A Breather

I couldn’t resist having my picture taken in front of this tourist trap with the word Curio in the name. The store was jam-packed with old-fashioned curio cabinets like the enchanted one in my recently completed novel. I confess I might’ve studied the contents to make sure nothing inside hinted at a magical universe.

We are back from a mini vacation in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. In an astonishing turn of events, we actually did do some relaxing. Family vacations have always been problematic for us, and often leave me wondering if other families work so hard to have fun only to succumb to internal friction.

I expect that despite Facebook photo albums showing smiley togetherness, most vacations involve whining, frustration and one or two small disasters. At least I hope we’re not the only ones.

I have a friend who refers to “Facebook Families” as a tongue-in-cheek commentary on all those perfect photo albums and squeaky proud parent statuses. When I’m having a less than FB-worthy moment, she reminds me that everyone has those moments. They just don’t post them.

I tend to take a more honest approach to life. Breathe In Breathe Out has featured my messy journey through womanhood, motherhood, and my writing pursuits.

But I’ve always gotten the most responses to my candid posts about raising a son who faces multiple challenges including Sensory Processing Disorder, ADHD and Anxiety.

It’s been a relief for me to be honest about the struggles we face. And it’s been an honor to receive comments from moms dealing with similar circumstances.

But as you may have noticed, I’ve been posting less frequently. There are a couple reasons for this.

First, since this blog is supposed to be humorous, I feel like a failure when I’m not funny. But guess what, sometimes life isn’t funny.

Second, I’ve been focusing my dubious mental powers on writing and editing my latest book.

Third, I’ve been struggling with how to proceed with this blog. For a long time I couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering me. The answer came in a gradual sort of way, and, at the same time, all at once—rather like watching your children grow up before your eyes, then one day looking over to find this full-sized human you thought was an extension of yourself, but who is really a completely separate and wonderful individual.

Breathe In Breathe Out has been about my journey, but it’s not just my journey anymore. In reality, it never was, but I shared it from my perspective—as a mother of a special needs child.

But this is also my son’s journey. I see that more every day. And as he heads into middle school, I need to be more careful with how much of his life I share. It’s HIS life! It’s mine too, but, yeah, you get it.

Although I love to encourage moms who face similar struggles, even that calling takes a backseat to ensuring both of my sons' privacy as they face the challenge of growing up.

I know you will understand as Breathe In Breathe Out takes a breather (hee hee.) I will still share funny anecdotes as they ambush me and glimpses into the spiral of insanity I call my career.

And I hope that my journey into writing YA fiction, which I LOVE, will spawn an entirely new web presence—maybe a cool alter ego who eats sushi and runs marathons. Then again, maybe I’ll stick to eating cheese and reading books.

Thanks for being my friend here on Breathe In Breathe Out. I’m thankful for every person who has read this blog. I hope you’ll stick around as I rethink, reimagine, repurpose, and redesign my focus. I’m pretty sure it’s going to require a new wardrobe. And some new shoes. Yes, definitely new shoes.

The Avengers

Monkey is afraid of bees. Really, really afraid. I’d go so far as to call it a phobia. So I looked up fear of bees and discovered that it’s called either Apiphobia or Melissophobia. Who comes up with this stuff? Apiphobia sounds believable, but if you tell someone you have Melissophobia they’re going to ask you why the heck you’re afraid of people named Melissa.

Furthermore, if the fear of bees is called Melissophobia then WHAT pray tell IS the fear of people named Melissa called? Beeophobia?

Silly scientific community.

Anyway, it’s hard to get Monkey outdoors in the summer. This is mostly because of his love affair with screens, but the Apiphobia definitely contributes.

The other day Kory came home from one of his strange shopping rambles and said, “I found something that might help our son go outside.”

I expected an insect-repelling bracelet or something. We’ve tried them in the past. But he held up an electricity-charged tennis racket, a bug zapper. Of course, my first question was, “What will it do to people?” I wasn’t born yesterday. Monkey has a little brother who is at times quite vexing. I could see the temptation becoming more than a big brother can bear.

Anyway, Kory assured me it was mostly harmless to humans.

So the other day we planned to take the dog to a nearby field for some exercise. Monkey raised his usual objections (bees!), but Kory pulled out the bug zapper. Thus armed, our less-than-intrepid 11-year-old stepped out into the wilderness of suburbia.

As you might guess, having the bug zapper prompted Monkey to search out bugs for annihilation. But it’s spring in Colorado. We’ve had approximately two and a half warm days. There weren’t a lot of bugs roaming the sidewalks. And turns out it’s hard to angle the electrified racket to zap a tiny ant.

