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Can you tell me?

My two oldest boys, both autistic wonders, did not develop conversational speech until they were each around 5 years old. I know all kids go through the thousand questions a day stage, but with them, especially my oldest, it was more than curiosity, it was a need to fill every ounce of themselves with knowledge, facts, and understanding of everything around them . . . they have never stopped asking, searching, and learning. I doubt they ever will.

So many questions

Why is blue
the color of sky?
Do you know the answer?
Do you know why?

Why is grass green
instead of yellow or pink?
Do you have any idea?
What do you think?

Why is night dark,
instead of the day?
You really must tell me,
now what do you say?

There are so many things
I just need to know.
What makes the birds sing?
What makes the trees grow?

Who made the mountains?
Who put cold in the snow?
I wish someone would tell me,
I’d sure like to know.

Do you know the answers?
Will I ever find out?
Can anyone tell me,
what life is about?

What are clouds made of
and why do birds fly?
I’m just so curious,
I wonder why?

~

These questions were asked
by my inquisitive son,
from the moment he woke
till his day was done.

If I said just a minute
he would ask me why,
If I said I don’t know
he’d say can’t you try?

If I said nobody knows
he’d say can’t you guess?
I tried so very hard,
I tried my very best.

He followed me here
and he followed me there,
now don’t get me wrong,
I wanted to share,

but I needed a break
for my mind was weary,
I just couldn’t take
even one more query.

I looked at my son
and I beckoned him near,
I knelt down and whispered
so soft in his ear,

My sweet little man,
Mommy’s not mad,
but be a good boy
and go ask your DAD!

Crystal R. Cook 1995

Too many selfies!

So . . . I downloaded an app called Fast Camera. Apparently I took 700+ pics of myself in the 60 some odd seconds I had it open. Not gonna lie, kinda freaked me out. Maybe there might be at least one good shot in there.

He deserves better than two-ply.

We no longer have little kids to fill Father’s Day with fun and laughter, so we make our own . . . happy Father’s Day my dear husband, I am still looking for the three-ply.

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I don’t know how to break this to you . . . But I got issued a National Defense Medal. I’m kind of a big deal . . .

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The Mountain – Facing my fear

I would like to share with you a life changing event I’ve shared with precious few. It can be difficult to share some of the most deeply personal stories we keep tucked away inside of us. It’s good to share them though, release leads to healing.

Enough time has passed for me to look back upon this moment in my life and see what went wrong and how I could have done things differently . . . Live and learn. It’s my hope in sharing my story I may save even one person from suffering the horrors I did one cold, seemingly endless night, not too long ago.

I was standing before a mountain. I marveled at its height and breadth. The immenseness of it took my breath away. I felt helpless and small standing there in the shadow of it. I decided it was time to face my fears and conquer them by taking on that mountain. I was never one to take risks, to put myself out there, fear has always held me back.

I needed to do it, I had no choice. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. A test of both strength and endurance, not just of body but of mind as well. I’d put off this monumental journey for too long. I’d attempted it days before, but my irrational fears and anxiety kept me from seeing it through to the end.

I looked that mountain up and down, it was no Everest but it may as well have been. I wasn’t just doing it for myself. I was doing it for my family. They’d been so supportive, so encouraging, even after I failed the first time. They wanted this as much as I did.

I scanned the uneven surface of the mountain looking for the best place to begin. I spotted it, but as I reached and grasped the mountainside began to give way. At first I tried to remain calm but as more and more of the falling mountain came down upon me I began to panic. I had no time to think, before I knew it I was being buried. Buried alive.

When the mountain stopped trembling I began to claw my way out of the rubble. Luckily, I had the fortune of being in an air pocket, I knew the air would only last so long though. I quickly gave up my attempt at escape, afraid of collapsing the wall of debris around me. My only chance was to get someone’s attention. I began to cry out for help.

It seemed like an eternity passed before I heard the sounds of my rescuers. I extended my hand through a small hole above me and my prayers were answered when I felt the glorious touch of another hand grasping my outstretched fingers. I knew my ordeal would soon be over.

The hand released it’s comforting grip and I listened intently as a voice called out,

“Daaaaad, mom’s in the laundry pile again!”

My doctor checked me out, physically I was fine, but the emotional damage would take much longer to heal. He said I could have prevented the whole thing if I’d only done laundry earlier in the week. What does he know? Has he ever looked that beast in the eye? I think not. I’m sure Mrs. Doctor would understand.

