Backfire – Self-Esteem – Curious Compliments

Sep7

Sometimes we say things with an intention our words do not quite convey. Choose your words wisely for someday you may have to eat them. I thought this was such a silly saying when I was a little girl. The first time I tasted the bitterness of words misspoken I understood exactly what it meant. It was meant as a compliment – I think, but it almost changed the course of my life.

I’d written a story, a great story according to everyone but my fifth grade teacher. She didn’t actually say it wasn’t good, but her comment was disheartening. “Keep it up, maybe one day you’ll write something worth reading.” My little writer heart sunk, I thought I was writing things worth reading. Thankfully, I didn’t let those words stop me, and by the end of that year she was one of my greatest encouragers when it came to the written word.

Since that day, I’ve made certain to carefully choose each word I say. I admit to some in the heat of the moment faux pas, but for the most part, I do a good job of thinking before I speak. I wish more people understood the power of words. They can hurt or they can heal. They can make you laugh and they can make you cry. Sometimes, they can do it all at once.

Something seemingly insignificant can affect someone in an unexpected and unintended way depending on their state of mind. Someone who is angry may take what is said to them as something meant to fuel their fire. Someone who is sad may hear nothing but gloom. Someone with low self-esteem may take the innocence of a compliment and hear criticism instead. I happen to be a good example in this respect. Self esteem and I are not always the best of friends.

Self esteem is often a fleeting thing with mothers in general. It comes and it goes, leaving us feeling elated or downtrodden whenever it pleases. Motherhood is not glamorous. Gone are the high heels and short skirts. Gone are the dangly earrings and the always applied, never faded lipstick.

White clothing vanishes from our closets and finds its resting place next to all of our former dry clean only garments. They are replaced by more practical attire. Comfy sweats, baggy T-shirts and well-worn jeans. Slippers and tennis shoes best suit our tired tootsies now.

You can see how the fragile self-esteem of a mother can suffer. Husbands no longer feel the need to comment on the days you forgo the ponytail and wear your hair down. Friends no longer envy your wardrobe, or the way you look in for that matter. Family members can make you feel like a princess or a pauper; one will proclaim your beauty while another will grimly announce how tired you look.

No, mothers do not receive spirit lifting compliments often enough, and when they do, they either do not believe they are sincere or the compliment seriously backfires leaving the poor woman feeling nothing if not perplexed. I have several examples of these compliments gone awry filed away in my memory. I keep them around for the day my true beauty shines through so I can stuff them back into the mouths from whence they came and watch the poor souls eat their words.

My son overheard me complaining to the mirror one afternoon about, well; let’s just say I was mourning the body of my youth. He came to me, and in the kindest little voice he said, “Mommy, I think you look really skinny everywhere except your tummy.” Backfire. I felt it my duty to remind him he was the one who originally began the great tummy expansion of 1989.

Another great example of the backfire is in a wonderful conversation between my husband and my oldest son.

Son #1 – “I don’t like the way mommy looks without her glasses.”

Dad – “I think she looks nice* *without them. She should wear contacts.” This made me smile.

Son #1 – “No way. I like her with glasses, she looks pretty” This made me smile.

Dad – “I don’t.” This made me stop smiling.

Son #1 – ……………….

Daughter – “Uh-Oh.”

Dad – “I didn’t mean I don’t like the way you look, I just don’t think you look as good in glasses.” I’m still not smiling.

Son #1 – “Yes she does.” Smile

Daughter – “Uh-Oh.”

Dad – “No, I meant I think you’re prettier without them, you look okay in them too.” No more smile.

Me to Dad – “You know what? Just zip it and never try to compliment me again.”

Dad – “You know what I meant, gimme a break.”

Daughter – “Uh-Oh.”

Son # 3 – “I think Mommy is beautiful not matter what.” Smiling again.

Son #2 – “I think you are more beautiful than he does.” Smiling more.

Me – To the wonderful children I bore with both pain and pride – “You are now my only family, say goodbye to your father.” We all smile (even Dad).

There are so many opportunities for backfire to take place. For instance, after two weeks of some healthier eating and exercise I happily announced to my husband I’d lost seven pounds, expecting at the very least a pat on the back. He turned to me and said, “That’s great, I didn’t even notice . . .”, my look conveyed my disappointment. “You know what I meant, you don’t have a ton to lose.” The look remained.

Backfire

New clothing is very difficult for me to pick out. I hate the way I look in everything so sometimes I take my husband along. I have no idea why. On one occasion, I exited the dressing room with what I thought was a well-fitting pair of jeans and asked the dear man if they looked okay. He sized me up and down, asked me to turn around and then said to me, “Sure, they’re cute, it looks like you’re sucking it in.”

