Category: kids

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The Lingo

Question: How do you get an entire room fill of kids ages 11 and up to be quiet all at the same time?
Answer: Commit the worst parentism possible and try to talk to them using their lingo.*

I walked into the living room where all my four and a few additional kids were watching tv, on the computers, talking loudly and doing all other basic kid/teenager-y stuff. This is when I tried out their native tongue.

‘Whaddup, Sdog?’ I casually asked a friend of my son. Suddenly, the room fell quiet. You could hear the inner groaning of at least three of them and the rest were still in shock. I thought we might have to call in the medics. Did I stop there? No. Absolutely not. Because, once you’ve started something, well, you just have to finish it. ‘How’s my peeps? Everyone comfortable in the Hizzouse?’ Which, I swear, is how they talk to each other all the time and then they laugh and it’s so funny. I thought if I just kept going then at some point, it would get funny. I was wrong. I threw in ‘crib’ and ‘down’ something and even ‘fo sho’ and the entire thing was met with silence quickly followed with wailing and gnashing of teeth. Someone’s head exploded.

Having teenagers is fun.

Sdog, as he is called by my son, although no longer by me because I was on the receiving end of a stern talking-to (there was extreme mortification and at least one mention of dying, if I remember right), is a peculiar kid. And I like him. He’s the kid that wears the silky button down shirt with the abstract box pattern on it made of rich reds and browns over his Pink Floyd pig t-shirt. Of course, he’s hanging out with my son who wears a reversible bathrobe to school every day that I made him out of deep purple and gray silk** for History Day when he was Confucius a week ago. I’m sure that’s not getting old to his teachers.

Once when we were driving back and forth from house to house, out of the blue, Sdog piped in with, ‘You know, I really care about the environment. I really think about it sometimes.’ And I think it continued to be quiet for a few more long seconds since no one knew what to say after that and I was kind of trying to sing along to ‘Breakaway‘.*** I mean, what are you going to do with a kid like that except be a little jealous that they are so completely themselves and seem impervious to the types of torturous peer pressure you endured in middle school?

Sdog and Tony both do that thing where they can’t really finish the story they are telling because they are cracking themselves up so much and it’s hard to get the words out. And most of the time I have no idea what they are talking about and they are laughing and giggling and I’m laughing but I don’t know why and then after 10 minutes of that they all of a sudden say, ‘huh, well, anyway.’ and then stop. I didn’t know what we were laughing about and I guess I never will.

* Just by using the word ‘Lingo”, you know I suck if you are under 19.

** It’s a poly-blend, my peeps. What do you think – I can afford real silk??

*** Damn, Kelly Clarkson, why must you speak to me so? I’m a woman of age and should be listening to more grown up music like Celine Dion.****

**** I kid! Ha ha! I hate Celine Dion’s music! I would never make it through an entire album. I would be poking my brain with sharp sticks.***** Give me Paul Anka instead. My mom knows who he is. He must be grown up music. (and I love his Rock Swings album for reals. Hearing Smells Like Teen Spirit in an upbeat and swingy tempo is awesome. I can have my angst and smile and sing at the same time.)

***** Last night I was cleaning my ear with a Q-tip and accidentally hit that one place that turns a near orgasmic experience into a very, very sad and painful one. To say that I would do it intentionally would make me insane. I’m crazy, but not insane!

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Ask Leahpeah 'Questions' Edition Part II

Would you consider yourself a good mom?

Wow. That is one of the hardest questions I’ve ever been asked. Not just because of my mental history and what I had to do in relation to my kids, but because when does any mom have an easy time of saying, ‘Hell yes. I’m an awesome mom!’? You think about all the mistakes you’ve made and how inadequate you feel at times. You remember when you lost your temper and yelled and how you watched their little faces crumple in an instant or when they came to tell you something and you were busy talking on the phone to your friend and you made them wait so long that they left the room and then forgot what it was they were going to tell you. Missed opportunities. Failings. They are so easy to spot.

