Done

I did it.

It wasn't even that hard. Kind of. Except that one night I ate the chinese food.

Mr. Lady wrote a lovely post today about feeling invigorated by writing again, writing every day. I agree wholeheartedly. And yet, I feel as if I could do so much better.

I started this blog as a primal scream/document of The Kid's journey through school, which turned into my journey through understanding his 'mental' health and his developmental issues. This month I think I spent a lot of time writing not about The Kid, but about things that are infinitely more accessible to me, take a lot less thought for me to write about, and don't make my brain hurt.

This would be fine, except for the fact that I do want to use this blog as a perspective on parenting a child with his diagnoses, for either other moms and dads out there on journeys similar to mine, or for people skeptical that parents of kids with mental health diagnoses are not all just crackheads or overly permissive ATM machines; for teachers and for mental health workers who want to know what parents go through at home; for other parents, to realize that we kind of all go through the same stuff, diagnoses or no.

I squander my brain a lot. I don't challenge myself in my writing because it's hard.

Also? I can't make up my mind. Am I pro-medication or am I anti-medication? Do I think the bipolar diagnosis in children is bullshit or do I think it is a viable name for a diagnosable set of behaviors? Do the things I do at home, and the things the school do for The Kid help? If so, what works, what doesn't? These are the things I really want to write about.

But, let's waffle!!! If part of the purpose of this blog is to show the perspective of a mother of a child, I am more and The Kid is more than discussion of his diagnosis. We are silly, we make snowmen, The Kid likes dinosaurs and Pokemon and Karate and country music, I have a life outside of being his mom, I read books and go to movies and have friends and like to drink whiskey with them while The Kid spends the night at his grandmother's. He is a person that is infinitely more than the sum of his diagnoses. We're all of these things. I can't possibly write a blog so focused that I only write about bipolar this, autism that, IEP's and functional behavior analysis, etc... because we are whole people. And this is not a professional blog. Also, ten of you read this on a regular basis and only two of you are not related to me, so odds are you and I have already had a deep discussion of my latest views on shit anyway.

So, I guess the NaBloPoMo thing has put me back in the habit of writing more often, and I do intend to keep it up (not every day, probably, but, you know, more than once a month). I do want to make myself tackle some tougher stuff, as I'm always working through something in regards to The Kid's many facets. I want to make this site better. I guess that's enough.

Let's end the month with a haiku:

Oh, NaBloPoMo!

I'm so glad you are over.

I can sleep again.

Quandary

So, about two weeks ago The Kid gave me a VERY SPECIAL PRESENT. It is the first time that he has gone so out of his way to buy me a present, and it was such a sweet effort.

He gave me a Harry Potter poster.

And you all must know how right on the mark The Kid is as far as 'Things His Mommy Enjoys (That He Knows About).' I am one of those voracious readers of Harry Potter, and last summer I downed the Deathly Hallows in two days, while I neglected to care for him, letting him make his own damn peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. So, for anything to make me completely neglect him, it must be pretty important to me.

But the thing is, and the way The Kid is, he is so proud of picking this present out, he won't let me hang the poster in his room. It's special for ME, so it must be hung in MY room. So, at the moment, I've got this Harry Potter movie poster propped up on the back of my dresser. The Kid comes in and arranges it occasionally, makes sure it's up straight. So far, I've rebuffed his requests to hang it over my bed. But he still asks, often. The thing is, having this poster of preteens with wands and capes makes me feel, at best really geeky, and at worst, pervy. And that sucks because I've always had these very motherly feeling toward Harry, in the books and in the movies.

Oh my god I just got this vision of me with presents like these from The Kid, a room filled with Harry Potter and Battlestar Gallactica stuff. I'll be like the Thirty Year Old Virgin Mother.

Spyware Alert!

This is all the post I can handle right now. I am frayed and dismayed and I just got played. And I'm rhyming, so, there's that too... I have a spyware issue I'm dealing with right now, see, one of those, "OH FUCK I DIDN'T MEAN TO CLICK THAT" moments. McAfee is working on it.

All I want is what's coming to me, all I want is my fair share!

I generally try to avoid ever writing about my job. Mostly, I do this because it is a boring subject. Also, writing, in my field, is a scary prospect. Every email must be careful. Every letter must cover one's ass from future lawsuits (which is to say that it has to be accurate, not lying to cover one's ass, I don't do that, I just can't make wild generalizations or misreport information). I must also report any and all additional income I make to the SEC, so this would explain why I've never considered this blog here to be anything more than a hobby. But still, it's publishing content on the the internet, personal content about me, that could be generally considered unprofessional. Some of what I'm writing on this blog rails against the industry I work for. I have to be careful when I write about my work.

But it just so happens to be all I can think about tonight.

