Happy...I mean Merry...Aw F-ck It...

You know what I'd like to get for Christmas? And Chanukah? And Kwanzaa? And Boxing Day? And Yule? And Beltane? And Solstice? And Big-Fat-Man-With-The-Long-White-Beard Day? And all of it? To keep with me all through the year?

I'd absolutely LOVE for people to stop pissing and moaning about what we should all say to each other about having a lovely season.

Christians, I hate to point fingers, but this one is on us. My findings are based on the small sample of my own experience, but I gotta tell y'all, I have NEVER heard or read of a non-Christian who was even the tiniest bit ticked off about being wished a "Merry Christmas" during the latter few months of the calendar year. Not a once.

Any bitching or complaining I hear or read, on the other hand, is coming from people who think they're not allowed to say "Merry Christmas," that there's some prime directive coming down from somewhere to persecute them into saying (gasp) "Happy Holidays" to people. As if suggesting that saying "Happy Holidays" is akin to dropping a flaming bag of dog poop afront your manger scene. Really? REALLY? Is this such a big insult that we're flooding social media with it? Wasting rage we could be saving for Donald Trump and those fucking barking Jingle Bell dogs? Sorry, they get on my nerves...but actually, this is great, if you're offended that I hate the barking Jingle Bell dogs, vent your spleen at that, just get the hell off the "don't tell me happy holidays" crusade. (P.S. There's also too much Steve and Edie on the radio, but I'd better stop before I invite death threats toward my general direction.)

Because I LOVE you all, but this petty little war over Merry Christmas v. Happy Holidays really makes you sound like little bitches.

And by the way, you might notice something about the word "holiday." Stay with me, because this is a subtle, complicated one: The word "holiday" is actually a compound word that means the same thing as (wait for it) HOLY DAY.  If anything, it's got more of whatever god you like in it than the Christmas word. Did I just rock your world? Blow your mind?

Wait, there's more. The word "Christ." Anyone? It's Greek. It has to do with being annointed. Blessed. Holy. Oh, there it is again.

Have a happy Christed time. Annointed, blessed, holy time.

In other words (drum roll):

IT. IS. ALL. THE. SAME.

So for the love of Krishna, could we please get over it? Because don't look now, but we have bigger fish to fry, people. While we're all bickering amongst ourselves about how to (or not to) wish each other a lovely winter season of light and love, there's a tiny orange clown-haired demagogue all up in our faces suggesting we bring back the Third Reich. A splinter group of self-hating, diseased psychopaths have hijacked Islam (a faith based on love and respect for all life) for their own murderous purposes, so here's what let's do, let's ban all Muslims. That'll do the trick nicely. Let's paint an entire race of people, who've contributed more light and color and art and brilliance and joy to humanity than could ever be measured, just like all other races and religions, with the same brush. Real smart.

I happen to love and honor a whole bunch of Muslims within my personal sphere, but even if you don't know or care about a single one, is that the kind of world you want? The kind where we're all born into some religious group or other, and have to either (1) live in paranoia that the other guy is crapping all over our cherished beliefs or (2) advocate that we kick out everybody who doesn't look and eat and talk and pray exactly like us?

For me, that world just plain sucks.

But P.S., if that IS the world you want to live in, how long do you think it'll be before the evil darkness that's hating on them decides to come for YOU?

Because in a world where we're run by this kind fear and distrust, no one is safe, no matter what group you're in. That's the one truth you can take to the bank. And it's what the black hats hiding in the shadows are counting on. If we turn on each other, it makes their work a hell of a lot easier.

So let's stop all that crap, shall we?  It's a bad dream we can all wake up from, That monster we're all full of hate and terror about? It lives on our hate and terror. Feeds off it. We can starve that monster to death if we want to. This is not some pretty metaphor. It's the truth. Do your own research, and you'll see it too.

And with the monster dead, that'll make for such a merry everything that no one will have the time or inclination to give a flying you-know-what about what to say around the whatever log or tree or candelabra you favor. We'll all be so happy together, no one will even notice where the light is coming from, because it'll be coming from everywhere.