We trudged out of our neighborhood and into the grass and packed dirt of the nearby field. Monkey kept his eyes on the ground, searching for victims. And then, a big black beetle ambled across the path.

Monkey froze, zeroing in on the bug. He yelled for his brother to come. They hovered over their target, exited, blood-thirsty.

You see, the beetle was exactly like the one who viciously killed Monkey’s roley poley last October while we were out for a walk. They resurrected the travesty of the roley poley’s demise and pinned it on this beetle representative.

Things went a little Lord of the Flies. Shouts of “The roley poley shall be avenged!” rang out. The racket was raised. Chunky had found a trident-like stick which he waved in the air in support of his brother’s campaign.

I thought, this is a good time to teach them about appreciating nature, the sanctity of life, the fact that vengeance belongs to the Lord.

Then I walked away. I can’t justify it. I just did.

Whoops, hollers, and the distinct zip of electricity followed. I cringed as they shouted, “We are avenged!”

I joined Kory up on top of the hill, ready to lay the blame for our vicious children on his Y chromosome contribution. I found him scooping up another black beetle from the path. He tossed it into the weeds, saving it from the oncoming monsters.

The boys joined us, pink-cheeked and triumphant. Monkey held up the racket. “It works, Dad!”

Then he handed his weapon, his defense against bees, his “safety net” to me and ran off to play with the dog.

Living in ADHD World

I forget that other people don’t live in ADHD world. 

It’s a shock to encounter someone who seems to have no experience with “Look! Shiny!” thought patterns and actions.

When my kids were little, a successful outing was one in which I didn’t end up abandoning my full shopping cart to chase them across the store dodging people and displays while yelling, “Stop! Wait for Mommy.” 

So when we visited a beauty supply store and Monkey set about rearranging cardboard price signs on the store’s barber shop chairs, well, to me that was minor.

The clerk checking me out said, “Have you heard of Super Nanny?”

I said, “Yes, I’ve seen the show.”

With a straight face, she said, “You should call her.”

I turned around to look at my kids, “Really? I thought things were going well.”

It’s not that I allow my kids to be destructive. It’s not that we don’t talk about respecting others and their property. And hey, sometimes they do mess up. They’re kids. They break things and need to apologize or help fix them.

But here’s where I think my philosophy differs, especially from a traditional child-rearing mindset.

I don’t think it’s wrong to touch things. I don’t think it’s wrong to be loud in certain situations. I don’t think it’s wrong to talk about farting. To let your silliness hang out sometimes.

In our house we deal with some really hard issues. If you follow this blog you know my son struggles with anxiety and it’s been a crushing weight at times. When you face dark monsters like Anxiety, or Autism, or Special Needs, you learn not fear Messy, Loud, and Rambunctious.

Yesterday I took my eleven-year-old to band instrument selection night. Monkey has an amazing ear for music and could carry a tune before he could speak in full sentences. We would love to see him use the gift he’s been given and enjoy making music.

But we had a bit of a bumpy start last night. Our number was called and we walked over to the auditioner who stood by a table of instruments. Monkey immediately ran his fingers over an oboe. We sat down, talked with the man, then Monkey got to try blowing into a trumpet. Since we’d also expressed interest in percussion, the guy notified one of the band teachers that Monkey wanted to try out for that, then he told my son to go wait in line while he talked to me.

Monkey walked away and the auditioner turned to me.

“I’m concerned with how he would treat the instruments.”

I didn’t know where the comment came from. “What do you mean?”

The guy explained that brass instruments are delicate.

I still couldn’t follow. It’s not like Monkey would sword fight with a trumpet. I said as much, and then it dawned on me.

“Oh,” I said, “you’re worried because he touched the instruments when we came over.”

The guy nodded. “He’d have to learn to listen to the band instructor.”

Well, of course he would, along with every other kid experiencing band for the first time.

I wasn’t angry and this man wasn’t mean, but I did wonder how he came to be in this position and still be unfamiliar with kids like Monkey. Kids who learn with their eyes, ears AND hands. Monkey wasn’t disrespectful or destructive. In my book, he’d done nothing wrong. But this guy saw “irresponsible” written all over him.

Photo by Sander Spek

We moved on to the percussion test where Monkey’s hands-on approach didn’t faze the instructor. He remarked on Monkey’s ear, recommended private lessons to get ready for band, and offered encouragement. We left excited about percussion.