At the beginning of November, my boss met with the BIG boss, and informed him that he does not plan to remain with the company anymore. He's being cooperative, he wants to finish what he's working on right now, but does not want a new sales goal, does not want to be employed by this company for any longer than he has to. Naturally, if he goes, I have to go too. I suppose there is the odd reassignment of work, or something, but really, if my boss leaves, the company will close our office. And no, I will not get his job. I am not qualified. I do not have a penis.

So, my brain is shifting gears from having a job to looking for a new job. And I must say I'm perfectly okay with this. I'm ready for something new. I've been here for five years, and they've been excellent years. My boss is the best boss I will ever have. I've got mad skills now. I'm marketable.

But the company have yet to give us termination dates, layoffs or severance packages or stay bonuses. It's a strange place to be. What am I supposed to I tell prospective employers? Um, I'm leaving my job, but I don't know when, but I feel the strange urge to stay just in case they give me a kick ass severance, because I really want to get paid for two jobs for a few months.

The craziest thing? I have a job offer. It's with a much much smaller company. It's the kind of work I kind of rock at, but the clients would be slightly different. I have no idea what they want to pay me, we've not gotten there yet. I would also work from home. And? They are willing to wait. I'm just flattered that they want to work with me so badly, but I have yet to figure out if it will be a good move for me.

I don't know. This is the most boring post ever because I'm so paranoid about posting about work. There is so much more to this story. So, if you know me, I guess give me a call. If not, invent wild scenarios and email them to me or comment below. If you know me, you could do that too.

Love Letter to Denver

Dear Denver,

I've really only known this city. I was born here. Grew up in its perfect climate. I only left for five years, but came back to raise my family. This is my city. This is my home.

I have snapshots in my head of those days when I realize how much I love it here. Almost all sunny. Sometimes with rainbows.

There are the days, at Bronco games; sunny, warm December days, climbing the ramps to my seats, feeling a crowd of Denverites collecting to enjoy the day and our sport and some coors light. I look over the edge of the stadium, either facing west, to our mountains, or east, to our city, and just feel so lucky to be a part of this life here. We've got it good.

There are the hot summer days, the sun lasting late into the evening. I take the Kid to Liks for ice cream and then the musuem to run through the dancing fountain on the west side. This is my favorite place to see Denver from the steps of the DMNS.

There are my every day walks from my office west to the Union Station, the quick jaunt (which is never so quick) to the Tattered Cover, or the north route, insanely more interesting but arguably less safe, up to 22nd St then east toward the federal courthouse and back.

There are the nights out, I love to go out in Denver, to the dive bars on Colfax or the swanky spots in LoDo (but never, ever on Market Street, except for El Chapultepec), the neighborhood bars all over the city. I love to go out in Denver because jeans are perfectly acceptable attire for a steakhouse. I love to go out in Denver because there's always something new, but not so much new that you need entire magazines to navigate the city. It's a managable size, is all. My head wraps around Denver, and I love it.

I love that I know too much useless trivia about this place that I could never ever learn if I went somewhere else. Like, The Buckhorn is liquor license number one. The Cruise Room is number two, and is an exact replica of the bar on the Queen Mary. Or that the city's distinctive houses are all built with brick, partially because the city burned down a few times, but also because the city was run at the turn of the century by the bricklayers (or rather, the bosses of the bricklayers). I love that I know the streets and the locales and the city like the back of my hand. I can't imagine not working downtown, and if that all changes, I'll need to make special dates just to hang out down there. I wish I could live down there, but that's a different story entirely.

I love being a native of this place. Really. I love how my family made it here, between my dad's family, Paddy working on the railroad and all, or my mom, California dreaming in the sixties but just not quite being able to leave Colorado once she arrived here along the way. I also love that my family is still here (with one exception), that we're freakishly close and all love to be here for these exact reasons. The Broncos, the sun, the mountains, the sun, the history, the city, each other.

Denver is not a city with a whole lot of character of its own. It's newish, the architecture speaks to its boom and bust cycles. We like beer, we love sports, most of us like bikes and/or skiing. Apparently, a lot of us have dogs, and are skinnier than say, Indianapolis.

My love for Denver is not really about Denver. Its about my life, because it's here, in Denver, and that life is so rich, it's all love, all over.

I remember driving home from college with my sister Peggy after I graduated. I was really not looking forward to spending the summer in Denver. A lot of my friends had moved. Shannon had a baby. I had broken up with my boyfriend. I could not abide living in this cowtown, and couldn't wait for the day I left again to go to Ireland. I hemmed and hawed and I don't know how Peggy didn't shove me out of the car somewhere outside of Topeka (it's hot in Topeka, you know). I finally explained all of my resistance to the place to Peggy, and she got it, but she also funadmentally disagreed with me, because she recognized the city for what it was, namely, HOME; and so, as we made that turn on I-70, early summer and the thunderstorms that accompany it, we were treated to and explosion of sun out of the clouds, those God-rays, the shafts of light, and rainbows. Plural. I tried to be smug, but I knew, I was happy to see it again. It was my home. Always was, and always will be.