

The thing is, the highs just get higher and higher as your boople-baby grows. Doubles as they complicate every aspect of life. Triples until the highs are so high that somehow, inexplicably they make up for every single one of even the deepest of lows.

While we are in those moments it IS better.

And then it won’t be until it is again.

Because better is a phase.

A wonderful, no-book-to-teach-you-how-to-find-it phase that regresses and progresses just like every phase in your life.

Sure.

We could just not lie to parents and say, “Enjoy the ride, it’s going to be really fucking shitty for like an unhealthy amount of the time, but there are some bad ass loops that will make you want to puke happiness rainbows all over the world.”

But we can’t just go off and tell that to someone who has literally crashed into an existential abyss and is now getting metaphorically coated by puked up rainbows of parental happiness spewing from all those temporarily soaring above them.

We just can’t do that. We tell them, it gets better. Because anything else is giving too much angry granny.

And then, once they have had a few rides worth of highs…

… we as a collective apologize for humanity as a whole for not having our shit together enough to come up with words that properly convey the complex phenomenon of feels that will be raising your own little pillsbury-chest-turtle. Can’t verbally illustrate how that little boop will end up making you so goddamned giddy about life that someday you will look back and laugh at that time they spilled apple juice on the family cat while it was on your lap and landed you in the ER with diapers strapped to your profusely shredded and bleeding arm while you wait to go get stitches.**

Because it’s all just a phase. And it will always get better.

We promise.

**This specific scenario didn’t happen to me. It is a fictional combination of a few moments that I put into one funny image. It sounded better than the situation I had written down in my first draft which told the true story of how my two son’s had head slammed me in the throat so many times that it eventually fractured my larynx which resulted in me losing my voice for two weeks and getting pneumonia three times over the course of four months. 0/10 would not recommend. That story was apparently not very funny according to my friends. So, I wrote up apple juice cat. But its existence has bugged me. I’m not good with misleading people (see my blog for candid confessions) so after a couple of months of this being online you now also get the truth. 🙃

So, my two sons have glasses, right? One needs them in a “good for his eyes” sort of way and the other needs them in a “can’t see further than a foot from his face sort of way.” Now, this is normally not an issue when it comes to family activities. But this Hawaii trip provided a unique challenge. We couldn’t find an affordable way for “foot-from-face” son to snorkel.

We went online shopping (as one is apt to do in times of mild inconvenience) and the first thing that popped up was “use a full-face mask.”

The mask looks essentially like a gas mask with a snorkel. It’s weird but promising. Husband then found one on sale (red flag number one) and we ordered it after briefly scanning through the thousands of reviews. All of which were generally positive. (red flag number two)

Cut to us in Hawaii.

Despite the mask fitting him at home, the mask was now, “too uncomfortable” to fit our oldest once we arrived at the beach. It wouldn’t work for him.

Pssh, silly me, of course it wouldn’t.

In a rare stroke of luck it turns out he was perfectly happy snorkeling without his glasses. I guess the water helps with his vision enough that he can see better than above the surface.

After some shuffling of our available masks, our youngest ended up with the full mask. He and I went out and did a test run in the shallows of Kahalu’u, and after a while he started saying he was tired and had a headache, so we swam back in to shore.

A few snacks and water, some sitting, and getting good and fomo-ed while watching husband and older brother, wee-one was rearing to get back out there.

Masks were shuffled again.

Luckily, the small face mask that I was using worked really well for him and the full-face mask fit me shockingly well.

Woot woot for having a family of large headed children.

Husband and oldest son had been circling in the same spot within the shallows, so we head toward them. A distraction of yellow tangs stalls us for a bit and when we looked back up, I realized that our targets had sprint-snorkeled themselves off to a new location.

Given how long they had been at the first spot, I didn’t both stopping to check how far we were from them and just aimed us their direction and started guiding wee-one along.

Halfway to them I started getting a headache. I stopped to try and adjust my straps and found that I was already breathing really heavily.

After a moment of self-cursing for letting myself get so out of shape I stopped in a shallow area for a bit so I could “fix” my mask and to check and make sure wee-one was still happy and good to keep going (ie, he didn’t have a splitting headache like me).

He was irritated we stopped and, in what would be a horrible oversight on my part, my brain gave me a small flicker of foreshadowing:

Huh…I wonder if it is this particular mask that is causing headaches…

This was of course immediately followed up by a momentary musing over the validity of giving up on snorkeling due to mask comfort level.