I guess we’d have to figure out what makes a Good Mom. I know I make a lot of mistakes but I always try to apologize as soon as I figure out that I made one. I try to make sure they eat healthy and get enough exercise and don’t spend all their time in front of the TV and computer. I listen when they talk to me and try really hard to keep the preaching and lessons to a minimum. I work hard to try and provide them with a home and the other things that every kid needs. Have I touched on all the main areas of what it means to be a Good Mom? But more than all of those things, I love my kids like crazy. And, I like them. I think they are the greatest people in the entire world. I would rather spend an evening with them playing games or hanging out that do just about anything else with anyone else. Sure – I make a TON of mistakes along the way but I don’t think that makes me a bad mom. I think it makes me human.

You talk about integration on your site, and I understand that to be the melding of all the personalities back into one. My question is: “How is that process done?”

The actual integration process was done in a therapy situation over the span of a few weeks but the preparation for that took years. There are certain values that have to be met first like no more secrets between alters and everyone being the same age. All the parts have to agree that it is the best choice and have no reservations. As you can probably guess, that sometimes takes a long time. But, once those things have been done, it’s surprisingly easy to slip everyone into the same space. I don’t think I can really describe that part because I have no idea how it happened, I just experienced it, except to say that it felt empowering and I suddenly felt strong and capable. As it turned out, in the beginning it was a slightly over-inflated sense of self, which had to be evaluated and examined to be healthy.

If you had it to do over again, would you still chose to be integrated, or would you rather be the seven?

Yes, I would choose to do it over again. I would never wish to become un-integrated. I’m much happier and healthier as one as opposed to seven. I answered this question more fully in a previous post.

I’m curious as to why you think this happened in your life? Was there a defining moment when you separated from yourself? Or did it just happen? I know that you were molested, and that often will create the separation process as a means of survival, but I’m curious as to where you feel that process began?

The reason I initially split was not because of molestation, although that did happen repeatedly afterwards. I split because of some medical procedures done to me starting at the age of 4 where no anesthesia was used.

You said you aren’t taking any medication anymore. How do you not get depressed? I think if I didn’t have my meds I would kill myself.

I do get depressed. Case in point would be yesterday. I spent the better part of the day feeling very low. Some of the thoughts in my head: “I am such a failure.” “I will never feel happy again.” “People hate me and they should. They should hate me. I hate me.” “I’m not good for anything.” If someone had handed me a loaded gun, I would have considered what to do with it for a moment.

But, I know myself too well now to not understand what is happening. The truth is: I’m having a bad day. And me having a bad day feels like that. On those days, my perception of life is all screwy and I know that. So, where earlier in my life, pre-integration, I would have felt all of those thoughts and feelings weighing on me so, so heavy and not been able to get out of that dark cloud for 2 months, literally, now I can think through it.

I tell myself the truth. So, “I am such a failure.” becomes “Today I feel like a failure.” Which is totally different. In the first one, I’m telling myself what I am and in the second one, I’m telling myself how I FEEL. The first one is a judgment that may or may not be true. But the second one is the truth because your feelings are just your feelings and aren’t wrong or right. They just are.

After acknowledging the feeling, the next step is to create something positive from it. Our minds are amazing things and we reach the potential we set for ourselves. If you can imagine something and hold that as an intention, you can create it in your life. If the message I tell myself is “I am a failure.” then it will be true. Instead, try creating something positive like, “I do many things that are of worth.” I was amazed at the stuff I was telling myself when I wasn’t paying attention. Really, awful things that you would never say to another person but there I was saying them to myself over and over. Just start paying attention to what it is you tell yourself. Jot them down in a little notebook.

Hokey? Maybe. But I really do believe in affirmations. They have changed my life. Here are two more examples of what I’ve taught myself to do in a matter of minutes.

“I will never feel happy again.”
“I feel really, super sad today.”
“I eagerly anticipate working through these feelings of sadness.”