Backfire

A childless (former) friend said to me, “You look nice today.” Wow, did that make me feel good, someone actually noticed, it made me smile. My (former) friend then said, “It must be nice to get dolled up every now and then. I wish I only had to worry about the way I looked once or twice a month.” My smile faded.

Backfire

Silently I think to myself – I hope you have twelve children and a stomach that sits on your lap and breasts that sit on your stomach and stretch marks up to your armpits – I smile at the thought, but bite my tongue to keep my words from flowing forth.

Truthfully though, I suppose there are other sources of self-esteem to draw from. In high heels you could never race your children to see who could get to the car first just so they can laugh when you lose. You can’t roll around on the floor in a skirt and tickle them until they can’t laugh anymore. You would never do paint by number in dry clean only clothes you spent a fortune on, and white should just be banned from fashion regardless. Does it ever stay clean?

Their smiles, their laughter, their sticky kisses and muddy hugs are sufficient enough to keep us going. I must admit though, I wouldn’t mind if every now and then someone simply say’s, “You’re a good mother.” That would be the greatest compliment of all.

Crystal R.Cook

Dear Me . . .

Aug24

Just to clarify ~ I’m not crazy. I don’t have split personalities, the one I have may be splintered just a little bit though. Truthfully, we all have many faces and facets that make up the entirety of who we are. Sometimes we disconnect from self, we may not even be aware we’ve neglected certain aspects of ourselves, but eventually it begins to manifest outwardly and when it does, people notice.

It may be some internal attempt at self-preservation, it may be our experiences in the moment are simply so overwhelming they overshadow parts of who we are. When his happens it can lead to depression, self-doubt, and a sense of emptiness in our lives. I’ve seen it happen to those around me, people dealing with illness, heavy work loads, and other life-changing events. I see it happen often with caregivers and parents. It’s happened to me.

Women seem particularly susceptible, especially mothers. We tend to forget we are more than just wives and mothers and the ten thousand other things we are expected to be. We are unique and complex individuals, there really is more to us than what the world sees, there is more to us than we can sometimes see as well.

We often push parts of ourselves to the deepest depths of our inner being, we become what we think everyone needs and expects us to be. That’s okay as long as we don’t forget to nourish the essence of who we are. Sometimes, we just need to remind ourselves we are important too.

When my kids were still little ones, I went through a period of loss. Loss of self. My life was a whirlwind of schools, doctors, therapists, and medication. I had four young children, two with developmental disabilities, a husband frequently away in service of his country, and a recent diabetes diagnosis. I lost myself in the mayhem.

In a rare and quiet moment the weight of it all bore down on me and I knew I had to do something or I wouldn’t have the strength or the will to continue. I hadn’t picked up a pen to write much more than grocery lists and schedules to keep for a long while, that night I decided to dust off my journal and try to make sense of it all.

What I ended up penning to the page seemed odd, and to be honest, I thought at the time, stupid. I closed my journal feeling no better than I had when I’d opened it. The next day though, I felt stronger. I took little breaks throughout the day to sit and read, to simply sit in thought. I felt a sense of peace. The rest of the week I felt lighter, I enjoyed my days a little more.

I’d forgotten about my journal entry until I decided to write something about a month later, I was surprised at what I found. I didn’t recall writing the words I was reading. I’d penned a letter to myself. It was the first of many . . .

Hello there my old friend. It’s been so long since we’ve had a moment to talk. I just thought I would check in with you and see if you’re okay. Are you? I only ask because you’ve been so distanced from me lately. Remember the hours we used to spend together in thought or in silent prayer? Have you forgotten how wonderful it was, sitting back in the sun, reading and resting?

I miss the quiet moments we used to spend together. I miss hearing your laughter. Do you laugh anymore? Tears seem to have replaced that twinkle in your eyes and that saddens me. I wish I could help. I am trying, do you even hear me? I know you must, you simply have to. If we could just reconnect I know it would ease your troubled heart.

I can feel your loneliness, it is mine as well. There’s no need to be lonely, I am still here. My presence seems to be crowded and nearly lost by all of the pressures and pains you’re feeling. I know the responsibilities you have are great, but what happened to the time you used to make for us . . . for you, the time used to rejuvenate your soul and refresh your mind and spirit?

You cannot keep going without checking in with me every now and then you know. You need me and I need you. What would we be without one another? I shudder at the thought of it. I know right now you feel you do not have time for me, but I think if you tried you would find you really do.

I’m not asking for days or even hours, just a few stolen moments every once in a while. We could read a chapter or two in an old book or step outside and let the cool winters breeze give us goosebump kisses. We could sip a cup of tea and write poetry and breathe.

Please think it over, I know you will feel better once we have been in each other’s company for a spell. I will be here for you when you’re ready, just as I always am. I do hope you will squeeze me in soon. I’m afraid if you do not I will lose you forever. What would become of me? What would become of you?