….Pssh. Suck it up buttercup.

That would be red flag numbers three and four for those counting.

Husband and oldest are now past where I can still stand up but are circling and bobbing up to chat for a bit, so I start swimming us in their direction again.

Almost immediately, things start to go weird. (Red flag numero five). The mask gets foggy, and my head starts pounding.

Gaaaah. This is what I get from buying on Amazon.

I stop me and the wee wiggle worm of a son to rinse out my mask, reasoning that I must have screwed up when I adjusted it with one hand earlier. This time I take the extra step of using two hands to put it back on.

Unfortunately, whilst I am absorbed in my two-handed mask futzery, my companion gets impulsive.

Wee one —now free from my anchoring grip — wriggles off toward his dad and brother who are now solidly in an area where I won’t be able to stand up.

Groaning, I slam my mask back on, ignore the still foggy view and the now drill-like headache, and race to catch up to my son. While on my trek to scolding my adventurous danger-boy, I vaguely ponder if something might be wrong with me because something is feeling a bit “off.” (Red flag number 6)

After an oh so generous four breaths wearing the mask, I went to pull in air on a fifth and nothing happened.

No air, no movement of valves, no anything. It was like I was inhaling against Saran Wrap.

Shocked and about to gag I yanked the mask off and swam with it in my hand over to where I could finally grab wee one’s ankle. He was already off course and was now giggling and flippering toward a jagged rock getting pummeled by the increasingly tough surf.

Apparently, he DOES need those glasses.

I pulled him over and growled at him to stay next to me while I fixed my mask. I couldn’t stand up where we were anymore and the distance it would be for us to go back to where I could stand was the same as it would be to get to husband. So I deal with it.

I still was having trouble getting my mask on with one hand — because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let little distract-a-boy go off to try and hug a lava rock — but after a frantic moment of awkward jerking around and hair pulling while I treaded water, I got my mask to work again. No longer foggy and no longer malfunctioning I swam us toward husband one last time.

I was embarrassingly proud that I had solved my problem without husband’s help. Delirious really.

In fact. I was overjoyed with my accomplishment.

Overjoyed by life.

The waves are so pretty.

I feel so happy, and the water is so soft and warm, I feel like a nap…

(Fucking gigantic red flag number seven)

A shift in the current snagged us and dragged us out in husband’s direction. Unfortunately, it also dragged them even farther from us.

A tiny glimmer of panic sliced through my joy and it jolted me back to reality. On instinct, I squashed that shit into the back of my brain. But it had given me the slap across the face I needed to focus on a new plan.

I aimed myself toward a choppier place in the water where I was sure I’ll be able to stand up. I yelled at husband to come in and take wee one so I can fix my mask.

As I would later find out, my presumed shallow spot was non-existent. I still have no idea what I thought I was swimming toward.

On the way to the “shallows,” my mask failed again. This time however, when I pulled it off I didn’t bother to put it back on because the eighth and final flag straight up skewered me in the lung.

I was starting to have an asthma attack.

Giving up on my “shallows” I used all my remaining energy to torpedo my son toward my husband. Wee one and our oldest happily greeted each other while I spluttered at my confused husband about my mask not working, me needing to fix it so I could go to shore, and how he needed to take the kids.

Husband nodded with a raised eyebrow as he looked me over carefully and guided wee one closer to him.

I used both hands to check the valves and snorkel on the mask and adjusted the straps, focused on fulfilling the plan I had just planned out loud to my husband. And apparently unaware of the fact that I had just two seconds ago realized the mask triggered an asthma attack.

CO2 poisoning is no joke ya’ll.

I try one last time to get the mask back to a proper snug fit on my face and I turn to go back to shore. As you probably expected, a half of a breath later, after sucking on Saran Wrap again, I felt my vision narrow significantly and I started to get dizzy.

I ripped off the mask and got a mouthful of ocean water as I gasped for air. I blindsided the panic rushing into my mind before it could take over (probably not a smart idea) and demanded that my mind ignore the fact that my legs and arms felt like dead weight and my heart was squeezing my throat in fear.

No. You pull your shit together body. We aren’t doing this.

Body had zero fucks left to give so it continued to feel dangerously weak. Husband yelled at me through my delirium, “Cayse, Float! Float honey, float on your back!”

“Oh. Right.”

My brain lazily acknowledges this with some extremely overdue reasoning.