“People hate me and they should. They should hate me. I hate me.”
“I feel like I have no friends today. I feel unworthy of love. I don’t feel love for myself right now.”
“I am learning to love myself and those around me more every day.”

Back to the loaded gun. Yes, the thought of killing myself would go through my mind. But it wouldn’t stick. I know myself too well. I know that in 5 minutes, that mamma bird is going to fly by the window and I’ll look outside and appreciate the green of the lawn. It may only last a second but it will happen. Or I’ll glance up to see what time it is and my eyes will catch the frames over the fireplace where my kids’ faces are smiling at me. I know that the deep, overwhelming sadness I’m feeling will pass if I help it along. And I would hate to miss out on the good stuff.

I think the problem for me was when I didn’t acknowledge the truth of the situation. I was not supposed to be sad so I told myself that I wasn’t. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie and once you start telling lies to yourself, you get caught up in this self-medicating and distraction nightmare. If you aren’t supposed to feel sad and you do, then go grab the meth and smoke it until you don’t feel anything anymore. Oh wait, it’s been 3 hours and I’m feeling something again. Must be time to get loaded/self-harm/fill-in-the-distraction.

You spend so much time distracting and lying that you start to not have a life except for trying NOT to feel. Things pretty much snowball and suck at that point and it could take months or years to recover both physically and mentally. I’m not willing to go anywhere near that again so I do the really hard work of telling myself the truth minute by minute. For me, it’s worth it.

However, if I felt myself getting to a place where I couldn’t talk my way through things anymore and I felt the heavy clouds moving in and camping out for the duration, you can bet I’d be putting myself back on medication in a second. Meds once saved my life and that is what they are there for. But as long as I can continue using the methods that are working for me now and I don’t consider crying for 4 hours straight while I’m feeling so awful every so often (usually not more than once or so a month) a problem, I won’t be going back to them anytime soon.

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Dressing for Success

I dress up for my daughter. On days that I don’t see her, just showering and putting clothes on seems sufficient. Combing my hair – optional. Make-up – what? But on the days I see her, I shave, tweeze, apply makeup, coordinate clothes so that they not only match but look CUTE and make sure my nails are done. And, I curl my hair. And this just to pick her and her friend up from school and drop them off at dance.

When I was fifteen, the last person I wanted to be seen with was my mom. When I was eight, she was the most beautiful person in the entire world to me. I would sneak into her bedroom and look at all the wonderful things on her vanity and pretend to be her. I helped myself to the mysterious bottles inside the cabinet that smelled like her and brushed my hair out, looking at each angle and beyond in the infinity mirrors. By the time my image got so small that you couldn’t see it, my eyes would shift and I would work my way back to the stool I was sitting on. Yep, still not my mom.

Somewhere between then and age fifteen, my mom became one of my least favorite people. And she was SO dumb. She knew nothing about me and my life. She only wanted to hold me back and make me wear stupid clothes and go to stupid church activities with a whole room full of other people just like her that had no idea about real life. I didn’t want to go places with her. I only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary. Basically, she had nothing to offer me. And, she wore polyester pants and floral print shirts. I mean, c’mon.

It took me until my late 20s to grow up and figure out how great my mom is. I look back on all those wasted years and feel a little gypped. She has so much wisdom to share and she’s quick witted and funny. We could have been hanging out all this time. Think of all the stuff I missed while being so dense. I mean, c’mon!

The fact that my daughter, who is fifteen, chooses to invite me into her world and routinely asks me to hang out with her, is amazing to me. I feel like I have been given this gift and I cherish it. And so, I dress for her. I want her to feel good about how I look when she takes me places. I would never want her to feel embarrassed and have that be the reason she doesn’t want me along.

I’m sure there are other reasons she might not want to include me, like when I start to sing to Bananarama while shopping in the RiteAid or try clothes on over my clothes so I don’t have to go to the dressing room on the other side of the store or when her friends want to invite boys over so they can make out on the couch and I just happen to speak to that girl’s mom totally, completely by chance that afternoon and mention that the boyfriend is coming over and she’s welcome to stop by at about 11pm and bring me that cd she borrowed. It’s a cruel summer, man. THAT kind of stuff – totally acceptable reasons for her not to want to invite me to hang.