I whispered a prayer for us. I look forward to spending some time with you soon. Sooner than later I hope.

I miss you and I love you . . .

Sincerely yours.

A little part of you.

Crystal R. Cook

Reality Check

Aug22

Going through the shoeboxes again . . . I distinctly remember the day I wrote this. I was tired. So, so, very tired. The week had been a whirlwind of medical appointments, two IEP meetings, my husband was out of town, my blood sugars were high, and my energy was low.

Autism was in charge and it’s sidekick Bipolar was running amuck. I was outnumbered and out of my mind – Thankfully, a little reality check pulled me back.

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

I remember reading something once about about people with unsinkable souls, I believe I am an unsinkable soul. I simply must be. If I weren’t, I certainly would have drowned in whatever sea of muck souls sometimes sink into long ago. I’ve felt myself being pulled under a few times, but I always manage to pull myself up for air. Sometimes, I even manage to find dry land.

I recall one particular night when my toes were just about to reach the bottom of this proverbial, soul-sinking pit, and I was ready to throw in the towel, search out a nice little cave and see if it was possible for a human to hibernate. Ultimately, I decided it sounded like too much work and made one last attempt to free my sinking soul from the murky depths by reaching for my pen.

Miraculously, I managed to pull myself up and I began to write. I was going to pour my heart out on the page. It was going to be a gloomy piece, a somber and sad work of words. It’s often said writing is a healing art. I’ve never doubted it to be anything but true, but I may have taken it for granted now and then.

On this night, as my tears fell to the yellow pad beneath my hand, transforming my words into water-color patches of blue, I was reminded of the awesome power writing holds. I did not pen a masterpiece that night. I did not create an epic tapestry of words that would go down in poetic history. It was not my best writing, nor was it the worst.

It was also not what I thought it would be when I began. It turned out to be something that dried my tears, made my husband laugh, and my children smile. Writing is a healing art.

Peace and quiet . . . Solitude and rest,
someone else to cook the meals, someone else to clean this mess.
Someone else to do the laundry and mediate the fights,
someone else to sweep and dust and get up and down all night.

Oh, for just one day, I need a little break,
I need someone to give, instead of take, take, take.
Let me have a little nap, for just an hour or two,
a rejuvenating rest sounds like a wonderful thing to do.

I’d love to take a shower till the hot water is all gone,
I simply can’t imagine staying in there for that long.
I could actually take the time, to shave my legs tonight,
and I’d love to go to bed sometime before midnight.

I could paint my nails or polish up my toes,
I could curl up on the couch and catch up on some shows.
I could read a book and maybe have a cup of tea.
I’m not trying to be selfish, I just need some time for me.

REALITY CHECK

The kids say they are starving, they are on the brink of death,
you can’t make it down the hall unless you watch your step.
The dryer keeps on buzzing and someone just got punched,
I don’t think I’ll get to take that nap, but that is just a hunch.

I’m sure I’ll get to shower, sometime late tonight,
when the kids have given in to the sleep they like to fight.
The hot water will be gone between dear hubby and the dishes,
so I’ll keep that dream close to heart with all my other wishes

Maybe I’ll just shave my legs tomorrow or the next,
I’ll wait for a new razor, I think this one has been hexed.
Most my nails are broken so I’ll pass on that one too
the other stuff sounds nice, but I’ve got too many things to do.

Like drop from sheer exhaustion and drift off to sleep and dream,
of perfect little children and a house that’s always clean.

REALITY CHECK

The morning sun has risen, a new day lay ahead,
and there’s a morning snuggle bug curled up in my bed.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him near my heart
I cannot think of a better way for a brand new day to start.

I really can’t imagine someone else to take my place,
and chance missing a precious little smile on a dirty little face.
The housework’s not that bad, not compared to other things,
like the joy and love and laughter having a family brings.

Crystal R. Cook

Rainbow in the Dryer -or- The Sock Queen

Aug17

Another shoebox classic . . .

Guess what a blue crayon, a pink crayon and a green crayon make in the wash . . . a rainbow in the dryer. Normally, I am a quite fond of rainbows, but for some odd reason I found no beauty in the brilliant colors splashed across my last good shirt, my socks and every other wearable article of clothing I owned.

As I began pulling my ruined wardrobe from the dryer I spotted them, a little yellow (blue and pink and green) pair of shorts which more than obviously did not belong to me, so in my loudest, meanest mommy voice I shrieked for their owner. She appeared in the doorway with a look of fear and feigned innocence in her eyes.

After a few renditions of “It wasn’t me!” and “I haven’t even used crayons in years.” I pulled the paper wrapper from a blue crayon out of the pocket of her little yellow (blue pink and green) shorts. “Oops, I guess I forgot I put them there.” was her only reply. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk or brightly colored melted wax. What was done was done. I tossed around the idea of tye-dying all of our clothes in case it ever happened again but decided it would be best to just check pockets a little better from that point on.