Merry Happy Jolly Christed Annointed Blessed Holy Time Of Light to all of you.

And for the Love the whole sorry lot of us, be kind.

On the Everloving Edge

Is there anybody out there who has experience taking care of special-needs kids who can keep Calvin alive for me on Thursday, May 21, 2015, between the hours of 3 and 6 p.m.? 

I need a sitter, and not just any sitter will do. Because my child has autism, in case I haven't mentioned it. And make no mistake, I've been working for years to try and solve this problem so I wouldn't end up in these binds all the time so that I have to grovel all abject and pathetic for someone to help yank my ass out of the fire. But I have not yet experienced the glory of snagging that brass ring. Because, speaking of asses, it appears I'm the butt of some sick joke that someone in the vast machine that is public policy thinks is really really REALLY cute.

The way it works is this. They tell you that your child's severe disability means there are wonderful, humane services available to help you out here and there. And there are. You've seen them. They are not the mere stuff of legend. You have friends in situations similar to yours whose families have had access to these services for some time now.  

But let's get something straight. You are NOT entitled to such services that would make life so much more bearable for your family. Someone tells you this right out the gate--so don't get cocky, cowgirl. The point is, though, they're out there, those possibilities of help, and you can find out if you're eligible for them, and then you can apply for them. 

We won't tell you how exactly to do this applying thing, it's kind of trial and error. You have a decent chance of making it, though, kind of like the guys who found the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library. But that's part of the magical adventure of it all, sort of a Pirates of the Caribbean meets Raiders of the Lost Ark deal. So just follow the yellow brick road, then when the road changes color with no warning follow that one, for a while until you realize it was the wrong one (no it wasn't, ha ha), so then of course you just jump in this here helicopter, make a left at the unicorn on the motorcycle, hike the Himalayas at dusk, straight on down the rabbit hole till morning. 

Ok, fine, you can do that, and so you do, because you're a good citizen who follows all the rules, makes all the calls, fills out all the papers, goes to all the medical appointments, gets the mandatory special evaluations, then gets them again when the ones you already have are too old, goes to all the interviews, attends all the mandatory classes, then goes to new mandatory classes because the old ones don't count anymore (ha ha again, you silly), then you find out why your caseworker has disappeared, oh she's been replaced and no one told you, ok, cool, no problem, I'm easy, I got nothing going on over here, just everybody chill, take your time, no worries, I'm doing GREAT.

So you bust your ass, full time, year after year with that carrot dangled in front of you (the one that your child is not entitled to, please don't get the wrong idea), and the punchline is that you never ever fucking get there. At least that's where I'm at. Have been at. For like ever. Is that not a laugh riot? I am so cracking up. My whole family is. Most of all my boy, who works harder within the space of an hour than I do in a month even with all these fun hoops I get to jump through.

Nice, right?

Anyway, May 21. Anyone?

The Force Is Strong With This One

It's something I do every year. Plow through every incarnation of that Dickens story I can find.

There's the little matter of the book, of course, ever since I first read it in my single digits. And every movie. And every animated version. And an awesome little novella that tells the story from Jacob Marley's point of view, and it's about time (that one was a present from my boyfriend on our first Christmas together, the boyfriend I later married, he so gets me). For ten years running there was even the live performance in New York, with my sister (and just fyi, she and I still haven't forgiven whomever's responsible for cutting off our beloved tradition at the knees, and neither one of us can stand hearing any part of the Alan Menken score anymore, makes our eyes go wet and our hearts break audibly).

Anyway, to my point, I do this every December. Over and over. And every year, and in every rendition, something crazy happens. Something rises up from the pages, sneaks off the stage, seeps out of the the screen, right into me...something I could swear up and down that I'd never seen or heard or felt or known before. I get something new each Christmas, with new eyes, and new ears, and maybe even a new heart.

How does a story do that?