Sometimes what I think looks good and what she thinks looks good are slightly different. I’ll come down the stairs and ask her what she thinks. Ever the diplomat, she’ll cock her head to the side, put on a little smile and say, ‘Pretty good! Ummm, do you have a shirt that is a little less old-woman looking and a little more, oh I don’t know, cute?’ And in that moment, I want to apologize to my mother for making fun of her floral-print shirts. But, I smile at my daughter and invite her to come and help me pick something else. After rejecting the midriff showing and too-tight selections, we inevitably come across something we can both agree on. It does not involve flowers.

But, no matter what clothes I wear or how cute I curl my hair and how much I beg it to stop doing that odd and distracting swoosh thing near my right ear, I am acutely aware that I am one very lucky mom to be invited into the inner sanctum of teenage girls. I get to hear about how they really feel about sex and drinking and drugs and cliques and school and life and politics. I am continually surprised at how much some of them seem to feel about things that I hadn’t even heard of at their age, much less have an opinion on.

I am by no means The Cool Mom. I will call your parents if you use my daughter for an excuse to have sex with your boyfriend at the park. And, I will tell you that even though you like to call me Mom, and give me a hug when you see me, you are totally missing out if you don’t hang out with your own mom, who loves you like nobody’s business and cares more about you than anyone else could in the entire world. And possibly, wears polyester pants, but, dude. C’mon!

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The Part of the F717 will be Played by the MM-A800

I can’t go without my camera. I just can’t. The cell phone doesn’t compare.

Must Focus on the Good Things:

1. I got my T-shirt from Fussy and my boobs look ginormous.

2. It’s my weekend with the kids.

3. I still have direct access to my daughter’s MySpace and can remove pictures of her half-naked body and any other photos where ‘angles’ have been implemented at will.

4. There is a baby bird living in a tiny nest outside the back door. I took a photo of it yesterday but since that is when I realized something was seriously wrong with my camera, you can’t see it. Stupid camera! What am I going to do – Wait! Refocus!

5. I finished sewing the robe for my son to wear to school for History Day. He is Confucius. No, I’m not at all tired of hearing random made up Confuciunisms like, ‘Mom who give son money for Jamba Juice find life to be very rewarding and fulfilling. And win the lottery. Aw, c’mon, Mom!’

Hey, I have a tattoo. Well, I have a few tats, but I have one on my lower back that was recently re-discovered by two of my sons. They wanted to know why I had a huge-ass turtle on my lower back. And on closer inspections, why it had a POD scrawled in the center of the shell.

‘Mom, why would you do that?’
‘What?’
‘That band sucks!’
‘Yes, I know. It’s not for that. It’s because a long time ago, before we were divorced, I wanted to prove to your dad that he was the one and only guy for me.’
‘You mean, that means ‘Property Of D?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s dumb.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was back before your brain got fixed, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. I’m not getting a tattoo.’

I think that went well.

I did go to get it covered and re-designed after I met Joe. I was all ready and on the table and had a design I drew to cover it and everything. And then she put the needle on my back and I thought I was going to die. I actually squealed and shimmied off the table. I tried to explain that the first time I had it done, I didn’t actually feel anything and I had no idea it was going to hurt that bad, but it made no sense to the lady and she was pretty annoyed. Trying to explain dissociation to people is like trying to speak another language sometimes. And so now, I’m nothing but a pussy with a tribute to a watered-down, takes-themselves-too-serious, pseudo-Christian, semi-rock band. If that’s not an anti-tattoo testimony, I don’t know what is.

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In the Car

“So, kids, don’t forget. I’m leaving tomorrow and I won’t be back until Sunday night.”
“Where are you going?”
“Salt Lake City.”
“Why?”
“To see some friends.”
“What their names?”
“Heather and Jon.”
“Heather and Jon what?”
“Armstrong.”
“Are they related to Louis Armstrong?”
“Absolutely.”