The laundry room is my least favorite place in the house aside from the kitchen, the kid’s rooms and their bathroom. I just know someday I’m going to go in and never make it out. I suppose it’s my own fault for letting the kids wear clean clothing day after day.

When I was a little girl I dreamed of becoming an archeologist, of traveling to far off lands and uncovering buried artifacts from days long since past. In some small way my dream has been realized. However, instead of some distant shore on the other side of the earth it’s the cold garage in the back of the house and instead of discovering long lost treasures I simply find LEGOs and coins and candy wrappers . . . and unfortunately the occasional crayon.

I keep a large flower vase on the shelf above the dryer. I use it as a collection bin for all the little trinkets that find their way into the laundry room by way of un-emptied pockets. Someday it will serve as a memory jar for them. I will present it to the first one who complains their dryer has become a rock tumbler at the hands of the precious grandchildren I may one day be blessed with.

I have another jar up there for found money. I never give it back or inquire as to whose it may be. Most of it is their hard earned, as little as I can get away with allowance money which I simply use to pay their following weeks allowance with. I rarely have to dip into my own pockets to pay their weekly bribe money, they practically pay themselves!

Another aspect of laundry I despise, perhaps most of all, is socks. Don’t get me wrong. I love the warmth they give on a winter’s day and the comfort they provide in my favorite pair of tennis shoes, but when it comes to their care and maintenance I shudder at the thought of them.

First, there is getting them into the washer to be laundered. Sounds easy enough right? Well, it’s not. At least two of my boys take the foul things off in such a way they are rolled into little balls or donut shaped rings. I need a gas mask and a haz-mat suit just to straighten them out. Once they are in the washer, no problem. Throw them in the dryer, piece of cake. Taking them out is where the trouble begins.

I have only myself to blame truthfully. I have a sock basket. It is a tradition passed down from one generation to the next in my family. The idea is to have a small basket next to the dryer to place the clean socks in while you fold the rest of the laundry. Seems like a great idea except I never quite got the hang of it, I have a rather large sock basket. Okay, it’s a full size hamper, but with six pairs of feet in the house there are a lot of socks. My problem is I leave them in the basket until every last sock in the house has been dirtied, cleaned and deposited there. When that happens, I become The Matchmaker . . .

They assemble before me each week, huddled together in anticipation for they know by day’s end their solitary existence will be over. I carefully sort through them to find each one its perfect mate. Sadly though, every now and then, there a few I simply cannot pair up and they must return to the basket alone. The sad soles. When my task is complete I take the newly matched socks to the various closets and drawers they will call home. I wish them well and bid them adieu. Unfortunately, they never stay together long. They always come back alone, waiting for me to find them another perfect mate.

I’m one day going to come out with my own line of children’s clothing. I will specialize in socks. They will have brown soles made from the finest of stain resistant materials, no toes will ever peek through and no heels will ever wear thin. They will be crafted in such a way they cannot be taken off inside out and they will remain together in every wash, guaranteed.

I will be known as the Sock Queen and mothers all around the world will adore me. Come to think of it, there may be an offshoot for children’s underwear along these lines as well . . . School uniforms with a mustard, ketchup and playground dirt motif. I may just end up famous after all.

I suppose for now though I will gather together my supplies and trek off into the laundry room. Who knows what wonders I will uncover on my expedition.

Old (made up) Proverb – Women who sort laundry by color have too much time on hands.

Crystal R. Cook aka The Sock Queen

Pixie Farts & Snot Bubbles – A Baby Fix

Aug9

I often hear veteran moms talking about needing a baby fix, it sounds kinda seedy and back alley, but it’s not, I promise. Sometimes we just get a little nostalgic for those long ago days when our children were brand new.

Personally, I don’t need them. I’m good. I will admit though, to every once in a while being lulled back in time when I see a newborn babe nestled in its mothers arms, or smiling sweetly and cooing from a carriage.

I guess you could say I got my baby fix, not that I was in need of one, at Walmart the other day. A chubby little cherub smiled up at me from his cute little monkey car seat, he let out an itty bitty sneeze, it sounded how I imagine a pixie fart would sound. His little face smushed up for another sneeze, but this time it was more like a full on pixie explosion.

A snot bubble starting forming out of his left nostril which quickly became the size of the little guys actual nose, then, he sneezed again and that oozing bubble made an audible pop as it burst. The busted bubble bits quickly began drying into cemented snotcicles on his cheek and part of his eyebrow like frost on a winter windowsill.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing that spewed from his button nose, the rest of the vile fluid was being hungrily lapped up by his tiny pink tongue. I had to hold in my lunch and wait it out, or lose my place in line. Walmart was packed, I was not going anywhere. Just as the nausea began to quell, I smelled it. It was like . . . death. Death in a bayou garbage pit at the peak of summer.

