Disclaimer: Please forgive me if this narrative falls short of par, for I am excruciatingly tired as a result of getting very little sleep over the past 48 hours. The circumstances leading to my first sleepless night is the cause for the aforementioned quandary.

I am embarrassed to admit it. On one hand it seems silly. On the other it seems pathetic. And yet, if I had a third hand on which to place another perspective, it could be argued that it’s never a bad idea to be prepared. But prepared for what? Whatever did I expect to do with it? I’m not even extremely proficient at slicing cantaloupe. Yet as I have discovered, the anxiety caused by fear can drive us to do inexplicable things. Although we all react differently to the “red flags” perceived by our senses, our reactions which are influenced by previous experience as well as one’s individual personality, are undoubtedly intertwined with our instincts for survival.

Expecting to take my kids on a short but fun retreat for the last couple of days of spring break, I reserved a cabin in the resort campground that is adjacent to an amusement park about 100 miles from our home. And though our little expedition did prove to be fun (at least during the daylight hours), I cut it even shorter than it was intended to be after getting absolutely no sleep the first night and knowing it would be no better the second. It had nothing to do with comfort; it had everything to do with mother bear syndrome and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

One could regard my demeanor as a bit over reactive; admittedly, it is humbling to report. However, considering our cabin, which was no Fort Knox by any stretch of the imagination, was relatively secluded and sitting just on the edge of a vast wooded area, at some point it occurred to me that I had absolutely no way to defend myself should the need arise. After all, anyone seeing us arrive that evening would know that dwelling inside this easily penetrable cabin was a woman with three children. No man.

This would be the reason, among taking several other precautions, for my sliding a considerably large butcher knife under the mattress, and strategically placing it so that I could grab the handle in a jiffy–although beyond that, I couldn’t fathom what I would do with it. How it even came to be there is somewhat perplexing. Feeling uneasy, I had risen from bed several times in order to verify the many noises I was hearing, when suddenly, and without premeditation, I found myself looking in one of the kitchenette drawers. After examining and ruling out the benefit of a pocket knife of sorts, I briefly considered the 9-inch butcher knife before reluctantly putting it into my hand. Not even remotely comfortable with the limited protection it offered, I quickly concluded that, whether or not I could put it to use, I was better off having it with me than with an intruder.

Analyzing some of the underlying psychology contributing to my lack of security, it could be plausible that growing up as a member of Generation X, which was showered with an onslaught of slasher flicks immortalizing the likes of the infamous Jason and Freddie contributed to my imaginative scenarios. But impacting my state of mind more than the ridiculously gory horror films of the eighties, are my personal life experiences that, at times, have threatened my sense of safety and reassurance. All of these elements together—some obviously fictitious, some quite real–multiply in notability when my awareness is heightened beyond it’s usual state.

A secondary factor is that lurking in the subconscious areas of my mind are the true horror stories I have been privy to. Although I used to be guilty of watching a great deal of CourtTV, I have personally known a few victims of senseless homicides, one of them happening when I was in the 2nd grade. Our babysitter who lived about ten minutes away was brutally murdered one night in her own home. Her younger sister was also savagely killed, while their brother was left for dead with severe head injuries inflicted with a baseball bat. Her body was later found in a nearby sewer pipe, the large kind leading to the creek that we kids often played in.

On a personal note, an encounter I have had which undoubtedly lends to my sense of susceptibility is having had my own house broken into a year and a half ago while my husband was out of town. This occurrence justified a fear based on possibility and turned it into a fear based on reality.

Additionally, I have had a couple of strange and alarming encounters while merely performing routine duties at common locations, which have caused me to frequently be looking over my shoulder. After being followed a couple of times and flat-out stalked by one creep, perhaps I should wear a t-shirt when I run my errands that says, “I’m watching you, too, so don’t even think about it.” Perhaps I’ll detail those experiences in a post entitled, “Grocery Store Stalkers: How Not To Shop For Dates.”

But where do you draw the line in being reasonably cautious and being paranoid? Was rigging the towel over the front window to cover the useless blinds unwarranted? Or blocking the doorway with a heavy wooden chair, which although I knew would not slow anybody down, would at least provide for a noisy entrance? Or leaving the light on in the bathroom all night so that from the exterior, the cabin would possibly look less inviting to a prowler? Was it sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress that crossed the line? For it is definitely not something I thought I would ever do. Maybe the answer isn’t in the preparations I made (including having my cell phone within easy reach), but my level of anxiety.