I recognize that organizing brand new middle-schoolers who’ve never played an instrument into a band is a Herculean task, and I admire and appreciate the staff dedicated to it.

Raising kids is a Herculean task as well. We don’t all do it the same way. As moms it’s easy to be hard on ourselves when we’re confronted with an attitude toward child-rearing that’s different from our own. We second guess ourselves.

Maybe I should’ve stopped my kids from rearranging the price tags on the chairs in the store. Or maybe it was okay to be happy that we got through an outing with my sanity intact.

Maybe I should’ve warned Monkey not to touch anything last night.Or maybe it was okay that my attention was focused on helping my son discover his gift of music.

Our family lives in ADHD world. Some things we fight for and some things we let slide. We apologize when we’ve done wrong, but we also give ourselves grace when we can’t help but chase the squirrel.

How about you? What world do you live in? How do you handle it when aliens come to visit?

A Birthday, a Getaway and a New Understanding

I shot a wolf! Well, ok, it was made of foam and not exactly fast. Still Kory thought it was impressive that I managed to peg him right in the teeth. He made sure we got a picture.

We spent last weekend at Snow Mountain Ranch way up in the cold Colorado mountains somewhere near Winter Park ski resort. We were celebrating Kory’s birthday. It was one of those milestone birthdays, and it seems to have flapped my unflappable husband. I don’t know why. The truth is, men just get cuter as they get older.

See!

Kory is standing next to Chad and Dick, the two draft horses who pulled the sleigh we rode in. We’d stopped for hot cocoa and Chad was literally chomping at the bit. The driver explained that he had a thing for one of the horses pulling another sleigh that had just left the cocoa stop. She said Chad was “embarrassing himself,” but I thought it was cute that he was so anxious to follow his lady back to the stables.

Pretty boys!

Speaking of girl-crazy guys, Chunky could’ve spent hours in the craft center at Snow Mountain Ranch, making gifts for his special friend. He painted a wooden heart and wrote “Will you be my Valentine?” on it. Then he made her a leather bracelet with dogs, cats and hearts. He was intent on buying her something in the gift shop until I insisted he pick out something for himself instead. Sometimes I envy that boy’s future wife. Is that weird to say?

Chunky snow-shoeing

I’m afraid the cold air was hard on Monkey who wasn’t quite over that awful respiratory virus we all had. His asthma plagued him the whole weekend, turning my Indoor Boy into a true hermit. So while Kory and Chunky went snow-shoeing, Monkey and I holed up in the room, watching movies and reading. What can I say; he is his mother’s child.

I think we learned from this little getaway that half of our family thinks a vacation is for down time and the other half thinks vacations are for adventure. Hopefully that knowledge will make future family vacations more enjoyable for everyone.

How about you? Would you rather spend your time away reading in a beach chair or snorkeling? Does your preferred relaxation method clash with your spouse or other family members?

Is your husband getting annoyingly cuter as he ages?

Nothing Says "I'm Sorry" Like . . .

So Chunky had a fight with his special friend. He came home Tuesday with a disjointed tale of lunchroom rejection. I gave him the “Sometimes Girls Need Space” line, which I’ve used on him more frequently this school year.

I expected it to blow over, but the situation escalated yesterday. His teacher even called me, disbelief in her voice, to say that Chunky’s friend accused him of calling her stupid. We agreed it didn’t sound at all like him but that we weren’t getting the full story.

I talked to Chunky who said it was all a misunderstanding, then I talked to his friend’s mom, who had a few more pieces to the puzzle, but was also perplexed. We agreed to talk to our feuding kiddos individually then allow them to work it out on the playground.

After some discussion, I suggested to Chunky that he draw his friend an “I’m sorry” picture. He liked the idea but chose bedtime to create his work of art.

I slumped into his room, aggravated that he was still drawing at his little table when I wanted to tuck him in bed and catch an episode of Big Bang Theory. He eagerly showed me his drawing, a comic book style page of stick figures and captions divided by a giant SORRY across the middle. Chunky pointed to the first strip.

“See, Mom, he has a gun.”

“What?!” I glowered at the stick thug.

“It’s ok.” Chunky pointed to the next frame. “See, he drops it and the other guy says, ‘Phew!’”

“GUNS ARE NOT APPROPRIATE FOR ‘I’M SORRY’ PICTURES!”

Chunky turned wide eyes on me. “But…he drops it.”

I dug my hands in my hair. Where were the rainbows and hearts necessary to placate an 8-year-old girl?