He was still greedily eating his own boogers when his momma leaned over and kissed his snot frozen cheek and said, “Did you do a stinky? Did you? Did you?” He answered with a smile that grew almost as fast as the next snot bubble it came along with. She again nuzzled the now whitish-green, booger speckled cheek and asked him again if he did a stinky.

I just wanted to shout, YES, he did! Stop asking or he’ll blow another mucus balloon and I will definitely throw up, probably twice! But then I saw that little twinkle in his eyes, it may have been dried snot, but it reminded me of what a precious moment in time it was for both of them. Then I began to think about the gallons of bodily fluids I had smelled, wiped, and gagged at over the years.

I realized how thankful I was I survived it all, how grateful I was I no longer had to wonder what the weird taste was when I kissed my precious babes. I knew right then I had to run because the sound and smell which yanked me back to reality even made that poor mommy take a step back. I decided it wouldn’t kill me to wait in a new line, but the beautiful mess in front of me just might.

So, if I was to ever, ever, feel some longing for a new life to cradle, I would simply need to make a trip to Walmart, there is always a baby fix to be found there . . .

Crystal Cook ~ Veteran Mommy

Autism – Unexpected Milestone

Aug8

Disabilities do not diminish the capacity to love or be loved. I often think those who face the challenges that come with disabilities, can have a greater understanding of love and acceptance than those without them. Perhaps we are the disabled when it comes to matters of the heart . . .

This particular shoebox memory was written late into the night following an unexpected milestone in my son’s life.

He is a good man; he will always be a good man. I can see that so very clearly. His disabilities have become his abilities. They have helped form this perfection I see before me. I thank God for him. I can’t help wishing I could hold on to him forever, but now I think I can let go just a little.

I never doubted this day would come, but I wasn’t expecting it just yet. He lives in an autistic world of his own, right along the borders of mine. The world expects a social reciprocity he’s not yet able to fully give, the world expects certain behaviors and conformity he may never be able to grasp. It’s a world he is slowly beginning to explore.

When the time came, he wasn’t the nervous one, that was me. She wasn’t the nervous one either, that was her mother. He waited patiently while her mother unloaded the wheelchair and helped her buckle in. He noticed she hadn’t a jacket and made certain to let her mother know if she caught a chill he would gladly give her his.

We may have embarrassed them just a bit by taking the picture; you would have thought it was a prom instead of a date at the mall. Neither of them will ever go to a prom though, and this was not simply their first date together, it was the first date for both of them.

He is eighteen, she is sixteen I believe, I was so excited I neglected to ask. I had to fight back tears as I watched them reach the top of ramp and disappear into the mall. They were off to see a movie and have a bite to eat. They planned to take a picture in the photo booth. I wondered how they would work it out, her strapped in a wheelchair and he a bit on the awkward and clumsy side now and then. I prayed they would have fun. I prayed they would be safe.

I worried they would be treated unkindly by the cool kids we passed by as we left. He is very much the target on his own and I’m certain she’s had her fair share of the ugliness this world has to offer. It was my hope the two together would remove the proverbial target which tempts people to shoot nasty things their way.

It was a month to the day they first met. Both students in a program to help special needs kids . . . my apologies, young adults, find jobs and gain work experience. Life experience really. When she wheeled her way into the room the only one to make eye contact with her was the one boy who rarely makes eye contact with anyone My boy. He was seated at the end of the first row; she maneuvered her chair next to him, the best spot in the house.

He smiled at her, I’m not sure if she smiled back, I couldn’t see. She seemed to look around, as if trying to catch someone’s attention, perhaps simply to say hello. Most pretended they didn’t see, some just obviously ignored her. He noticed. He waited until she looked his way again and told her he thought her wheelchair was nice. I’m sure she smiled because I saw a smile light itself upon his face.

They began to talk, listening when it was time to listen, talking when it was time to talk. He was called to the front of the room to pick his job; he carefully maneuvered himself around her chair and lumbered up to the front of the room. He could hardly contain his excitement; he received the job he’d so badly wanted. He returned to his seat with twinkling eyes. Literally twinkling. She said she would like to work there too, he suggested she ask if there were any other positions available. She nodded her head and they said goodbye. “It was nice to meet you, maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” he said. She nodded, this time I did see her smile.

It was a toy store, the job he chose. He’d been working for three weeks when they met again. She’d requested a position at the toy store as he’d suggested. Neither knew they worked together until she missed a day of work and had to make it up with a different shift, his shift.

He wasn’t sure at first who asked who out; he later said he remembered it was she who suggested doing something together when the weekend came. He came home from work that evening and told me something strange had happened. I was almost alarmed, but by the look on his face the feeling turned quickly to curiosity. He said he met someone at work and, well, they sort of had a date.