Upon writing this narrative and with all things considered, I have come to this conclusion: I would certainly rather be caught prepared, in spite of looking foolish, than to be caught unprepared, proving me to be foolish for ignoring my instinctual red-flags. So laugh if you must, for I can appreciate the humor in how ridiculous I must have looked to the predator watching from a distance. On the bright side, I must have looked just crazy enough to keep him at bay.

In life, we rarely know ahead of time what course our journey will take. One thing we can count on is that the path will often wind, sometimes split to produce a fork, and occasionally veer without warning.

At present, a close friend and I are simultaneously facing turbulent roads stretched before us. The timing is bizarre, and frankly quite unfortunate, for neither of us will have quite as much to offer the other considering our individual circumstances. Although we currently live 3 hours apart, we have been friends for nearly half our lives. In our teens and early twenties we were a crazy sort of duo and in all honesty, really haven’t changed much since. The only differences are that we are both mothers now, and our escapades and misadventures sometimes occur a lot further away from home than did our “opening ceremonies.”

I have recently come to one of those infamous forks, faced with a major decision that will undoubtedly alter not only mine, but my children’s remaining journey. However, I would not exchange my difficulties for the position my friend is in, as her course has been unexpectedly hijacked.

Since no life is impervious to tragedy, the question that has always lingered in the back of my mind is, “what shall be my biggest misfortune?” At rare times I have pondered about what horrible circumstances I believe I could overcome versus the ones I know I couldn’t. Let my house burn down, or toss me a bout of cancer, anything I think–just so long as my children remain safe, growing up to enjoy long and happy lives. I fondly remember with each pregnancy the indescribable bond that a mother develops with her child even before he or she is born. The more they grew, so did my willingness to sacrifice life and limb for my unborn child. The thought of losing one of my children, or equally dreadful, the idea of something happening to me leaving them motherless, is more than I can bear to imagine. These are by far the worst realities a mother can know.

Three years ago, one of our neighbors (who I had only met in passing) gave birth to a baby boy, the couple’s first child. The next day, while still in the hospital he unexpectedly died with absolutely no warning that anything was wrong. Although we had not yet befriended each other, I was utterly devastated for them. Living two doors down, I couldn’t help but cry each time I passed their house. I was desperate to reach out, but never having actually introduced myself, and being ignorant to their customs as they are from India, I was at a loss for what to do. Finally prepared to make a fool out of myself, I took over a platter of homemade muffins accompanied by a heartfelt card (and a box of Chai tea, of course) to extend my sympathies. A few days later she called to thank me and invited me over. I spent the most heart-wrenching afternoon of my life getting to know this kind and grieving mother.

It wasn’t long before my husband and I had built a friendship with them. As nice a time we always had together, there was no escaping the underlying sadness we all felt for their loss. We don’t see each other as often anymore, but I am so very happy that one of the causes is their busy schedule due to recently adding a second healthy baby to their family.

My friend of 17 years, however, has not been as fortunate with subsequent pregnancies after experiencing a tragic end to her first.

Embarking upon motherhood earlier than most I had a major head start, for she waited until after 30 to have her first child. Her first pregnancy ended in heartbreak when she found out at 18 weeks that the baby, although presently living, would not survive. The doctors said that statistically the condition was very rare–a genetic fluke–and would have no bearing on future pregnancies. They advised her to wait an uncertain duration until the baby’s heart stopped on it’s own. A couple of weeks later, the inevitable had happened and they induced. Her very first experience with labor and delivery–meaning all the pain and discomfort associated with giving birth–was suffered in vain; for the sole reason to endure such agony had been stripped from her intentions.

In her grief, she regretted the condition hadn’t turned out to be Down Syndrome, or any other congenital anomaly that would not have proved fatal. I empathized with her desperate feelings, but assured her she would eventually have a healthy child who she wouldn’t trade for anything. She discovered she was pregnant again just five months later, the day after their beloved dog was struck and killed by a car. Thankfully this second pregnancy proved uneventful and she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who just this month turned two years old.

However, her third and final pregnancy in which she is currently in her final month, has not produced the joy and anticipation we all hope for when expecting. In her sixth month, she was inflicted once again with terrible news about the health of her unborn child. For undetermined causes, several of his organs have not developed properly and it is not known if he will be able to survive once born. He is certain to face open heart surgery within days of birth, but nothing beyond that can be determined. She has been forced to suffer a string of emotional upheavals as each specialist conveys a different prognosis. Uncertain whether or not her child will be strong enough to enjoy the activities of childhood, or if he will even survive his first few days, she must prepare for the worst, but hope for the best. She is literally buying baby clothes or choosing his name one moment, and contemplating a burial service the next.

