Tough Decisions...

A dear, but somewhat churlish girl I know from college recommended a book to me after one of my posts. The name of it is "Why does he DO that? Inside the minds of agressive, controlling men" I recommend it to anyone who deals with difficult men in any way, and especially to those who are raising our next generations of men.

Two weeks ago, I became engaged in an argument with my boys' dad. He was packing up things to be donated to a local thrift store. He did this with my 4-yr-old while I was in the bedroom nurse-/napping with my 18 month old, who frquently wakes, rooting for milk, and drowsily returns to slumber, the warmth of a tummy full of mama milk gently lulls him back to hts sweet dreams.

When i aroused from my own breastfeeding trance--one becomes content, peaceful, and very tired when nursing--I was horrified to witness the load in the car and on the front lawn: a mattress that goes with a crib that I borrowed from my sister-in-law, who most likely will want it back, a favorite nursing pillow of mine, some chairs that go with my kids' desk, and, last and best, a Christmas gift given to me years ago by my dead brother's family. He's been dead 7 months. And it is not like I have a whole lot of material thing to remind me of him.

He started nagging at me for napping. I started on him about getting rid of my stuff without my permission--believe me, this is an OLD agrument from me, it goes back to before we were even married. Staying with my younger boy and making sure he gets a long enough nap in the afternoon is part of my job as a mother. If I am lucky, I get a short, sound nap. Most often, I read OR drift in and out of sleep in some sort of limbo, waiting to hear my baby's cry so that Ican get to him before he stirs much.

Missed Connections & Unexpeced Deaths

I have two bachelor's degrees. The first is irrelevant to this story. The second I earned in the field of psychology after I returned from my Peace Corps stint in Africa in the early 90's. Upon earning my psychology degree, I worked at the local VAMC for 2 years as a Neuropsychology .Research Assistant and Technologist. While there I interviewed, counseled and tested inpatients as well as outpatients.
Although everyday presented a new set of challenges, as time went on, patterns began to emerge in the various populations. The WWII veterans were usually given the battery of tests aimed toward measuring dementia. They were the ones we most often assessed for whether or not they should still have a valid driver's license, live on their own or go into assisted living or be admitted to the medical center itself. For some reason, we didn't see enough Koren War vets to make a sweeping generalization about that population. Maybe that has something to do with the relatively small numbers of troops involved in that relatively short war (as contrasted to the Persian Gulf/War in Iraq and Afghanistan, that seems to have been going on close to half my lifetime). But just as much, if not more so, I think that something needs to be said about the general acceptance of the war and processing afterward due to the long running series M*A*S*H*. Not only were these men depicted as heroes who protected & defended the South Korea from the North Koreans, but they were, for the most part, funny and likable characters who the returned vets could tune in to watch at their leisure, while processing and integrating their own experience in their own living rooms, complete with a laugh track. This pop cultural phenomenon had the added benefit of educating the public about this time period in the lives of the vets, albeit limited to a half-hour sitcom.
The Vietnam vets were a whole different story. For them, the opposite happened, as far as being re-integrated into the population. A heavily protested war at the time, they returned to a hostile environment taunted by chants of 'baby killer' and having things hurled at them in the streets of a nation at war not just overseas, but within its own borders as the civil rights movement was in full swing, as was the woman's rights movement. The late 60's and early 70's were a time of great strides for people of color and women in America. To one who was born in, but was too young to remember this era, this seems almost like America's period of adolescence. The raw emotion that hormones usher in, the struggle to find one's identity and the confusion and frustration of coming of age without having all the rights of an adult. Many of the soldiers that entered the Vietnam war were adolescents themselves. The average enlisted 'man' in the Vietnam war faced less scrutiny, as far as age verification goes, than your average college, or even high school, student at your average bar on a Saturday night. Blacks enlisted and were drafted at an alarmingly disproportionate number. The 'baby killers' returning from Vietnam were not that far removed from their own childhoods when they entered this conflict. Not only that, but this was the nation's psychedelic era. Before the war on drugs, this was a time when drug experimentation was a common pastime for both those protesting the war and those fighting the war. Many of those protesting the war, safely evolved out of this phase, for the most part their drugs were milder and done in more of a social context. For the war ravaged youths returning to a hostile environment, this transition was not so easy. They went in as mere children, mostly boys, and came out hooked on LSD and other narcotics. They were taking drugs to cope with having to kill men women and children in order to follow orders. The perfect storm combination of youth, drug addiction, and returning from a war to a hostile reception instead of a hero's welcome, resulted in the most damaged population to date of returning war veterans.
Following their return, the terms 'shell shock' and 'talking therapy' became popular terminologies for what is now known as 'PTSD' and group therapy. Although I was unaware of the fact at the time, I had a lot more in common with them than I knew. At the time that I was testing them, entering data. helping research, compile stats, and edit and ready papers for publication in magazines in the field of neuropsychology, I was 2 years returned from the Peace Corps. I was a volunteer in a country that is military dictatorship that saw its share of coups, strikes against the government, and tear gas. One of its past leaders went so far as to declare this country an empire and himself its emperor. In addition to the instability in government, this country also is a land locked nation with only two legal natural resources...ebony and malachite. The school system is set up according to France's system know as pedigogie. Directors and teachers are paid by the nation's government.