I was more than a bit taken aback. Granted, he was eighteen years old, but I’d only recently begun processing the many emotions accompanying the achievements in life he’d recently made. He’d begun to ride the city bus on his own and was a working man. Now, he tells me he has a date. I fought off a fit of schoolgirl giggles and mommy tears. I managed to hold it together enough to ask what they had planned.

They’d decided to take a photo in the photo booth at the mall. I asked if they talked about doing anything else . . . nope. Just the photo booth. Such innocence is a welcome respite from the real world. He said goodnight like it was any other night and went off to bed, my tears fell and the giggles escaped before the door clicked shut.

Before the end of the week, after a couple of phone calls and a few well placed suggestions, a movie and a bite to eat was decided on. They would visit shops in the mall and talk. Saturday came too quickly for me. I hadn’t realized he was already dressed for his night out when he came to me, I told him to go get changed for his date. He didn’t quite understand the importance of slightly more polished attire. We settled on a pair of nice, muted black and gray cargo pants and a black tee with a dragon on it, his favorite. He combed his thick, long hair back into a ponytail and sprayed on his best smelling deodorant. I even got him to brush his teeth. He decided to forgo the shave; we’re still working on that one.

I imagine it may be hard for others to imagine the importance of these seemingly ordinary and perhaps even mundane moments, but to me they were anything but ordinary and far from mundane. There was a time I wondered if he would ever have a friend, and here he was readying for his first date.

The time to go was drawing closer with each beat of my heart. I saw the first glimpse of nerves showing in his eyes. He assured me he was fine. We arrived at the mall just as her mother was preparing the wheelchair he’d complimented his date on only a month before.

Her mother had the same look in her eyes I know I must have had in mine. I imagine she wondered if this day would come for her daughter just as I wondered if it would for my son. I was so lost in the moment I forgot her name as soon as she introduced herself. We talked for a time after they left us to ourselves and our emotions. It was a relief to see she felt as I did. She asked me about him, I asked her about her daughter. I felt comfort seeing the small tears forming at the corners of her eyes, I wasn’t alone.

I spent the next hours talking to my husband about how surreal the whole thing was. If I wasn’t saying, “I can’t believe he is on a date right now”, he was saying it. It consumed our thoughts and our conversation. We were already back at the mall when he called at nine o’clock. “The date is over.” he said. As we pulled up to he curbside, her mom was already helping her into the car; we listened as our son told us of their evening while she carefully placed the pieces of the chair into the trunk like she’s surely done a million times before. Somehow, I don’t think she usually did this with such a soft smile on her face.

He told us the movie was great, he said he had a hard time holding her hand like she wanted, not because of the chair though; he said it just doesn’t seem like a natural thing to do unless you are sitting down, maybe, he added. I heard her giggle from the car. He pulled out the new wallet he bought and proudly showed me each feature; the next thing from the bag was a cap gun and little plastic rounds. He’s been waiting for years to get one.

Lastly, he showed us the photo booth pictures. Four in all. He showed us which one she liked best even though her hair was back in a braid and she wasn’t happy with the way she looked. He said he thought she looked just fine though, another giggle floated from the open window of the car. I couldn’t help but imagine how he helped her from the chair to the booth and back. He said, “Well, goodnight.” and began walking from the car. I carefully suggested he say goodbye to his date before making his exit.

He went to the window, said goodnight and turned to go. Another giggle is all I heard after that. We said our goodbyes to her mother; I knew she was anxious to talk to her little girl about her first date. We walked slowly back to our own car. Further details were few, I took what I could get, once again fighting off tears and the urge to giggle just a little.

He said they’d had fun, he said they were quite opposite. He didn’t like the stores she wanted to visit and she didn’t like the ones he wanted to visit. He didn’t understand how she could ask him to leave a store he enjoyed and then ask him where he wanted to go next. He said he told her the night was about her and what she wanted, so he found himself in the most girly of shops.

He said they have plans for another date and they will share their dinner break at work on Monday. I don’t know if he understands the whole concept of dating. He has referred to her as his girlfriend since she first asked him to go out. I have fear for him and I have hope for him. Such hope. I don’t know what this milestone is like for other parents, I somehow think it carries different emotions for them. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing.

I found myself staring at him this morning. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I saw my baby and I saw the man he has become. I think part of me wanted to feel a little sad, but I’m not sad. I feel something I haven’t yet found a name for. I am so proud of him. He was a gentleman, just as he has always been. He is a good man; he will always be a good man. I can see that so very clearly. His disabilities have become his abilities. They have helped form this perfection I see before me. I thank God for him. I can’t help but wish I could hold on to him forever, but now I think I’ll let go just a little . . .