I can float because son is safe now. Yay for me. I should have done that sooner. Why did I not think of that fucking SOONER?!?

This was the point that I realized that it wasn’t just an asthma attack.

Looking back at the situation, I’m assuming that this is what my panic was probably rushing in to tell me. But being so used to having to squash my panic attacks, I didn’t even bother to think that my limbic system could be using them for a good reason.

I flipped over to try and float, and was successful for all of a minute. The waves were gaining strength as quickly as was I losing mine, and sleep was truly starting to sound like bliss.

Lucky for me, this lack of strength allowed my PTSD trained survival mode to snap to the forefront.

As ever, it comes with a personality and mental commentary all its own. Its name is “she.” As in “she is fucking done with my shit.”

She: WHAT IN THE EVER-LIVING FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO US?!

She grabs control and my breathing starts evening out instantly. But even while trying to calmly breathe and float, I still somehow was not getting enough air.

Me: I can’t breathe. Should I breathe quicker not deeper? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She: CALM DOWN MORON!

Now here’s the thing. My brain splitting? She providing snarky commentary, and tossing my prior piss-poor plan? Not remembering my asthma? Yeah, all that should NOT have been the first point at which I started to consider hailing the lifeguard. But it was. Because hindsight is a bitch like that.

No longer trying to put my mask back on —which had just been dosing me with CO2 — my lungs were finally getting actual oxygen into our blood.

Time slowed and as my concentration increased, “She” and “Me” were joined by a third mental counterpart. I call them Bombard.

Bombard: Awww, leave her alone you big bully. Me is trying her best.

She: Are you even WATCHING what is happening?!

Bombard: Of course, I am. What? Can’t you see her flailing about? Lifeguard is sure to see us. Why don’t you go mull over our shame of purchasing our own demise through a two-day Amazon prime order?

She: Oh. My. God. STOP BEING DISTRACTING AND HELP SAVE US YOU WORTHLESS DIPSHIT!

Me: Wait, I have something…

I slam my brain back into one piece and the following plan comes to mind:

Ok, first, keep that slow breath. Box breathe. Good. Now call out to husband. Tell him to swim the boys to me. I can gently hang on to the edge of their life jackets while I float on my back. My floating weight distributed between the two jackets shouldn’t pull the kids down, and since they have functioning masks on anyway, there is no danger of them getting pulled lower into the water by half an inch. And this will then give us time to hail the lifeguard while my strong-swimmer husband swims our linked chain of floating bodies back to where I could stand up on my own.

Brain still in one piece and all parts satisfied with my competence, I enact my brilliant plan.

Unfortunately, “body” has not given my talking mouth parts any of our newfound oxygen yet.

“I need to float on the kids!”

Bombard: [bursts out laughing]

She: We are going to die.

I wince and wait for husband’s reaction while trying to keep my head above the water.

Naturally, husband looked at me like I was a crazy person. Thinking he must think I was wanting to do it just for fun, I ignored the continued bickering in my brain and me, and my body swam to the closest kid. I flipped on my back and tried to show him my plan by floating and hanging on to the smallest corner of my youngest son’s jacket.

This, to my deep relief is perfectly effective.

She: Holy shit it works.

Bombard: See? Never doubted her. Let me know if we start drowning again. Imma go take care of that nap.

I should note that wee one was perfectly happy looking at the fish. Entirely unaware that mommy was quite close to being down there with them.

Husband then tells me to let go of him and to just swim over to where I can stand up.

I look up, confused.

Me: Hold up. Have I genie-blinked my way closer to the shore?

Bombard: Sweet, I’m in. I shall swim us over to participate in husband’s much better plan. Come on body, you’re with me now.

She: You impossible idiot. You are still having an asthma attack. You can’t make it there. Just. Float.

“Stand up and get your mask on.” I hear husband say.

“But I can’t breathe in it!”

Bombard: Hey! Kids don’t need their mouthpieces.

She: That’s true. Kids are fine and with Husband. 6-year-old isn’t even using his anymore.

“Sweetie, can mommy have your breathing tube? Mine doesn’t work anymore.”

“Okay!”

Husband looks concerned as I grab ONLY the tube.

“Cays, what are you doing?! I was talking to Oldest-son! What are you—You need goggles!”

“No, I don’t need to see. I just need to breathe.”

Without waiting, I start trying to swim with my legs only. One arm holding the tube, the other still holding that damn mask.

Keeping my eyes open in saltwater wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t horrible.