Spies, DAMNIT!

Brick and Puddles continue to amaze me each and every day. Brick is now 6 and in kindergarten. Puddles is 3, but is convinced he is much older. Brick has a lot of hesitancy when it comes to going to his dad's house. No huge surprise there, his dad did physically abuse him. But then Brick started wetting his pants during the day. He was scheduled to see his therapist, so I gave her the heads up, and they played the 'feelings' game. Well, she didn't discover anything, but she primed the pump for me to talk to him. I did. What I discovered made me laugh later, but at the time, Brick was so serious that I didn't. He had told me before that he didn't like Jaybe's roommate, a female. I was thinking, 'she's young, maybe he sees her as a mommy-replacement', even though, as far as I know, there is nothing going on between the two. Not that I care, I really wish he would get laid on a regular basis, maybe he would be nicer. Anyway, he had said he didn't like her because she talked in a low voice. I thought that he meant that she was an alto, rather than a soprano. Being an alto myself, I thought this strange. Then I asked him how. And what he meant was that she whispers. He said, like he was telling me in confidence, "I think she may be a spy". I still laugh when I type it. Brick is very interested in spy gear. But this little guy was so scared of Jaybe's roommate that he was wetting his pants during the day. After reassuring him as best I could that she is not a spy, I passed the information on to his dad, so that he would know as well.
Unfortunately, now that this problem is solved, Brick now is making the excuse that he doesn't like how Jaybe's house smells...like the cat. I'm going to have to see if i can do anything to alleviate some of his fear. It's not unfounded. His dad is a scary man. I'm just not sure what to do about it.

I knew it was over when...

I knew it was over, or at least time for a change with Dude when I had a dream about him. I don't still feel he was as controlling as I did on Feb 26th. I had sort of put all my eggs in one basket and hung my star on him. This is not healthy. But it is a pattern and I am working on recognizing unhealthy relationship patterns. Disabling them will be a whole 'nother story, I am sure.
I remembered a snippet of a dream in which Dude was handing me a plate with a grilled rabbit's thigh on it. The main reason this was a problem is that when I was young---think 5-7yo, my family raised chickens. I participated in the butchering, as was expected. When I was a bit older, 10? maybe 12, we started raising and butchering rabbits with our new parish Priest. I became a conscience objector. My point being, I don't eat them, I won't butcher them. I peeked out curiously from the upstairs bathroom window while my siblings worked on killing rabbits.

Puddles samples Feline Greenies...

Inadvertently, I placed the oiled cat treats on a saucer at the end of the table, planning to take them down to the basement to put in the cat's food dish which is located in our cold, cold basement.
This choice of feeding our pets downstairs is pretty apparent by virtue of this story.