When I pulled this from the shoebox tonight, it brought tears to my eyes. Seven years have passed since his first date, there has yet to be a second. They were the perfect couple to share this experience, the rest requires more than either of them were able to understand. My son still says he is unsure if he will ever understand women, I assured him he never would. She was demanding and required more social interaction than he was able to give. When he tried to explain this to her, she called him names and threatened to run him over with her wheelchair.

Regardless of how the story ended, this was a monumental milestone I will never forget.

Crystal R. Cook

My good intentions and lazy kids.

Aug7

I awoke this morning ready for war, ready to kick some ass. I was going to stomp through this day, defeating everything needing to be defeated. I was going to be all the Spartans rolled into one fearsome beast of a stay-at-home mom, tearing across the landscape of my home. Anything standing in my path would be a-nni-hil-at-ed.

To ready for battle I sipped a cup of hot, strength nectar and then another. Caffeinated warriors are un-frickin-stoppable, right? I donned my armor, pinned back my hair, touched up with just a bit of war paint because, I don’t know, reasons, and . . . checked my blog.

I don’t know what happened after that. I had to attend to it. Facebook said I had notifications, so the obvious course of action was to rid myself of their distraction. There were a few things that needed to be liked. I accidentally clicked on the Pinterest icon, good thing too, there were several helpful tips that would certainly aid me in what I knew was going to be a full day of fighting.

By this time, the nectar of strength was wearing off so I had to recharge. While waiting for it to work the magic it always works, I fell into a sleep-like trance, the enemy must have poisoned me. By the time I looked at the clock I realized it was too late in the day to engage my foes with any chance of success.

Tomorrow is another day.

The laundry is piled high
the dishes are still soaking,
dust bunnies have invaded,
and I’m having trouble coping.

Something in the fridge
has really started stinking,
I thought the kids would clean it,
that’s what I get for thinking.

I asked them very nicely,
I said I’d give them money,
I guess they must have thought,
I was trying to be funny.

I suppose if they want to eat
or have clean clothes to wear,
they’ll get up off their butts,
and start to do their share.

I realize I’m delusional
But I kind of have to be,
because somewhere in this mess
I think I lost my sanity.

Crystal R.Cook

Gather them.

Aug5

Today became yesterday
before I knew it had passed,
I pray my sweet memories
of each moment will last.
When tomorrow arrives
I will cherish the day,
for I know that it too
will pass quickly away.
In the midst of a moment
precious memories are made,
we wrap them in love,
in hopes they won’t fade.
We gather them up,
tuck them safely away,
inside of our hearts
to look back on someday.

Crystal R. Cook

I remember writing this years ago, I recall just how I felt in the moment. I’d had a moment of heartbreaking realization, time is fleeting. I could not believe how fast my children had grown. They were still babies really, some days it feels like it was only yesterday.

Time really is fleeting.

On our way!

Aug5

Shoebox poem . . . Ya know something? I kind of miss these days every now and then.

I was on my way
with children in tow
when all of a sudden
I heard something blow.

A diaper exploded,
and that big poopy mess
started making me gag
I hate to confess.

We were wiped up and powdered
and again on our way
when screams rang out,
“Oh, what now?” I begrudgingly say.

“He touched me again.”
was my sons reply
and his eyes welled up
for his crocodile cry.

“Get over it” I said,
“don’t touch him again.”
“I didn’t do it!”
“You know it was him!”

“That is enough!”
I commandingly yell,
we are gonna be late,
what on earth is that smell?

Oh no, not again,
how can this be,
why can’t this baby
ever just pee?

Again wiped and powdered
and now in the car,
I couldn’t believe
we’d gotten that far,

but where was my purse?
Wouldn’t ya know,
right on the table
will we ever just go?

Purse in hand
and kids all buckled,
I did it at last
I think with a chuckle,

“Okay troops,
we are ready to go!”
Hey . . . where are the keys?
Does anyone know?

Crystal R. Cook ~ circa sometime around ’98

Did you know you can change the world?

Aug3

The power to give and help and bring change is within us all. I am not unique; I try to do what I can when I can as do thousands of others everyday. I’ve seen people reach out, perhaps without even realizing they are adding value to humanity. The man who helps an elderly woman empty her groceries in the checkout line at the market has added value to humanity. The woman who extends her hand in friendship to someone without a friend has added value to humanity.

When I was a small child my mother would tell me I was going to make the world a better place and I believed her because she was one who made the world a better place. I learned well watching my mother as I grew. I learned to value others, to share what I could and do no harm. She was selfless, not a martyr by any means, but there were many times she went without for the sake of another. I remember thinking she was an angel. She hid her wings well.