Me: What the fuck body, why are you not breathing through the tube?

She: Nose isn’t plugged you moron. And your focus is fucking shit right now if you haven’t noticed. We need the whole mask.

Me: Shit.

She: Yeah, bitch. Way to go because now we are going to blackout.

Bombard: could be fun.

Me: This isn’t helping. [slams our brain back into one piece]

I pop back up out of the water. Now fully in delirium, and I manage to shout a: “nope,” to my husband.

A second wave of panic and adrenaline hits me as I flip over to float again, I reach back out to hold the jacket of younger son and close my eyes.

Me: Box-breathe. Come on. Box-breathe.

She: Goddamnit heart. Why are YOU freaking out? Calm the fuck down. You aren’t helping.

Me: What if we drown in front of our kids?

She: Fuck that shit. Not an option.

Bombard: Yeah. We are not drowning, chill out.

I start focusing on breathing slower and deeper and I hand 6-year-old his tube back. I grab for the corner of kiddo’s life jacket again, vaguely aware that my dysfunctional mask is still in my other hand but is now drifting in a single direction… as if we are being pulled.

Bombard: You know, come to think of it, that thing is probably why we couldn’t swim right with just the tube… man. We should have thought of that. We need help.

She: Oh fuck. You’re worried? We need help. We need help now.

“Get help.” I call out to husband.

“You can float.” I hear him respond.

“Get. Help.” I demand.

“It’s okay, stop, just float, you’re okay.” I hear him say in a gentler tone.

“Get. Me. Help.” I growl.

“We don’t need help.” He says in an infuriatingly calm and almost grateful voice.

“I need help!!! I need to at least float with the kids!” I scream.

“Cayse, he’s here! Look up! Grab on to that.” he yells back.

I looked up to see a guy on a surfboard staring at me, my husband is behind him, swimming backward with our sons and talking much louder to me:

“Let go of the jacket and grab his board.”

Apparently, lifeguard man had started to swim out to help as soon as he saw me struggle to float.

What I thought had been a back and forth about whether I needed help was actually my husband trying to calm the kids down, telling them to just float, and him telling the lifeguard that he and the boys “didn’t need help.”

I hauled myself onto the board.

She: Why the fuck is surfer man scooting back on his board.

Bombard: Shark?

My husband, “Lay down on the board.”

Surfer man, “it’s ok. She’s fine. You guys good?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. I can stand.”

Me: oh yay! I’m glad he can stand.

Bombard: Pssh, we could if we wanted to.

I shift my mask to sit on the board under my head, bringing more of my torso above the water as I wrap my arms around it. I close my eyes again and focus on breathing.

Me: It’s a little better. Maybe I’ll swim after them in a minute.

She: Explain yourself you idiot. He just saved our ass.

“I was floating. And the mask wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah. I saw.”

Me: Guys! He saw! Oh good. I am happy he saw. I am also happy to rest my head and arms around the mask on the board. I don’t want it anymore, but…

Bombard: It does make a shockingly comfy pillow.

Me: Right?

She: Stop being comfortable. We need to pay for this. Apologize.

“I’m really sorry. My mask stopped working and I couldn’t breathe.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

“I’m sorry you had to use your board.”

“It’s okay. It got pretty rough out here huh?”

Bombard: excuse me? Is this mother fucker judging us?

She: Yeah, he can fuck right off with that shit. It was the fucking mask that screwed us over.

Me: I know, right? This has nothing to do with me swimming in rough water or going too far out.

Bombard: little punk. We knew what we were doing.

She: Me? Shut it. I’ll address all that with you later. Bombard? Lower your hackles. We just need to clarify.

“The mask just stopped giving me air.”

“Ah, I see. Yeah, ones like that are notorious for it. We call them death masks.”

“Oh, well that’s good to know. They should tell people that.”

“Yeah. They really should.”

Me: The board is warm. I want to stop talking.

Bombard: Do it. We don’t need Lifeguard Ken to feel better about himself at our expense. He’s dead to me.

She: Bombard. We need him.

Me: Hold on. What is that?

I hear the loudspeaker echoing off of the wave break.

“All snorkelers should come closer to the shore. No beginners or adults with children should go past the buoys.”

Me: Are they saying that because of me?

She: Yes, and you deserve it. You should be embarrassed.

Bombard: Well, I’M not embarrassed, the morons that made the death mask should be the ones embarrassed.