What must make matters all the more difficult, is that inside the womb, he knows no danger–he is an active and lively fetus, stretching and kicking like any other. While she stayed the weekend with us recently, she proudly showed my awestruck children the strange formations caused to her belly by a knee, fist, foot, or other unidentifiable appendage. Without sonography, she would be none the wiser to the life-threatening problems plaguing her baby.

With the impending birth drawing nearer, I must admit that I am scared. I have nightmares every night. I know I have the responsibility to be a strong and supportive friend, which means to be whatever she needs at the time. I fear knowing what to say, or when to call, or if to call. I fear being too emotional or not emotional enough. But mostly I fear for that helpless baby boy and the magnitude of the grief which ominously lurks around the corner.

Considering the extremely high nasty factor of my last post, I thought this would be the perfect time to share something sweet and simple, yet meaningful. I find this photograph simply precious. All of us can appreciate it for the loving sentiment it portrays, but I think particularly as a mother, I find it emotionally powerful. Initially, it evokes tenderness and respect. Yet oddly, when continuing to gaze at the image, I feel almost melancholy. It may correlate to the way their expressions portray a deeply somber look. I can’t make out if the young one is nursing or just snuggling, but the seriousness of their faces renders the impression that they are seeking comfort in one another.   Perhaps I feel a tinge of sadness because it reminds me of the days when my little ones were littler and often content for long stretches of time, held snugly against my chest.

I suppose another plausible explanation is that it conjures untapped memories from a previous life. Come to think of it, when I was a child my mom’s brother did always taunt me by claiming he was a monkey’s uncle.

Regardless, I find the image to be quite touching. It reminds us of nature’s powerful bond between mother and child.

Luckily, this does not apply to my life personally, but it is so wrong it oozes dysfunction, therefore earning a spot on my blog. The best way to put it is, “eeewwwwww!”

“Woman files lawsuit against AMR because passenger next to her masturbated while she slept

A 21-year-old Harris County woman filed a $200,000 lawsuit against American Airlines alleging employees on a flight to Los Angeles from Dallas/Fort Worth Airport failed to protect her while she slept from another passenger who masturbated to her and ejaculated in her hair, according to a lawsuit she filed last week in Tarrant County.

The Harris County woman alleges employees knew of the risks associated with failing to “police the passengers to ensure that passengers do not hurt one another,” the suit states.

Airline officials did not return calls seeking comment. In a statement to a Houston television station last year, a spokesman said the company regretted the incident, but the flight crew took appropriate action.

The woman and her lawyer could not be reached for comment. The Star-Telegram does not identify victims of sexual crimes.
Destined for a Spring Break visit with family and friends March 19, the woman flew from Houston to DFW Airport and had settled into her seat for the last leg of flight 2074 to Los Angeles about 11 p.m., the suit states. The woman slept most of the flight, but awoke about 20 minutes before landing when the pilot announced the plane was on decent into Los Angeles. When the woman opened her eyes, she saw that an unknown man had moved into the seat next to her and was staring at her as he masturbated, the suit states.
The woman turned toward the window in embarrassment and in an act of nervousness began to run her fingers through her hair where she noticed “a substantial amount of an extremely sticky substance in her hair,” the suit states.

The woman began to cry and tried to get the attention of a flight attendant, but was unsuccessful, the suit states. Finally a passenger in the row in front of the woman comforted her and verified the semen in her hair, the suit states.

When the plane landed, employee called airport police and the man was arrested.

The suit alleges that the during the investigation, American Airlines employees told police they witnessed the man move from his assigned seat into the row where the woman was sleeping.

The woman is seeking punitive damages and a jury trial.”

Now, I readily admit this is a foul, disgusting, violating and unfortunate incident for this woman. It will undoubtedly change her sense of safety and security in public. However, is it reasonable to sue the airline?

My opinion is no. My opinion is that people in this country need to quit being so god damned spoiled. Our society needs to wash it’s money grubbing hands and realize that sometimes shit just happens! Whether it’s spilling hot coffee or slipping in an icy parking lot, or being the victim of some disgusting jerk wad (bad pun, sorry), it’s life! But products of our lose-all-the-weight-you-want-and-never-go-hungry and get-rich-quick culture immediately look for the nearest Fortune 500 company every time something crappy happens. Frankly, I’m getting really sick and tired of the victim mentality which claims to need hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars to compensate them for their troubles.

Press charges on the creep and move on, already.