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My Teeth Done Falled Out

Do you ever have that dream* where your teeth fall out? It doesn’t hurt or anything and you don’t bleed but you suddenly spit a tooth out into your hand and go, ‘Hey! There’s my tooth.’

I’ve had that dream now and again over the years. The most recent time was a few months ago and it was in the middle of the day about an hour south of Las Vegas. Oh, and it wasn’t a dream. It was REAL LIFE. Oh yes. All it takes is a piece of red licorice and a loose crown for you to have your own fun time. I’ll set you up, if you want. Just give me a call. One second you’ll be playing travel-sized Battle Ship with your son (and kicking his butt, heh) and the next you are a brick-wall silent-type shell of your former self as suddenly, you feel a squarish, hard, tooth shaped object rolling around in the licorice. In your pause, your mind is saying, ‘Did I eat teeth? I don’t remember eating a tooth. Why does my licorice feel like a tooth?’ and things like ‘Am I bleeding? Nope. Huh. Is it a tooth?’ and then ‘Dude. I guess I’ll have to spit it out in my hand to see.’ So, I did. And it was a tooth. And I sat there, staring at this tooth in my hand for about a full two minutes before I realized that if it was in fact a tooth, which it was, and I wasn’t bleeding, which I wasn’t, and it didn’t hurt, which it didn’t, I had to be dreaming. Wow, that took a long time to figure out. And then Alexandra pushed me to the side of the seat to make more room for her and the DVD player and her elbow in my ribs spoke loud and clear. I WAS AWAKE.

If this happens again, I’m sure it won’t take me 7 years to figure out that it is my crown. Big whoop-de-do. My crown. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t drink or eat anything or allow any AIR to get on your stubby toothlet until you can grab some Fixodent or you will be SORRY. Because, remember when I said it didn’t hurt? That was before I blinked or sniffed or….sat still and thought thoughts and breathed. Because that all hurt. And then putting the crown back on with some cementy** stuff? Really painful for a really long time. And if you get the thought to gargle with some spicy mouthwash to cut down on the chance of any little germies, can I just say to you, with all that I am, don’t do it. Really. Bad. Idea.

*Dreams of having teeth fall out are said to sometimes represent we are afraid of losing parts of ourselves. I had dreams about teeth falling out off and on my entire life until I was integrated.

**And then Joe found me a less glorious version of this kit that contains a lot of things I didn’t need, which I carry around in my purse with me as if I was a virile young married guy on his honeymoon that wants to always be prepared in case he sees his wife.

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Speaking of Boys in Cars

Alex and I were driving to pick Ty and Tony up from the gym where they go twice a week because their dad set them up with a personal trainer. Someday, they are both going to play for the NFL and in their speeches where they thank the little people in their lives, they’ll thank their dad for the large guns they sport on each arm thanks to their personal trainer when they were in 6th and 7th grade and then they’ll thank me for trying to remember to have Gatorade in the house.

Anyway, Alex and I had been talking about boys and makeup and how I’m #1 on her MySpace, just like we always do, when the van slid up to the curb. We stopped our conversation and waited for them to climb in. At first, I thought they were arguing about something that had happened during their training session. But as they climbed over the seat and hit me in the head with water bottles and shoes, I realized that they were just talking. Loudly. Very animated and over each other.

‘Finally!’ I thought. ‘They have bonded to the point that they can have deep conversations about things that really matter to them! They can be there for each other and back each other up. Give advice! They’ll always have each other!’ And I smiled and looked meaningfully at Alex so she would know that we should sit reverently and observe this wonderful moment. And here is what we heard:

“And – and then the one kids all ‘You don’t even know sucka!’ ”
“And then the guys all put up their sweatshirt hoods -”
“And you hear the voice say, ‘Then they slipped into Da Hood.’ ”
“And then the one cool guy -”
“He kinda twists his hat all side-to-side really fast and is all ‘Don’t make me go crazy, now!‘ ”
“And the other kids all (in a total gangsta voice) ‘Whazzup Run Nee One? Whazzup Die Ah Ree Ah?‘ ”
(laughing hysterically with each other)
(Alexandra and I exchange a look)
‘And so- and so then the close-up goes into the hands and it shows that symbol.’
(they slowly bring their hands towards each other and in unison chant)
‘Poop………………………….poop………………….poop…………….poop………….poop………poop
…….poop…..poop…poop..pooppooppooppooppoop.’