I was certain they’d keep me overnight for observation, but he released me with a prescription for Xanax, one for Prozac and another for P.M.S (Psycho Mother Syndrome) and sent me on my way.

Perhaps I was being a bit melodramatic, perhaps a wee bit of insanity had taken over my mind, but I swear to you . . . The fear was real.

Crystal R. Cook

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This effects us all, it affects us too. I can almost guarantee you have WA.

WA is a recognized and widespread epidemic of addiction affecting people from around the globe. This affliction has silently consumed lives for centuries, some may argue it is a harmless addiction, though many have been known to suffer from co-morbid conditions such as alcohol and caffeine abuse.

Negative side effects include insomnia, malnourishment, and social deficits. Family members of those living with WA have reported episodes of withdrawal, lack of spontaneity, decreased desire to engage in family activities, lack of personal care, and sustained periods of restlessness in those diagnosed.

Currently, the typical diagnostic criteria used to determine addiction is not apparent in all cases, many go unrecognized by the medical and psychiatric communities leading to a majority of cases being diagnosed by family members. Many of those with WA are self diagnosed.

In many instances you may hear it referred to as a syndrome in lieu of an addiction. A majority of those with WA do not see it as an addiction, they believe they were born with WA. Popular theory and current research suggests there may be a genetic component involved.

Since the diagnostic criterium for addiction is not always met, WA, also known as Writing Addiction, or Writing Syndrome, is often a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning you know your addicted if you’ve excluded everything else in life aside from the written word.

In fact, if you are reading this you may have one of two very real addictions, perhaps even both. If you are reading simply because you must read you more than likely have RA, Reading Addiction. If you are reading this and already thinking of what to write about it, it’s safe to say you are a Writing addict. If you are reading this out of sheer compulsion AND thinking of what to write, you are not alone, a majority of those diagnosed carry a dual diagnosis referred to as RAWA, Reading and Writing Addiction. There is no shame.

Writing addiction is not something you plan. It is an all-encompassing desire, the more you write the more you need to write. Like most addictions, it begins to consume you. At first it’s just jotting things down now and then, a bit of poetry here, a little prose there and soon you’re writing stories and sonnets and epic works of words late into the night.

It’s a secret addiction in the beginning, harmless to most. Writing addicts typically start in their spare time. It doesn’t take long until spare time is no longer enough; it begins to creep into their day. When you’re supposed to be doing bills an idea will hit and next thing you know you’ve written half a chapter on the back of your electric bill.

It doesn’t end there. Dinners get burned, kids are late for school, laundry piles up and you forget to feed the dogs, you write about it though. Hungry Dogs, a Tale of Sad Tails. When it first begins it’s easy to hide, but soon you get careless and scraps of paper litter the countertops and the dressers, notebooks and journals are in every room of the house.

Your desktop is filled with papers and coffee cups. Oh yes, coffee cups. Once the addiction has you in its clutches you forego nourishment for a good old Cup-o-Joe to keep you going. Snack foods sustain life. By the time family and friends see the signs it’s too late. No one says anything until you arrive at school in the afternoon to pick up your children wearing yesterday’s pajamas.

By the time anyone suspects there is a problem it’s already too late. Sure, they can hold interventions; they can beg and plead, but the need to write simply cannot be overcome. Once you have it, you have it for life. Eventually those who love you will accept the reality of your life. You are a writer.

There isn’t much you can do for someone with writing addiction except accept them and love them just as you did before they picked up a pen. In some cases it is genetic; many children of writing addicts are themselves addicts by the time they reach puberty. The same can be said for the offspring of reading addicts. There has yet to be a cure, its doubtful there ever will be.

I myself am a reading and writing addict. It began when I took my first breath, my family has tried to put an end to it, but they’ve never succeeded. They’ve never even come close. They know I will write about them if they push it too far. Do they think I don’t know casserole will burn if I don’t stop writing long enough to take it out of the oven? I mean seriously, why else would I keep a fire extinguisher at my desk. I’m one step ahead them.

In conclusion, writing can in fact, be an addiction. There is no way to know who will become a slave to the written word. There is no way to stop it once it has begun. I suppose those of us with writing addiction are enabling the reading addicts among us, they can’t get enough of what we do . . . but then, are they not in a sense encouraging our own addiction to writing? And what of those of us with the dual addiction, we are our own worst enemy and best friend; it is a vicious circle, one with no end.