Lifeguard interrupts my thoughts and the loudspeaker, “Can you feel the sand yet?”

I shift my mind to combine into a more solid single awareness without having to slam us into a single entity. This is my natural state. I have enough oxygen to keep myself here. A spine-tingling sense of joy runs through me, and I choke off a whimper of relief as I tentatively return to what my body is feeling.

I can feel the warm water against me, the sharp corners of the mask jabbing into my throat, and the waxy pull of the surfboard chaffing my inner arms. My lungs are burning, still stuck in a mild asthmatic flair, but no longer worsening.

I hadn’t been aware of how much I had retreated into my head until that moment and quickly shut off all of my emotions before my mind started processing everything.

I focus on feeling the grit of the sand below my feet. I start to stand.

“Yes, I can make it from here.”

“It’s a little slippery.”

“It’s ok. I’m ok now. Thank you.”

“I’d stay on shore.”

“Yup. And throw away the mask.”

Surfer laughs, “good idea. I hope you have a better day.”

“I will thanks to you.”

Surfer laughs again. I still can’t look at him. But I’m not embarrassed. I watch as multiple pairs of adults and children are swimming back to shore. I watch my husband help our sons onto the beach and my mind doesn’t debate with me that I should be anything but thankful.

She: Oh no. You aren’t getting out of this with zen sentiments.

Bombard: Yeah, I am a bit embarrassed actually. We do not look cool right now.

Me: Shut up. I’ll deal with you all later.

I stand up, brush some sand off myself and adjust my tangled swim shirt. Roughly, I grab the mask off of the sand where I had chucked it at some point, I start walking to the boys with a forced smile while my inner mind starts arguing about whether or not I have my inhaler with me and whether I can drive.

I don’t care. All that matters is that I don’t have to wear this dumb mask anymore.

This is what happens when a rainbow stash of yarn, mosaic crochet, and my tendency to overcommit collides.

Behold, my mosaic crochet monstronsity!

In brief, this project was a doozy folks. As you can see, I tried to give you a detailed run down of the experience. The amount of yarn was extremely difficult to estimate, let alone the number of hours I spent battling it — largely due to how many times I frogged it, on both counts. Still, I can safely say that this hug/heritage blanket is the largest project I have ever completed.

Was the froggy pain worth it? Absolutely.

Would I ever do it again? Hell no.

To be completely frank, this was both an ADHD crocheters dream (what with all the fun colors and funky patterns) and an ADHD crocheters nightmare (what with all the excessive color switches and bullshit patterns). The only saving grace for this pattern was the freeform crochet I decided to add. However, with that exception included the entire pattern required an extensive amount of focused counting and stitch markers. And those are two things I am very good at losing track of.

Even so, despite all the starts and stops with this one, I am proud of how it turned out. When push comes to shove, I finished it, right? So maybe, if you are lucky and I’ve taken enough time to lick my wounds, I will come back here and fess up to how I escaped frogging half of the blanket and still managed to get a “straight” border.

Let’s just say there were a lot of tears and curses — plus scissors and sewing machine techniques I never knew existed.

Okay fine.

So I cut it off. Yes, that’s right. You read that correctly. Me and my impulsive stubborn-ass brain refused to frog the damn thing. Instead, I grabbed my sewing machine and a framing square, marked my borders and started sewing. To top it all off, I then cut off the non-squared bits, whipped up a double border to hide the mess, and convinced myself that I always intended to have a thick border.

Helpful Bits

Yarnspirations Pattern

Project Gallery

Ravelry Link

The post My first mosaic crochet miracle: Rainbow in the Fjords first appeared on Crochet It Ain't Sew!.

What is a pumpkin pie tsunami you ask?

It’s what you get when you combine family holiday overwhelm, a hastily slung verbal recipe adjustment, and me. That’s right, this post is about cooking as a 2E my friends! Get pumped.

As you’ll likely notice is the case with many of the posts sprinkled throughout this blog, this thought-baby was born from the spark of a reddit post and a positive reaction to my comment.

Because let’s face it, there is nothing quite like postitive-reinforcement to get me babbling. So here’s the lead up:

Random redditor posts a picture of her failed pumpkin pie filling, to the r/baking sub with the title “accidentally added twice as much evaporated milk as required to a pumpkin pie base. Anything I can do with this, or just toss out?”

Advice starts pouring in (ha!) and of course yours truly can’t help but overshare.