You are probably familiar with the phrase, “be careful what you wish for.” This cliché provides no exception when placing wishful orders to produce intelligent offspring, for I offer living proof to this mantra with the bittersweet results delivered on my behalf. Although not most parent’s number one priority, when given a choice, naturally we hope for acute and resourceful children. Since my husband and I process information as oppositely as two human beings can, I maintained even before we procreated that our brood would likely turn out either extremely dense or, preferably, extremely bright. With our gene pools consisting of contradictory strengths and weaknesses, I never imagined average intellect to be a probable outcome. In retrospect, I admit it is rather peculiar that I didn’t consider it, but perhaps my theory was a result of my highly intuitive predictions. In spite of this, my foresight failed to anticipate the repercussions; I hadn’t counted on their brilliance coming back to bite me in the form of defiance.

Since my daughter, who is now nine, was a late talker we initially had no idea of her mind’s power. But it didn’t take long once she began putting her words together to realize that there was a lot going on in that little head of hers. I remember one time she was sitting and coloring on a piece of paper at age 3, when she looked up and announced in an enlightened manner that “three four’s is twelve.” I was quite impressed that this three year old had discovered the concept of multiplication completely on her own, and to this day she hasn’t ceased to amaze us with her nearly infinite acumen.

This child has a comeback for everything. The latest which I, personally found amusing since I was not on the receiving end, was on Sunday morning as she was arguing with her father for waking her up. His rationale was that she needed to get used to the new time, as a result of Daylight Savings, to ease the transition in getting up Monday. As always, she proceeded to argue the validity of her objection and attempted, at any cost, to get the last word. After going a couple of rounds he told her that the discussion was closed and would not be debated further. Her response: “Why? It’s because I have a point! Isn’t it?” I stifled my laughter, and informed her that her dad already feels sorry for her future husband!

Although it went along with what I had always predicted, I really thought that her level of intelligence was likely the exception of our genetics, rather than the rule. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected similar results to be duplicated. Yet, here is my son, now five years old, impressing most adults with his inquisitive and interpretive nature. He has been inquiring since he was three how the first human came to be. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more advanced than his ability to comprehend the answers to such questions. At four, one particular thought that preoccupied his mind focused on the last person, as opposed to the first. His thoughts were instigated after driving by a cemetery one day. He said, “Mom, when the very last person dies they will not get to be buried like everyone else because no one will be left to bury them. But it will be OK since there will be no one to see their bones.”

As much as I wonder what goes on in that boy’s mind, I do know one of the frequent culprits because he informed me that he sees math problems in his head. It should come as no surprise considering he frequently begs to be challenged with math facts. At Christmas while my parents were visiting, Brock wanted my dad to ask him some addition and multiplication problems. I had recently written down some simple algebraic equations with a single variable to see if he could grasp the concept. The first problem I gave him was, “if 4=n, 2n + 5 = .” I explained that since the 2 and the n were right next to each other, they needed to be multiplied. Within a moment, he produced the correct answer. So when Grandpa rattled off “3×2,” in response to Brock’s request, the child was disappointed. Replying in a manner that implied the question had insulted his intelligence, he stated, “that is so Pre-K!” before revealing the answer. (Which, ironically they haven’t even done addition in kindergarten–as you can imagine, he is not at all excited that his math at school consists of counting!)

I am grateful that he should never struggle with learning and I am optimistic about the things he will be able to accomplish if he utilizes the power of his mind. Yet, along with these benefits, come some very exhausting deficits. Just this week he has taken to throwing tantrums that rival the 3-hour fits he threw when he was three years old. Attempting to determine this recent relapse, we contributed the first day to being overly tired as a result of springing forward an hour. But after three consecutive days of intensifying tantrums, I may be forced to dig a little deeper; of course, it is entirely possible that he is just testing the waters, attempting to exert some control. He has always been a little neurotic about wanting things a particular way, but overall, he’s usually reasonably behaved.

One handicap I face is that never having dealt with this type of resistance, like him, I am learning as I go. And with a learning curve such as his, we are playing hard ball to say the least. I know the basics about the importance of consistency, and such. But I also need to know what exactly is an acceptable consequence and how long you implement it sans positive results before attempting a new approach. Not to mention, I need coping skills. I can only deal with so much blatant chaos and discord before I need soap in my mouth for cursing like a sailor. Obviously, the goal is to remain calm, but stern. Yet, after 2-3 hours of pure hell, that is easier said than done. If this keeps up, I am going to need professional assistance or the military.

At the request of his pediatrician, we have a series of appointments beginning next week to administer IQ testing. It couldn’t come at a better time, because perhaps the psychologist performing the testing can bestow some sound advice on how to deal with my little mad genius.