I don't know either, but I'll tell you what it was this year. It was that moment when Mrs. Cratchit asks her husband how Tiny Tim behaved in church that day. As expected, Bob Cratchit gives her the scoop that Tim had been "good as gold and better." And Bob goes on to deliver that little speech about his son, as the rest of his family sits around and listens--lines that I've read and heard and seen and felt, and read and heard and seen and felt, over and over, so many times.

"Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant for them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

Bob's voice was tremulous...and trembled more.

That's what did it to me this year.

His voice was tremulous...and trembled more. Of course it was. Of course it did. Mine sure as hell would have done. The thoughts that floated around Bob Cratchit. Thoughts about how this little child, lodged so much into his heart as to be a part of it, so fragile and bent and broken and wrongly made, so imperfect in the eyes of a world that will not see, ending up being the very vehicle to maybe teach the world around him about the highest force in existence.

Perfect love, that is. Just a little thing like that.

And p.s., in case you don't already know this about me, I could NOT care less what your name for this force is. I really and truly don't care. I don't care what kind of a building you visit to focus your thoughts on this force, or if you don't go anywhere at all. I also don't care which famous ginormous book you might leaf through to help you fathom it, or if you go by a book at all. That you or I or any of us grope our way to feel the force, and come to have it strong with with us in our time, even now and then, in ups and downs, matters more to me, and who cares how. Really. So in  A Christmas Carol,  it's the Christ child that's understood as the catalyst to explode perfect love into the world. But a little disabled boy holding hands with his father in a tiny country church--that's who Dickens sees as having a ghost of a chance (sorry) to carry such an understanding into the here and now. To the regular people going about their business and living their lives around him. If they even let themselves notice him at all.

A little "broken" boy.

Is there anything that could possibly grip your heart harder?  Me neither.

And somehow I've never paused and become "tremulous" about it in such a soul-stopping way, right along with Mr. and Mrs. Cratchit, and all the assundry little Cratchits, until this very time.  Go figure.

Dammit, EVERYTHING makes me cry these last few days before Christmas day. I blame Dickens, I really do.

But that's ok. It really is.

Good as gold and better.

Happy Merry Everything.

Love you,
T

Yes, Grace, there is...

So I'm a little annoyed at Judy Blume right now. Grace is reading Superfudge, one of my favorites, and having a blast, just like I did. But there was something I didn't remember about the book. About three chapters from the end, Judy Blume acts like there's no such thing as Santa Claus.

I was reminded about this little tidbit when Grace suddenly pulled her head out of the book, a puzzled expression all over her face, and stated, "I know where babies come from, and I still believe in Santa."

I was confused, then alarmed as I started to remember. The main character, Peter Hatcher (a fifth grader just like Grace), complains to his parents that they shouldn't be encouraging his younger brother, Fudge, to believe that Santa is real:

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to let him go on believing in Santa....After all you told him where babies come from. How can a kid who knows where babies come from still believe in Santa?"

So now it was clear that the time had come to have that conversation with my child.

She had to be told about the multidimensionality of the universe.

I know. It's the talk nobody's ever ready for.  But there are no manuals for exactly how to grow a kid, particularly where matters of quantum physics are concerned.

So I patiently explained how Santa Claus exists on a dimensional level that's separate from ours, albeit just as real, and that right around the winter solstice there are immutable laws of nature that allow a being like him to cross into the dimension that we're currently experiencing, and that unfortunately there are a lot of parents who aren't up to speed on the physics so that, sadly, their kids have no choice but to grow out of one of the most important truths they used to be privy to.

At one point during my explanation, my daughter interrupted me to ask, "Mommy, are you ok? Your eyes look like you're about to start crying."

I admitted that it makes me sad that some families lose Santa Claus just because they lack a sufficient background in science...but that I was fine. Just fine.

Judy Blume will be getting a strongly worded email from me, however. There are obviously gaps in her education.

Soup

I was warming up some soup for Calvin just now--beef barley, his favorite. While I was standing there at the stove, stirring, he sidled up to me and started pulling on my arm. I'm used to this, it means "follow me to the thing I want you go get/do for me." So I said, "Not right now, Cal, I'm making your soup."

