The Gilded Sword

It strange to think in this age of information that there was a time when pens were scarce. Valuable tools belonging only to the rich literate. The poor might have pencils or quills, but a true mechanical pen was only for the wealthy. You don’t often hear of writers who grew up in poverty before Mr. Bic created true human equality with his disposable pens. Most in “poor” authors I know of were actually middle class authors whose parents lived beyond their means. One couldn’t move through the social classes easily. Either into them or out of them. The pen is the key to movement between them.
How many times in my life have I found myself in a department store or office supply store staring through the glass case, wondering who can afford to spend $100 on a pen? Surely never I. Perhaps 100 years ago I would have stood at a shop window and wondered the same thing. What an enormous sum. Yet 100 years ago I wouldn’t have had my extravagant $5 Pilot to fall back on. I would have been pen-less. So I find myself staring into a brightly lit glass box. A cage that is meant to keep me out. A wall between myself and the upper class.
The glass ceiling has been broken. We as women try to climb through it and are still trying to find our footing, but who notices the glass walls? Who notices that the glass walls separate the proletariat from the aristocracy. The glass walls that keep us from the gold pens. The glass walls at Macy’s that protect the face paint of the rich from the grimy hands of the social climber. The glass walls that enclose the showrooms full of the vehicles that set the successful apart from the unsuccessful at just a glance.
These symbols of success take on a glow when removed from their boxes and put to their purpose. The glow attracts us, sets apart the user. It lets us know where we stand. I have always wanted that glow. In some base, primal part of my soul I long for that glow. My egalitarian consciousness abhors it. I put those things in their proper place. And yet I find myself staring into those glass boxes. Time falls away as I wonder if I shall ever have that glorious writing instrument that I covet.

A Whine For Help

I feel like I have been complaining a lot lately. When I really look at it, try to find the reason I keep coming to one thing. I can't ask for help. So I complain.

Maybe I am hoping someone will just offer me the advice or help I am looking for. I will whine and some kind person will magically provide the prefect solution to my problem. It has happened. One day I whined on Facebook about wanting a soda and the world's best neighbor showed up at my door with a soda.

As connected as we are these days we seem to remain isolated. The problem obviously is not access. We are now more connected than ever, never mind the fragility with which those electrons hold us together. In my case at least the disconnect has to do with the idea that seeking help is a sign of weakness. If a person asks for help, whether it is physical or emotion then people will know they have weaknesses, and what they are. That makes one vulnerable. If you are open to help you are also open to hurt.

I know that this is ridiculous, but when has ridiculousness ever stopped me from doing anything. We all have our weaknesses. It could be ice cream, or the inability to say no. It could be that money stresses us out or that we are unable to submit to the responsibility of the life we have created. Maybe those are my weaknesses and I have to speak in the hypothetical to keep them at a distance.

Everyday I chip away a little bit of what I don't need. Today I don't need to be seen as a strong person (not that any of you think I am). I am a whole person with strengths and faults. You all knew that, but now I am ok with knowing that you know it.

The Venn Diagram

Sometimes I feel like I am living in a Venn diagram. My sons are two circles whose worlds overlap in the middle and that is where I am. Circle A and Circle B seem unaware of each other, except to notice that the other circle has some claim on me. I am so busy in the middle that the parts that aren't overlapping are completely neglected.

So there I sit in the middle of the Circles. We are all crying for completely different reasons. I have no idea what those reasons are, they are outside of the circle, so I can't attend to them now.

OH! That's what I was saying!

So the unitasking is coming along swimmingly. Multitasking seems to have been sucking away my creativity. The past few days I have been having ideas AND remembering them. I have finished my coffee every morning. I nearly have my kitchen cleaned. I have been interacting and having complete conversations with my kids.

As it turns out my Baby Huey can maintain a conversation, not just throw out adorable quips, but actual conversation. I feel horrible that I didn't know this, but today is the first day of the rest of my life, etc.

I have gained insight into myself, my life and others. Understanding a behavior makes it so much easier to change or improve. Thinking clearly is a must for all of that.

My posts for one of my other blogs have actually been purposeful and engaging.

I feel way less overwhelmed.

I am getting the same amount of stuff done, but with that little thing we like to call sanity left at the end of the day. I have even stopped dreading at night the 5 million things I have to do the next day. Sleep has been a bit better, and even my dreams are a bit more relevant.

The remarkable insight that I have gained is probably a little deeper than one likes to delve on a blog, but here goes: Photography is a subtractive art form. You use the frame to cut things out of the picture that you don't want. Sculpture is the same, you cut away the marble that isn't David and then you have a masterpiece. I have been living my life additively, which goes against my basic nature. I have decided to live subtractively. I will cut away everything that isn't Carli. Everything I have added on in my life trying to make it what I thought it should be is getting cut away. Rather than adding what I think will look good I am going to cut out the bad, the useless, the parts that go counter to who I am and what I believe. I hope to be left with a shiny new Carli, polished to near perfection, surrounded by my family, my friends, and the things that will make me and my life better.