 
Chunky moved on to his second story strip. Two stick figures, one with long scribbled hair, stood beside a giant ice cream cone. The boy’s stick arm ended in a clumpy fist.

At least the ice cream was a good move. I pointed to one of the cones. “Why is there ice cream here?”

“That’s not ice cream. It’s a tree.” Chunky pointed to the next picture where a caption above the boxer-fisted boy read ‘Nope,’ and explained. “See, she’s thinking ‘You wouldn’t hit a girl, would you?’ and he says, ‘Nope,’ and he hits the tree instead.”

*face palm*

This had to be the most violent apology in the history of greeting card expression.

I decided to give up on the tree abuse (it was nearly 9:00 and no actual trees were harmed), but I couldn’t let the gun thing go. I don’t think I managed to fully communicate to my little boy why guns just don’t say “I’m sorry,” but finally I convinced him to replace the gun with a snake. Less violent. Still troubling. Especially considering Stick Boy dropped the snake in the next picture.

I thought bedtime was in sight, but Chunky started adding words to the giant SORRY in the middle of the page. I leaned closer and almost groaned aloud as he spelled out, “you misunderstood.”

I can only hope his little girl friend doesn’t yet have the emotional maturity to realize that Chunky didn’t actually apologize. In fact, as most women know, in the heat of an argument the words “I’m sorry you misunderstood” can sound a lot like “You’re stupid.”

But he didn’t mean it that way just like it never occurred to him that fight scenes don’t convey repentance and hope for a happy future.

Next time, I’m going to recommend he skip all personal communication and go straight for flowers and chocolate. I owe it to his future relationships.

Heights, Trains, and Water Goblets

I’ve decided that you really get to know a person when you’re on vacation. Since we don’t go on vacation in our family, we’re all practically strangers. A couple weeks ago we had a mini holiday. Kory took a record TWO days off from work, and on Thursday we drove to the Royal Gorge with the kids.

I admit to being afraid of heights but my cowardice blossomed when it was time to cross the bridge. We'd already ridden over it once on the trolley, which wasn't so bad. The trouble came when it was time to go back and the trolley didn’t arrive at the designated waiting area.

And didn’t arrive. And didn’t arrive.

We decided to walk, stepping out onto the boards and heading for the other side. I walked along confidently for a bit, and then my eyes darted to the side as the boys ran up to the railing to look over the edge. I figured out quickly that looking over the edge was not an option for me. I glanced behind me, debated going back to wait for the trolley. I decided against it and started walking faster. Then I made the mistake of looking down at the boards beneath my feet. There are gaps. They aren’t huge gaps, but a sliver of space is all you need to see the deathly drop below. Indiana Jones clips played in my head. I walked faster.

I’d established that I couldn’t look to the side, I couldn’t look down, and looking back didn't help, so I kept my focus in front. Oh my gosh, is that bridge long! I walked faster. In fact, I was now doing that ridiculous wiggle walk you often see paired with unwise spandex use. I wanted to run but held on to a smidgeon of my remaining dignity.

Meanwhile, Kory and the boys were falling farther and farther behind. Not that I looked back. But I occasionally heard a faint “Mom?” coming from behind. I got to the other side, dizzy and out-of-breath, and as I recovered I realized something about myself. When it comes to heights, I will leave my husband and children to the rickety boards and inevitable crocodiles and save myself. I’m not proud, but at least this is useful information to know should we ever find ourselves on another ludicrously high bridge.

The next highlight of our little trip was a train ride on the scenic Rio Grande railway. We spent Thursday night in the town of Alamosa in the San Luis Valley. I’m a little familiar with the valley because I lived in the area from around age 11 to 13 when I threatened to start my own business fermenting potato alcohol if we didn’t move someplace with a mall.

Anyway, we were all excited to ride the train. We stood in the open-air observation car as the train clickety-clacked over the valley toward the mountains. There’s not a whole lot to see on that first stretch of the trip, but Kory and the boys pointed out small, skittering animals, cars broken down in the middle of nowhere and strange dwellings that seemed part trailer, part barn, mostly dust.

But my husband caught me completely off-guard when he sighed and said, “Why can’t I have a junk yard?”

Astounded, I blathered the first thing that came to my mind. “Because you have a wife!”

“I know, I know,” he said, “And I like our nice house. But I want a junk yard, too. A place where I could build cool stuff.”

I had no idea my husband was so keen on scrap metal. The weird thing is, he’s anti lawn art. I mean REALLY anti lawn art. Not that junk is lawn art. But sometimes—a lot of the time—lawn art is junk. I digress.