But he tugged on my arm again anyway, calmly though, not so much demanding as inviting. Then reached up to my shoulder, pulling downward, and it finally dawned on me that he wasn't trying to pull me away, or toward something he wanted. He was pulling me down to his level...so we could be face to face.

Then he proceeded to plant a gentle kiss on my lips.

Then he said "Lubboo."

Then he smiled at me.

Then he put his arm around my hips and rested it there for a few beats.

Then he ambled along to the table to wait for his soup.  All the while wearing his school-bus-yellow noise-blocking earmuffs that make him look like he should be waving at planes from a tarmac.

So there I was, left holding my wooden spoon, stirring what turned out to be my favorite can of soup I've ever made in my life. Not wanting to move even an inch away from that spot until every last particle of sensory input he'd just provided had time to spiral through me like a warm current and become a permanent part of my soul.

Because moments like this come along to remind us that we can do this. In our own imperfectly stellar way. And when they come, it's probably a good idea to hang on with all we've got and never EVER let them go.

I lubboo too, sweet boy.

Now eat your soup.

120 Cases of Measles...Are You Scared?

If the owners of the media have their way, then yes, you are. And as such, there's something I need to get off my chest so it doesn't explode. If you've watched the news in the past few days, you've heard about a measles outbreak in this nation and, thusly ,a renewed panic over nonvaccination. And how so many of us have presumably been misled that vaccines can be linked with autism.

The truth is, we have not been misled. There is plenty of good evidence that more care must be taken when it comes to how we vaccinate our kids. This does not mean we should not vaccinate. It does mean, among other things too numerous to go into here, that the measles, mumps, rubella, and chickenpox vaccines might not be such a good idea mixed up in one vial. 

I'm begging everyone who can hear me. Please don't buy into the hype. Do you think it's a coincidence that this propaganda is being scattered around during autism awareness month? Does 120-something cases of measles (an outbreak? really?) across the entire U.S. concern you as much as 1 in 68 children with autism? 

As usual, what the media will say about us "vaccination phobes" is inaccurate. Because most of us are are not afraid of vaccines. We like that modern medicine can help protect us from diseases that used to kill or maim us.  What we are afraid of is a vaccine machine that has blown up into a monster that's out of control and that sanity has left the building. 

Just this one thing I'm about to bring up should be enough to raise your eyebrows. Just this one. Let's just take the MMR, or MMRV if that's what they're giving again these days (the MMRV is what my kids got before it was temporarily discontinued, who knows why, believe me I wasn't informed that for some reason the potion injected into my kids was deemed unsafe and taken off the market, this was a piece of info I stumbled upon on my own when my own child's health blew up in my face).

But back to my point, there's this measles and mumps and rubella and chickenpox vaccine, all in one shot, which is incidentally the only way you can get it because it's the only way Merck will sell it. It is given, for the first time, between ages 1 and 2. Then, in New York State, in order to be admitted to kindergarten, the kids must get a "booster." Of the MMRV. Just a little side note that you may or may not know--it so happens that the only vaccine dose that's requred by New York State law is the measles component, but you can't get that by itself, so what the hell, boost them all. Why not. I mean, if you just wanted to take penicillin, but the only way you could get it was in a formula that combined it with Prozac, Tylenol, and, I don't know, Celebrex, you wouldn't mind, right? I mean what the hell, it won't kill you. Maybe.

So why not give a quadrupal vaccine when just the single component is required. No worries. And if you've heard or read anything about how there are doctors, here and in other countries, doing research that suggests that combining all those vaccines in one vial makes each individual virus more virulent, and therefore dangerous, maybe even causing bowel damage, that some autistic kids have been found to have the vaccine strain of measles in their diseased lower intestine, just put that out of your mind. Keep your eye on the ball, here, there's been an OUTBREAK of measles.