To Multitask, or not to... What were we talking about?

I have decided to give up multitasking. It is an addiction I have come to realize. It will be hard. I am trying to go cold turkey. I have set a goal of 1 week without it. I think I can do it.

I realized that part of the reason I am so scatterbrained is because, well I am just scatterbrained, no way around it. Between Twitter, Facebook, and a whole mess of programs that require processing time I have allowed myself to multitask my way to gold fish status. I open a program, tweet while it loads, start it processing, run to load the washing machine, help my son with the potty, start another program, forget about the first program, realize I forgot to feed the kids, start the water for mac n cheese, run to throw the laundry in the dryer, remember that I forgot to start the computer program export, realize I didn't help my son wash his hands after the potty (EW), hear the ping of my inbox, answer an URGENT email, answer the phone, pull my arguing kids off of each other, realize that they are fighting because they are hungry, realize that the water has been boiling for who knows how long is half gone and I need to start a fresh pot of water...

Before I know it the day is gone, my children are barely fed, running around in their underwear, the laundry is barely started, and none of my work is done. Then I read that multitaskers tend to suck at multitasking. That would explain it.

So for one week I will try this experiment and see if I get more ACCOMPLISHED, and maybe my kids will be happier, and maybe I will be more sane. I multitasked very little today. I plan on not multitasking at all tomorrow. My mind is a little more clear.

We'll see.

Wandering through the fog

I feel as though I am wandering through limbo. I know I have to take a step, but can't remember which way to go, or why I was walking in the first place. I can execute a plan of attack, but I am not quite sure who the enemy is.

As my son gets older he seems to be getting younger. I would guess it is because I expect him to be growing up. All of the other kids his age are growing up. He gets taller, I have to buy him clothes as he outgrows his, he looks older. Still I wonder how many other parents are watching their 9 year old roll around on the ground screaming because he wants Kraft mac n cheese, not the kind I bought. He doesn't understand how big or strong he is. He can send his little brother flying without a thought. His tantrums take up so much room.

As I watched him flailing about today I started to see my life as a movie. The screams are drowned out by the building orchestra, I can hear the violins and see the scene dissolve into the meadow I would like to be in. Anywhere but here. But life isn't a movie and the dissolve doesn't last. It is back into my body. I have to shut the door and wait for the storm to pass. Then the sea regains calm and it looks as though there was never even a ripple on the placid pond.

Then it is back to deciding in which direction to wander. Through the limbo, through the fog.

Asperger's runs on it's own timeline. As much as I might like to plan the days and have them all laid out neatly they just move as they can. Events are planned, transitions enacted and you hope for the best. Maybe we will get there on time. Maybe we will get there. Maybe it will be back into the house and another try tomorrow. Maybe never.

Life is a roller coaster. I don't like roller coasters.

We met with the ASD specialist in Sacramento so we could learn what we already knew. J. now has an "official" diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome, and I have a little more insight into my own mind.

J. knew why we were going to Sacramento, but in true fashion he refused to get out of the van once we parked. Once we assured him that he could take his backpack in all was well. The meeting felt like a job interview in bizarro world. The two youngest, prettiest psychiatrist in the world sat us down with very serious looks on their faces. I expected them to ask at any moment, "So, why would you like your son to have Asperger's, what do you think he would bring to the diagnosis?" I immediately began wondering why I felt that way. It was because I was afraid they were going to take my diagnosis away. Before last October when we saw the first round of experts we were just a weird family, with a weird kid and I was a horrible mom. After Asperger's was identified we were a family dealing with Autism Spectrum Disorder. It had become our identity. Asperger's explained everything.

I was terrified I would have to go back to being the terrible mother with the tantruming child she couldn't or wouldn't control. It was all about me.

My husband Justin and I were asked questions, given forms to fill out, and lead into a room in which we could watch J. being evaluated through a one way mirror. Every parent should get to watch their child this way. He knew we were watching and kept waving at us, but eventually the novelty wore off and he got to his task of turning every conversation back to Transformers/Star Wars/Legos. He can turn the conversation without blinking, as if he never left it, because he never has. While you were talking about travel or family dynamic he was internally dialoging about his topic, politely waiting for his turn to talk. He then talks about his interest as if that is what the conversation is about. When his portion was done we took a break so the doctors could tally the score. We were convinced he won, not that it was a competition. He left the room glowing as if he had won a victory. He enjoyed his evaluation

as much as he enjoyed Disneyland.

I was nervous. I had seen his performance, his usual Aspie flavored self. We of course got what we had come for. Our "official diagnosis". And our folder of "resources". That folder answered the other question I had for myself. Why had I waited 9 months for the official diagnosis? That folder held page after page of resources that I knew I would have to fight for. I wasn't ready for that fight 9 months ago. Perhaps no one wants to face an uphill battle. Like it or not it is time to start climbing.

Here we go.