I jump in with this:

Having done this in the past, this also works for the times you accidentally triple the evaporated milk, you just need to make three pies and get super creative and obsessive with mixing all of your ingredients evenly. Took me some trial and error and three enormous bowls, but the pies turned out ok.

The story:

So my mom used to make two pumpkin pies for thanksgiving, and her filling recipe was written to make enough filling for those two pies.

I only every made it a handful of times, but this particular year it was my turn to do the pumpkin filling. In the pile of ingredients, mom had stacked two cans of evaporated milk — one large and one small — and included a printed off version of her recipe. The recipe said “pour the cans of evaporated milk into the bowl” I dumped both in without checking the ounces of the two cans on the ingredient list.

After all, mom had said she would be adding a little more condensed milk to the pies this year and who was I to question her recipe adjustments.

I didn’t realize something wasn’t quite right until the bowl started to get very full as I went to add the last of the puréed pumpkin.

So I yelled out to mom who was in the dining room, “you wanted to use all of the big can of pumpkin?”

She yelled back “yup! I just got one big can this year, I figured we’d use all of it since we were going to add a little more of the condensed milk.”

I fill the bowl the rest of the way and have less than an inch of room from the top rim by the time all the ingredients are in. Stirring seems to have become a flood risk.

“Is this the bowl we always use?” I ask, as I hesitate to turn the submerged hand mixer on.

“No, I gave you a different one because I used the big one for the apples, but it should be fine, they are basically the same size and your sister used that one last year. Just be careful when you go to mix it at the end.”

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I stare at the bowl, mixer in hand as my little sister comes to assess my confusion.

“That doesn’t look right.”

“Well, I haven’t mixed it all the way yet.”

We both stare at the bowl.

“Did you add more condensed milk?”

“Yeah, I used the stuff she put out.”

“Huh. Well, I was able to use the mixer.”

I stare at the bowl a second more, embarrassed, and flip the switch to the first mark.

SFLOOSH!!

“No!” My sister yells as I immediately flip the switch back off and try to dodge the wave of milky cinnamon squash pulp.

My sister starts laughing hysterically, but with pity in her voice manages to say “haha! Oh noo! what have you DONE? Haha! I meant that I was able to mix it because the bowl wasn’t that full when I did it.”

I clean up the mess as I hand the mixer to her.

She mixes it the rest of the way, “This still doesn’t look right. Did you use all the pumpkin?”

“I tried, that’s why the bowl was so full. There is a little left in the can.”

She looks, “no, this is wrong. Moooom?! Pounceswithwolves messed up the piiiie.”

Mom comes in exasperated, because she wasn’t done setting up the decorations.

“I doubt she messed up the pie…”

“The color is wrong”

“Yeah, I see that. Did you use all the pumpkin?”

Me, “yes! I used all the pumpkin! I used all the cans you gave me just like the recipe said, but it didn’t fit in the bowl very well so I left out like less than a quarter of a cup of pumpkin!”

“Oh, pounces… no.” Mom walks over to look at the rinsed out cans in the sink.

“You used all of the milk?!”

Little sister is popcorn-eating-gif incarnate as she stifles laughter.

“Well yes, the recipe said two cans.”

Sister, “and you didn’t think it was weird that one of those cans was monstrous in comparison to the other one?”

“Well yeah, I did, but mom said she was going to add a little more to it this year so I added both.”

“Man Pounce, you really can’t be trusted with pies.”

“Hey now, that pecan pie last year was not my fault. The recipe never said anything about covering the top with a piece of foil.”

“That’s fair. But then you went and tried to fix it by removing the burnt pecans. It was a disaster.”

“I didn’t want to waste food!”

“Ha! That was not food…”

Mom, who is already using my pumpkin covered measuring cup to scoop out some of the mix and putting it into the pumpkin can, interrupts my sister “well, we can fix THIS one. I have that second half of the pie crust recipe already, I will need you to go get another can of pumpkin purée though, Pounce.”

Little sis jumps in, “I’ll go too. I don’t think we can trust her to know the right size can.”

They both giggle as I dejectedly mope my way upstairs to change my splattered shirt while the seeds of this memory firmly root into my psyche where they will wait for the day, 15 years later, when I finally process all of my shame and embarrassment in a subreddit comment for the benefit of a fellow pie ruiner.

And that’s the story.

Now, naturally I left out a couple of explanatory details here which created gargantuan plot holes.

I know you are all dying to know more. For instance, why had I only made this pie a handful of times? What was the pecan pie incident? Why is your little sister so adorably evil?