She taught me to value life and love and freedom. She taught me to share and care and have faith. She looked me in my eyes and said she believed in me. She really did think I would make the world a better place and I have tried every day since to do just that. The values and the morals she taught me have been with me all my life through, I’ve always tried to be true to them, in doing so I was being true to myself and honoring my mother. I knew I needed to be an example, I knew if I wanted others to learn the lessons my mother had gifted me with, I had to do more than simply live a good life.

I was open with my faith, never afraid to be witness through both word and deed. Actions often speak louder than words and I wanted to be heard. As the years passed I did what I could to help others, but it wasn’t until I had a child of my own did I truly understand everything my mother had said to me. When I looked at him, I simply knew he would one day change the world. I raised him and taught him as my mother had taught me and he grew to be a good man. I saw the same thing in the eyes of each of my children. They are my greatest contributions to humanity. They showed me a world within our world. I never knew such a place existed until I saw it in their eyes. Two of my sons are challenged, bright and wonderful, but challenged with ups and downs of Autism and Bipolar.

I was told they would never do the things they can do. They have surpassed expectations once had of them and overcome limitations once placed on them. Together we use what we have learned to help others. We volunteer our time and our hearts to not only the autistic community, but the world. Eradicating ignorance is their platform. I spend my days educating, helping and healing parents who are where I once was. They spend time mentoring their children, showing them the potential they have, teaching them to accept themselves and be strong and proud of who they are.

I share all I have learned while learning more still as I continue along this amazing journey. Sometimes I admit to tiring of it all. Answering questions and trying to undo damage and misunderstanding caused by an uniformed world isn’t always easy. My heart has hurt and my tears have fallen, just when I think I cannot make a difference, when that little voice whispers into my heart telling me I’m wasting my time, telling me I am fooling myself to think any of it matters I’ll open my mail to a heartfelt thank you from someone my words have touched.

There was a day I almost quit; divine intervention had other plans for me. I received a letter from a mother I’d helped through a difficult time in her life, in the letter she thanked me and thanked my son. She said everything had changed since we’d last spoken. They found what we had found and she was thanking me for it. In closing, she wrote the words that have kept me going during those moments I’ve found myself wanting to quit. At the bottom of the page it was written, “You and your son have changed our entire world and made it a better place,” I held the note and heard the words my mother once spoke echo in my heart, “You are going to make the world a better place.”

I know this was only one person but if I have helped even one then I have done something worthy in this life. I will never stop doing what I do as long as I am able. I give my time, my heart and my voice. I don’t ask for payment, the thanks and the changes I see are payment enough. Knowing my children are learning how to give of themselves through the example I set for them, the same one my own mother set for me makes me rich in comparison to many. Any gifts God blessed me with I try to use to his glory. My words I gladly give, my time I gladly share, and if there is anything within my power I can do for another I will try.

It is rather odd to say I believe I have added something of value to humanity, but it is what I have spent my life trying to do. I don’t feel deserving of recognition, I don’t feel as though I’ve done anything better or more than any other, but I must admit I feel a satisfying peace within me knowing I have done all I could do in this life to better the lives of those around me.

It doesn’t take an effort of great magnitude to do something of great magnitude. Something seemingly small to us may be of grand importance to another. Donating clothing and blankets, volunteering in the hospitals and shelters, cleaning messes along the walk left by others . . . all these things add immense value to humanity. Everything we do accumulates and becomes a part of our life legacy. I want to look back when I reach the end of my life’s road and know I accomplished something. I want to feel pride in what I have done instead of feeling sorrow for things I could have done and did not.

The value I’ve contributed to humanity will be my crowning joy on that great someday when I stand before the Lord, knowing I am deserving of being in his presence. The value I’ve added to humanity is the contribution I’ve made to the future in the lives of my children. It is my hope they will take all I have tried to teach them and carry it on, teaching others as they themselves give value to humanity.

Perhaps there is more I could do, more I should do, I know I do all I am able. I know I’ll not stop until I must. My mother told me I was going to make the world a better place. My contribution may be a small one in the grand scheme of all things, but it is a contribution nonetheless. Every one of us has immeasurable value to add to humanity, when we think of all just one person can add it is inspiring, when we think of all we can add together if we try it is miraculous. I believe we all have the power to make the world a better place.

Tomorrow I will rise and try to do something good, I will make my contribution and rest my head on my pillow when the night comes and know I tried. I want to look back upon my yesterdays and know they were not wasted. I have been blessed by the many things of value others have given to better humanity; I simply want to give back. My mother is wise and she is wonderful and I will forever be grateful for the example she set for me. My children and their children will be better for it.

I offer my heart, my knowledge, my faith, friendship and understanding. I offer my compassion, my devotion, courage, empathy and my time. I offer myself. My contribution, is teaching my children to value and respect life, to care for the earth and show kindness in all they do.

My contribution to humanity is simply contributing. There is value in trying to do something good to better humanity.

Crystal R. Cook