Okay. One more time, from the top.

Okay I was unfair to Dude in that rejected somewhat spiteful post. I don't know that he ever lied to me about anything. I don't know that he is controlling or just a man trying to keep control of his life. As I go skipping all starry-eyed into our future like stalkergrrrrl323 or something. Here's a man, slightly older but we're at an age where it doesn't matter. He has a boy 6 months Brick's senior. I haven't met Rus, but physically he's a cute kid caught up in a messy situation. Sound familiar? Dude is funny, quick-witted and intelligent. An introvert. Friends are always surprised when I mention that I consider myself an introvert. I am an extrovert wannabe. Painfully shy as a child, I studied human behavior. I sat on the outskirts of life, most memorably with my loving Grandpa, (retrospectively a sort of chubby little leprochan of a man and oh! that mischevious twinkle!) who\;.ould have an arm around me and hold me close as if to silently say, "oh my little eskaysea, everything is going to be all right. That is just how she is. " She being my Grandma. Okay, back to the matter at hand.
Dude and I tried to be friends, I went into stalker mode catchhimandholdhimtightandneverevereverevereverlethimgobecauseicaughtmea MAN! Sent mixed messages, up to 5 or so a day sometimes. I'm pissed LOVE ME NEED ME NEVER LEAVE ME. I'm sure some can relate. BEGGING him to ask me for space if he needed it. When he finally asked I gave him cyberspace. I 'unfriended' him. And then, in a flash, sent a message, followed by, the next day, a friend request with an additional message. I'm like Monica on "Friends". This is me being breezy, being casual. Oh. Yeah. Howdoya like me now? Some yesterday, I finally got the friend request after I left him a more coherent message and handed over the reins of the friendship for awhile. Let's see if I can try to keep myself sane this time. I want to do some energy work on him. I think it would be a great experience, as long as we can keep our filthyflirty mouths shut during it. We will see in July. That is when I will visit his hometown, my old college town.

I'll call him Schmark

He was born in Uganda. His parents were missionaries. I met him while I was waiting tables in a Midwestern college town. He wasn't my type. Blond, long-haired big guy--well-built. I preferred dark-haired, light eyed, shorter men. He didn't have a pretty face. Not that I was into pretty boys, but he wasn't, well, what I would consider attractive, physically.
I was short. At 5'3 1/2", I was the shortest in my family. Mom, Dad, 5 siblings and me. Dark-haired, bluish-green eyes, a fit farm-girl physique. We jump started our relationship one cold drunken night. I remember being in the back seat of the head bartender's car. The bartender "Brother Bart" (since he was one waitress's big brother, but he acted like he was all of the staff's big brother) was the owner/designated driver of the car. After offering to drive us home, he learned that I lived not in the actual 'city', but a near-by town, Reefton, from which I biked to work. Neither Schmark nor I owned a car. "Reefton? You want me to drive all the way to Reefton?" Schmark said, "You can crash at my place." "Okay." A bunch of us had been playing a friendly game of poker earlier and I, being a very amorous drunk with a friendly/flirty nature, and Schmark, being a man, well it wasn't difficult to predict what would happen next. "Are you sure?" Brother Bart asked several times. Making sure he asked me directly. With a resigned sigh, and his big old dark brown beater car warmed up, he pulled out of the parking lot and drove us to Schmark's place.
He lived upstairs in a loft/studio apartment of sorts. As I walked up the steps I noticed a big wooden pizza paddle hanging on the wall. I remember asking suggestively, "what will we be using this for?" A big futon on the floor was his bed. He had a sound system next to it. He played Suzanna Vega's album for me. At the time, she had but one album. His foreplay included the best oral sex I've ever received. Gentle, sweet and playful.
That was 23 years ago. Schmark's long gone. He died 16 years ago. But I remember him fondly on this Memorial Day weekend, because his memorial (he was cremated) was on Memorial Day weekend.