Perhaps the most startling realization came in the dining car on the train. We hadn’t intended to eat on board, but our original plans fell through and we found ourselves on a restored New York dining car. Monkey, being 10 and male, has never been to a fancy restaurant. I bit my lip as he made his way down the narrow aisle between elegant but cramped tables. Monkey, being 10 and male, has had so many growth spurts in the last year that he literally can’t keep track of his own appendages. We settled in at a vacant table. Kory and I cringed at the overpriced, underwhelming menu, and Chunky complained of a stomach ache. But Monkey grinned and pointed to the intricately folded napkins and elaborate place settings. When the waitress filled our water goblets he picked his up, stuck his pinky out and said, “You’re supposed to drink it like this, right Mom?”

I muttered an incoherent response. Have I mentioned that Monkey is 10 and male? I’m not sure what possessed him to behave like such a gentleman at the table. I can assure you it’s not a regular occurrence despite my constant nagging. Maybe we need to eat gourmet dinners in moving vehicles more often.

So there you have it. I am a gutless coward. My husband is a closet redneck. And my ten-year-old is capable of table manners! Who knew?

So what did you discover this summer?

Of Moths and Wild Boys

Moths have invaded Colorado Springs. Most people find them annoying and a little creepy, but here in the Denmark household, they’re something special.

The moths remind me of the summer after Kory and I met. We must’ve had a dry winter in 1997 because the moths took over that spring. I have memory flashes of insect aerial displays at intersections, warm evenings with moth-dotted walls, and fluttery things swarming porch lights. So, as weird as it is, I find our current moth infestation nostalgic and even a little romantic.

Two little Nerf warriors in my house view the invasion with frenzied joy. Most evenings our bedtime routine is hijacked by Moth Wars. The boys pause somewhere in between changing for bed to take up arms and hunt the pests.

Despite the fact that it is extremely hard to hit a moth with a Nerf dart, if I were a tiny, winged creature, I’d be terrified of the shirtless giants and their loud, yellow weapons. But nobody ever said moths were intelligent, and so the battles rage.

My house is strewn with darts. I trip over a Nerf gun every night when I go to turn off their lava lamp. Then I’m startled by the flight of the silent enemy as I return to our bedroom.

But I don’t mind.

The next time the Miller moths invade they’ll bring with them memories of new love and wild little boys who refuse to go to bed. But who will they find? An overworked dad? Likely. A tired mom? Most definitely. Two teenage boys with plans, frustrations, too much homework, and too little sleep? Probably. I just hope that somewhere in those messy rooms, there’s still a Nerf gun or two ready for some action.

Random Utterances from the Bathroom

My youngest, Chunky, is chatty. He wakes up every morning stuffed-to-overflowing with words. He requires the entire day, and countless pairs of listening ears, to empty his language load.

It starts the moment he crawls into our bed in the morning, continues through breakfast, car rides, school, errands, homework, dinner, bedtime routine, reading time, prayers, and goodnight kisses.

And he doesn’t see any reason to stop talking just because he happens to be on the toilet.

This behavior is normal and even cute for toddlers. But--trust me on this--it gets more and more disconcerting the older they get.


If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard “MOM!” from behind the bathroom door. . . And it’s always in that urgent tone of voice that lets you know you’re either going to be running to grab more TP or explaining (again) why blue frosting yesterday equals green poop today.

But more than half the time when I arrive at the door and say, “Yes?” Chunky responds with, “I love you, Mommy.”

Kory and I call this phenomenon “Random Utterances from the Bathroom.” We try not to think too much about why it always occurs to Chunky that he loves his parents while he’s on the toilet. We just tell him we love him too and go on about our business while he finishes his.

So the other day I wasn’t surprised at all to be called to the boys’ bathroom while Chunky took his bath.

I peeked in, ready to hear the adventures of underwater soldiers or washcloth alien creatures. “Yes?”

Chunky looked at me, dripping and wide-eyed, his barely-there eyebrows raised high.

“Mom, I just farted, and I could smell it underwater. I didn’t even know that was possible! I bet it’s some kind of record!”

I was speechless for a moment, but taking my que from Chunky’s animated expression, I stumbled into the appropriate congratulations. I agreed that it probably was some kind of record. But who do you contact to get a momentous event like this recorded for posterity?

In the end, we were forced to quietly celebrate the earth-shattering event with only immediate family present. Then, like so many profound historic moments, it slipped away under the murky waters of time.

photo by Flikr contributor tawest64