Except get this about that kindergarten booster thing I mentioned above. Most of the time the kids still have immunity to these viruses from the first shot, and need a "booster" like they need a few ounces of arsenic in their juice boxes. You know how you find this out? Simple blood test. It's called "checking the titers" to see if the immunity is still solid. I found a pediatrician that doesn't blink an eye about checking this out before re-vaccinating. Those doctors aren't easy to find. His words were "I check my dogs' titers before revaccinating them, why wouldn't we do it for kids too?" Good question. Maybe the answer has something to do with how well the people who make the MMRV are doing when every child entering public school kindergarten is required to get this booster.

Except that they're not necessarily required. If the child's blood shows immunity to measles, at least in NYS, they're good to go. Maybe you haven't heard this.  The doctor I know who doesn't object to checking titers, on children as well as dogs, told me that in his decades of practice there has only been 1 kindergartner who didn't show immunity after the first shot. Sure, that's a small sample. Anecdotal evidence. It's the best we're going to get, because if those with the big power and the big money don't want us to know stuff, do you think that their big power and their big money is going to be put toward helping us gain this knowledge? With huge double-blind scientific controlled studies blah blah blah? Um, no. 

So when we're told that there's no incontrovertible evidence that vaccines are related to autism, there's some truth to that. If by incontrovertible evidence you mean "expensive funded study." It's like the old joke about looking for your keys under the lamp post when you lost them in the bushes. Because the light's better over here. 

So there you have it. Want answers? We need better lighting. And for that, friends, we're on our own.

Light Me Up Blue

Yesterday was my birthday, and if I live to be exactly 90, I am exactly middle aged, plus one day. No fooling. Yippee.

And today is April 2, which means that two years ago today my Grampa died. (The rest of them say Papa, which is fine, but once upon a time it was just me, and he was Grampa, and I've never really made the switch.)  Makes for a disturbance in the force today. My tribe is hurting. We miss the leader of the band.

And it's World Autism Awareness Day. Light it up blue day. Blue feels about right. The school nurse called this morning, I saw the school number come up and I was like, seriously? Is he even off the bus yet? She wanted some insight into why they had to hurry and get him off the bus and figure out what all the hysterical crying was about. His ears look fine, his throat too. Any thoughts on what might be bothering him?

"HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW!!!!!" I screamed at her. Silently. 

Out loud I told her he's been fine, happy all morning. And it's completely true, but I feel like she thinks I'm lying, because maybe deep down I am lying, maybe there was something terribly wrong and I'm just in a constant state of denial. Even though I'm his mother and I'm supposed to know him to the depths of his soul and understand how to take care of him. So much for MY autism awareness.

But what does she want from me, he giggled and laughed and made kissy faces with me while we waited for the bus, he hopped aboard with a spring in his step, and that was that. Is it my fault I don't speak his native language, and he doesn't speak mine? Of course it is. Whose else could it be? Way to go mother of the year. 

Aren't you glad you tuned in?

But speaking of you... 

Do you have any idea how many of you wished me well yesterday? Sent me good wishes and sweet sweet words? Called me your forever friend, partner in crime, beautiful friend, Wonder Woman, beautiful wild woman, fabulous cousin, sweet friend, My Tracy...wonderful wife (last but not ever least). One of you even made me a tray of eggplant parm that I got to keep all to myself (timely road trip, dear husband...). On and on you all went, remembering me and being kind. 

And today, because of what today is, lots of you are posting pictures of my baby boy, because of how precious he is, and because you want everyone you know to know all about him. Know why he's worth lighting up the world about. Blue, certainly...and all the rest of the frequencies that make the colors. On the spectrum. An infinite spectrum of light that starts and ends with colors we can't even see. Yet.

And another thing, Grace hid in her room yesterday to take out her clay and fashion me a puppy in Mets colors. She even made it like he was made of tiny baseballs, but left out the stitching because she didn't want him to look like he had scars. She came to me and said, "I didn't make you a birthday present this year....APRIL FOOL!!!!!" 

Yes. Infinite spectrum of light that starts and ends with colors we can't even see. Yet.

So thanks for the hand up. All the hands up. Thoughts and words. And characters tapped out on a keyboard, or a touch screen. A little clay puppy. Sloppy happy kisses waiting for the short bus.

So many reasons to get up off the couch.

And so, I'm up.