Yes. My sons were planning a movie short about poo. And it’s the only time I can think of that they were in total agreement with each other and had no conflict for an extended period of time. And so happy with themselves. Someday, it is conceivable that I will be invited to watch a film they have created together. And the subject of that film might be excrement. I will be so proud.

poop
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Things Related to Cars

1. Driving the other day, I saw a car, driver with a backwards baseball cap as the youth of today are wont to do, with an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. The shape of the freshener was a fist with an extended finger. My thought and subsequent question to Joe: ‘What scent is F You?’

2. Saturday mornings mean GET UP AT THE BUTTCRACK OF DAWN AND TAKE THE BOYS TO THE TRACKMEET and I have to write it in all caps because that is what is feels like. I would prefer a whisper, but that is not to be had. While the boys are awake and actively talking about who’s little spirits they are going to stomp by slamming their record into the dirt, I endeavor to drive. Just drive. That is it. Please. I’ll just concentrate on the driving and occasionally sip from the cup that holds the Nectar of the Gods otherwise known as coffee. So, this past Saturday morning, it took me awhile to tune in and hear what Ty and Tony were saying. Nay singing. The song on the radio: Take a Picture by Filter. And here is what they were singing to me:

Please won’t you take our picture
So the flash will wake up mommmmm
Please won’t you take our pihihihicture
So the flash will wake up our mom

We don’t believe in coffee
We don’t believe in coffee
She’s going to crash our car

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Stability

I’m never going to be the Stable Parent. First of all, there is no way to compete with my ex. He is stability personified when it comes to All Thing Stable. Second of all, he is the King because he’s making the list of the things that you are supposed to do or be to be called Stable so of course, he has more (all) of those listed attributes and I have maybe 2 which are a) be a human being and b) be alive.

When he knew me, when we were married, I was vacillating between Super Mormon Mom and complete wreck so it’s understandable to some degree that he has a hard time seeing me as something else, someone New & Improved, Edition 7.7. And it’s not that I care what he thinks about me but I totally care how his perceptions create his resistance to me being as much a mom as I can be to our kids. The way he speaks about me to his family, to his wife, where the kids can hear; casually disdainful of me. Every time he says something unflattering about me where the kids can hear they are faced with a decision about how to digest that information. They can’t really agree with him, because they don’t feel the same way, but they can’t really disagree with him either because then they would feel dumb. So they don’t know how to feel. They love both of us and don’t want to hurt either one of us. How sucky that they have to worry about it at all.

I don’t subscribe to his list. I don’t think that working 20-hour days year after year is the only answer to creating a home. It works for him. Awesome. For him. But I can create a life that is just as viable for my children and not have to have the same income. I can talk openly with them about how they and I are feeling and not pretend to be stoic if I don’t feel it organically. I don’t believe it’s healthier to make sure that the kids are in activities 24/7 all year round. It’s fine if they want to. But I don’t want to make them join every sport or convince them that they want to. Some of the kids might like to try having some down time or join a different kind of class besides the ones he thinks are cool. Because no matter what he thinks, those kids want to impress him and so they choose to join the things where he’s going to think they are the coolest. I think it should be the other way around – let them pick what they want and then think they are the coolest for doing what they love. And I don’t believe in making them go to a church that they don’t embrace purely because that is how it’s done or ‘what is right’. I want them to pick for themselves what spiritual avenue they will take and find what speaks to their souls. Continue reading “Stability”