If a cure is ever found I’m heading for the hills. I wonder if I can get high-speed Internet service up there . . . no matter, paper, pens and solitude is all I need to feed the hunger. No twelve step programs for me, I’ll write one for anyone who wishes to work through their beautiful addiction though, not that anyone would.

I think I’m going to go insane – because I’m gonna CHOOSE it!

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Creative collaboration with my mom . . .

I think I’m going to go insane
I’m really gonna lose it,
I know it’s going to happen
because I’m gonna CHOOSE it!

If I claim that I’m just crazy
and act like I don’t care,
I’ll no longer have to carry
these burdens I now bear.

So if you cannot find me,
have no worries, don’t despair,
just check into the looney bin,
you’ll find me locked in there.

People will come to visit,
the Girl Scouts will stop in,
I’ll gobble up their cookies
with a great big minty grin.

The people from the church
will come by to pray and sing,
I’ll lift my voice and join them
shouting “Glory to the King”!

When they’ve gone I’ll sit & talk
to me, myself and I,
until the lady with the little pills
wheels her cart on by.

I won’t stay there forever,
just until I’m rested.
But what if they suspect?
What if they have me tested?

That might no be so good,
In fact it really would be bad,
they’d never let me go,
they’d know that I was mad!

It really does sound nice,
at least it does to me,
but then again I’m nuts
and I guess I’ll always be!

Crystal R. Cook & Crazy Momma

PP #792

Pet peeve #792

Re-released books that have been made into movies with covers depicting the movie instead of the original cover art.

 

Yummmmm?

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Sometimes I wonder why I have food issues, then I remember my mom used to serve us a dish called Shit on a Shingle. I Googled it. Whadya know? That’s really what it’s called!

You better lock it up, buddy –

My husband usually comes home from work and comfortably slips into the same routine. He puts his motorcycle away, greets the doggies who are always at the door to welcome him home. He asks me how my day was as he takes off his boots, then changes into comfy clothes and grabs the remote to chill out for a while. Yesterday was different.

He came home, put away his motorcycle, greeted the doggies and asked me how my day was, but instead of taking off his boots, he sat down, phone in hand, and started playing a game. He doesn’t typically play games. At first, I thought he was simply tending to a text or looking up the best gas prices nearby, but then I heard the distinct sounds of gaming gunfire, sounds I usually only hear coming from the kid’s rooms.

I was busy writing, well, checking Facebook, but I was writing between the status updates and silly videos that required attention, but this is my story so we’re going to go with writing and make me sound more productive than I was actually being. I went back to what I was doing . . . I mean, working on. At least I tried to.

Listening to him play that game was completely commanding my attention, so much so, I could do nothing but listen at first. Then, I remembered I had a certain skill I could put to perfect use, transcription. I must say, this transcribing session was harder than most. I missed much of what was being said while trying not to laugh. The following is a basic transcription of my husbands one-sided dialogue while shooting zombies from a helicopter . . . I wish I had started sooner.

Husband: “What the hell is that? I’m scared. I don’t know what they did to that thing. I can hear it down there growling.”

(random gunfire and radio chatter)

Husband: “You better lock it up Buddy. You better watch your ass.”

(continued gunfire and radio chatter)

Husband: “Here comes another gorilla. Where are those gorillas coming from? Holy crap. No one told me about those!”

(radio warning regarding the loss of a civilian)

Husband: “Yeah, well, civilians should run faster then. 1 human kill. 8 saved. But what about that monster? I don’t get it. I need a howitzer.”

(radio chatter)

Husband: “Shut up kimoslabie. What the fuu . . . ? Yeah! That was a close call, that dummy jumped right in the mid . . . You guys are stupid.”

(gunfire)

Husband: “Whoa, wait. What the fuu?”

(indistinct chatter, more gunfire)

Husband: “Oh yeah! These guys are . . . I wish I could talk back on this thing. Why would you run right in the middle of zombies? Ooh, there’s gunfire, I’m gonna run right in the middle of it cuz I’m a stupid civilian. Just follow the zombies you morons.”

Command: “You kill one more civilian and we’re pulling you out.”

Husband: “Shut up. That one wasn’t worth living. You know what? Have it your way. I won’t kill any more civilians, but watch what that zombie’s gonna do to him cuz he’s an idiot.”

(No response from command)

Husband: “Oh geez. Hear it? Nice, you guys all huddle up and sing koombaya. Oh man. Damn it.”

End of transcript