Leave a comment

Well, that last one you can probably can accurately deduce is from being in the same gene pool as me… but I digress.

Find out all the missing details in our next installment of

“OH THE BAKING HORROR! Part 2: The life and times of an impulsive woman in her kitchen.”

Wait, that isn’t what I titled this.

Anyhow, you get it. Look for my inevitable part 2 in what is likely to be the very near future. In the meantime, have a glorious day my pouncy wolf pack.

The post How to cause a pumpkin pie tsunami – Part 1 first appeared on pounceswithwolves.

I hadn’t seen a reddit post since leaving the facebook phase of my life. Facebook and twitter had both done a number on me. So, I had zero desire to enter into a new social media relationship.

The stalkers and co-workers were reason enough to stay away, but honestly my biggest aversion was the possibility of subjecting myself to one more “hey girl!” MSM invite from some random friend of some pseudo-acquaintance. No, thank you.

Life was good being social media free—until I landed myself on bedrest with internal bleeding. That little leading click bait is a story for another time, but the TL;DR version can be summed up as: when endometriosis goes undiagnosed for too long it causes major medical problems. Shocking, I know.

So, what is a Mom of two with two 2E kids who has just moved states into a three story townhouse with no yard and a dog to do? Particularly when she is stuck in bed trying to not freak out every time something crashes downstairs while she is on the top floor, her husband tries to work from home on the bottom floor, and the kids and dog are floating somewhere in between?

Well, seeing as how there were no Poké stops within range of my bed to exploit and satisfy my boys’ newly formed PokémonGo! obsession, I decided I’d try and be social for my own sanity. I searched the interwebs for fellow endo-peeps with whom I could vent my bedrest frustrations and glean some survival tips.

Enter the glorious reddit post.

It was a new world for me. Reddit looked nothing like “normal” social media and it was saturated with people who loved sarcasm, openly obsessed about their passions, and gave snarky heartfelt advice (for the most part). It was beautiful for those first few days. All until January 6.

Yes, that January 6.

Maybe it was the screenshots from all the Trumpers on facebook. Or maybe it was the fact that Trump was a massive trigger for my cPTSD. Perhaps it was the internal hemorrhaging. Who knows.

Whatever it was (It was the cPTSD. But we can discuss that later), it kicked a visceral hornets’ nest in me that night. I rage-researched and wrote like the world depended on me.

It didn’t. But nothing can convince you of ridiculous things quicker than a trauma response and a low blood count can.

Everything I learned from therapy over the last decade surrounding the mechanisms at play between me and every narcissist and borderline personality scattered through my history came barreling into my consciousness. How in gawd’s name had we so ignorantly allowed an orange megalomaniac to love-bomb an entire demographic of our country into following along with his gaslit fever dream.

The news reports were infuriating. Everywhere you turned there was someone calling the rioters sheep — too stupid to think for themselves and too willing to believe his lies. As a survivor of narcissistic abuse I knew better. This wasn’t a result of stupidity or ignorance. (Well, it wasn’t only that.) This was a result of pervasive, long-term, and sociopathic level manipulation being afflicted upon people who, for various reasons, were completely oblivious to their own vulnerability. Specifically oblivious to the ease with which a con artist could sneak into their world and exploit the ingrained messages they received throughout their life about legendary American bootstraps.

I was angry, but more than anything I wanted to help them.

I couldn’t shake the instinct to feel pity for the storming people. So many had bought into the blowhards system of outrage, and done so with incredible conviction. The impulse to save them from themselves was intense. My rising panic drove me into a deeper hyperfocus.

I collected as many varied and approachable sources as I could and started placing links methodically. Used a calculated name drop of one of the ideologs often quoted by the mob in an effort to get more views. I selected a subreddit with formatting and rules gave the post a leg up. I double-checked that (most of) my snark and bias were apparent but not blatant. And last but not least, I crafted as clickbaity a title as I could stomach.

At 12:45am, January 7th, I clicked post. I tossed my phone to the floor, fully aware that if I didn’t it would be too easy to second guess myself. If I wanted to chicken out, I’d have to wake my husband or suffer the painful consequences of trying to sit up on my own. Between that and my pain meds I managed to sleep through the majority of the internet doing what it does best – extrapolate.

My LPT reddit post is still the most read piece I’ve ever posted.

To be honest, that is a fairly embarrassing fact to admit, considering that 90% of the post is a just list of links to other writer’s work. But I’ll take a win where I can get one.

I gained a significant number of followers that first week, but the throng didn’t stick around. They culled themselves down to the low double digits after a few weeks, but some have still stuck around. This was passively intentional on my part. I knew they would lose interest if I continued to only pounce around in the parenting, writing, and crochet subreddits. But their brief interest in what I might post next gave me confidence and an ego boost big enough to start me back down a path I had all but abandoned in 2018. It gave me the push I needed to dust off my blogs, and start coming up with a game plan for my writing dream.

I intended for Reddit to be a distraction from my inner and outer world.

No one will ever be as surprised as I am that what Reddit actually became for me was a catalyst. The popularity of my post provided tangible evidence to counter the judgemental voices in my head. I could finally shut up all the ways in which I was a burden on everyone from echoing in my head. The continued conversation happening in the posts comments proved that I could still produce something of value despite the mess behind the scenes. My diagnoses had me waking up every day feeling useless and defeated. But I had created something engaging, something of value. That experience gave me the distraction I truly needed.

See the Reddit Post

LPT - Learn about manipulative tactics and logical fallacies so that you can identify when someone is attempting to use them on you.

To get you started:

Ethics of Manipulation

Tactics of Manipulation

Logical Fallacies in Argumentative Writing

15 Logical Fallacies

20 Diversion Tactics of the Highly Manipulative

Narcissistic Arguing

3 Manipulation Tactics You Should Know About

How to Debate Like a Manipulative Bully — It is worth pointing out that once you understand these tactics those who use them start to sound like whiny, illogical, and unjustifiably confident asshats.

10 Popular Manipulative Techniques & How to Fight Them

EthicalRealism’s Take on Manipulative Tactics

Any time you feel yourself start to get regularly dumbstruck during any and every argument with a particular person, remind yourself of these unethical and pathetically desperate tactics to avoid manipulation via asshat.

Also, as someone commented, a related concept you should know about to have the above knowledge be even more effective is Cognitive Bias and the associated concept of Cognitive Dissonance:

Cognitive Bias Masterclass

Cognitive Dissonance

Cognitive Dissonance in Marketing

Cognitive Dissonance in Real Life

10 Cognitive Distortions

EDIT: Forgot a link.

EDIT: Added Cognitive Bias, Cognitive Dissonance, and Cognitive Distortion.

EDIT: Due to the number of comments that posed questions that relate to perception bias, I am adding these basic links to help everyone understand fundamental attribution error and other social perception biases. I will make a new post with studies listed in this area another time, but this one that relates to narcissism is highly relevant to my original train of thought when writing this post.

Bonus:

There were only a handful of comments I actually engaged with. These are some of my favorites.

The post How one impulsive reddit post proved I was useful first appeared on pounceswithwolves.

There will be days when you will feel so deeply broken, so inescapably stuck in the sea of consummate darkness that the mere suggestion to look for the light will do nothing but drown your soul in a poisonous rage.

There is no white light in these moments. No magic switch. No visible hope at which to aim ourselves.

Where do we go when there is nothing but the darkness, and you?

The darkness, 

and you.

And if we can sense ourselves in it, then we are separate from it.

We could choose to drown in its grip, give in to the tempting victimhood it spills into our ears.

But we can also choose to simply be. Growing the space between us and its depth with each breath until we find the strength to swim.

Even the blackest grays contain traces of white.

Pull yourself toward that frail gradient.

Trust that the silver shadow will grow and hold you steady as long as you choose to see its neutral existence.

Sift through the dark to find the gray facts of your reality, placing each firmly below your feet until you have built a small slab of solid ground.

Anchoring yourself atop this island of tension reveals a new perspective from which to observe the shifting darkness lapping at your shores.

You will see the final fragments of darkness slink from your soul to join the ebb and flow of dissonant mist that hovers ever above the abyss.

The numb discomfort of its retreat will leave a larger void in you. One you will want to fill. You will want to follow, sink back into the pain, fill back up with numb and disconnection.

Hold instead to the numb discomfort of the gray space you have woven without judgement.

Choose to simply be.

Sit among the fog until it forms a bridge to the brilliance that will soon take form along your periphery.

Find peace in the knowledge that the light’s warmth can and will return to the worn edges of your soul,

as it always has

— as it will with every wax and wane of the dark tide.

The post Look for the Gray first appeared on pounceswithwolves.