Your Child is Crazy

 There have been many times as a parent when I have felt, I do not have a typical child. I have thought this of both my child, sometimes concurrently. I have also come to realize that in many ways, my children are typical - like their ability to fight like Tasmanian devils followed almost instantaneously by playing happily together. But the reason I write now - at almost 1 am, in a corner of a dark room, is the former. 

My child is diagnosed not-typical; autistic; neurodivergent; divergent from the typical neurology. This is a diagnosis that, for the most part, I accept and never hinders my love for them. At the same time, when society, or the people within it, make it clear that my child is not-typical and they are being judged for it, I feel this weight like a heavy yoke. My child does not fit their box, and as a parent, it can be hard (for me) to not feel responsible, not feel I've done wrong, for not forcing my child to fit. 

This incident - it doesn't really matter, to be honest. You don't need to know the exact details. We are going through a time of great upheaval, and so my child's autistic traits are more pronounced, more socially and personally impairing. They attempted to connect socially with three other children but did so in a non-normative way and the other children couldn't handle it. They retaliated and they cast my child out, rather violently (from my perspective as a parent, inclined of course to think my child is right and to want them to be loved for who they are). I stepped in when it became clear the incident would keep escalating, hoping to draw my child away from the others and into a more constructive activity. It didn't work, for by then my child was hurting and needing to find resolution - I imagine questions like "What did I do wrong?" and "Can I fix it?" and maybe even "How can I make them hurt like me?" ran through their heads, though probably not as coherently as I wrote it here. 

Either way, my child wouldn't stop so one of the others approached me. "Is that your child? Can you make them stop?" And as the other child walked away, they then turned back to me, "Your child is crazy, by the way." If they had been an adult, those would have been fighting words; those words would have been meant solely to hurt. Since they were from a child, I have to believe they weren't intended to hurt; but I also question, what purpose did they serve? There was no way for that to be constructive - either I know and agree or I disagree and will fight you on it. They were hurtful, more even than sticks and stones, but perhaps not in the way one might think. 

I never fit the boxes as a child. I remember one friend's mom telling me, "You're not a cookie-cutter kid." No, that I wasn't. It wasn't that I didn't want to be - I did want to fit. But I didn't know how to reshape my brain to think and act like the others. I was lucky and I found one person, my best friend from eight until fourteen, who somehow, somewhy, instinctively let me be me. We were inseparable, and because I had her, it was ok that I didn't fit, most of the time. It was ok for longer than it might otherwise have been, at least. Ultimately, she could not be the balm I needed.

See, I was a 'crazy' child. I had suicidal ideation by the time I was five, maybe even earlier. I had an eating disorder by eight. I was self-harming by ten, attempting suicide by twelve, and institutionalized by fourteen. I received just about every diagnosis I could, and none of them fit; none of them helped. My behavior increasingly spiraled out of control. I imagine my parents felt out of control, too, watching me get ever farther from them, from normal, from society. I don't know if they were ever told when I was young words like I was told today. I do know those words probably came later, or words like them, and that the yoke of responsibility was laid on their shoulders, too, by people with more authority than the child today. 

It wasn't that my parents did anything wrong, not in any conventional sense at least. They loved me, I knew that (at least in my right mind; I didn't always feel it, but that wasn't on them). But as I've come to understand neurodiversity and autism, through my children, more and more I've come to identify as autistic. The world was, and is, too much for me and I couldn't, can't, reshape who I am to fit the boxes. It was this feeling, this inability, that repeatedly broke me and led me to break myself. I came out the other side stronger, in some ways, and weaker, in others; more vulnerable but also more aware. I wouldn't be the parent I am, if I had allowed myself to fit the box, if I hadn't broken. Maybe I'd be a better parent - a not-broken one, or just broken in different ways.

Because of my own experience, I have always strived to not attempt to reshape my children; I want them to shape the boxes, to reshape society, not the other way around.  This is what I want, when I can think logically. I don't always succeed - there are days, like today, when the heavy weight of responsibility comes bearing down, wrapping me in a seductive blanket and leading me to subconsciously rail against my child's out-of-boxness. 

The Box

 The light from the setting sun streams in through the trees, almost blinding the boy as he walks. In both hands, carefully, he carries a wooden box carved with intricate etchings of demons and angels. He must not let go of this box for any reason, or many people will die. He must carry it all the way to the farmhouse before the sun sets; that is what Mrs. Roberts told him in her voice that sounds like the leaves he loves to crunch under his feet. He tries to keep her voice in his head, to keep him steady, because a fly has landed on his nose and will not budge. He has tried to wiggle his nose, to shake his head, even to wipe at it with his shoulder, all to no avail. He can feel the tiny, scratchy legs as the fly walks up and down his freckled nose. 

Mrs. Roberts told him he’d be followed, and he’d be tested; that demons would be waiting to trick him and steal the box. Demons are very tricky, this was the first thing he remembers learning, his mother telling him stories as he fell asleep. He narrows his eyes, attempting to catch sight of the fly and perhaps scare it off. He does catch sight, but the fly only stares back, it’s multifaceted eyes seeming to watch him. “Are you a demon?” he whispers. 

The fly does not answer, merely continues walking up and down, up and down, it’s legs scritch-scratching across his skin. He sighs and walks faster, faster, needing to beat the sun before all is lost. He turns past the line of trees, relief flooding his body as he sees the farmhouse, it’s wrap-around porch lit by candlelight. He picks up his pace, racing against the sun. He steps onto the porch right before the last ray disappears past the horizon, and instantly Mrs. Roberts is there, shushing him, handing him a cup of cocoa, her dry voice soothing him. “You did well, Jeremiah.” 

A Simple Door

Isabella did not hear their stifled giggles, nor the patter of their feet, as they snuck away. She was tired –her morning coffee was the first casualty of Eli’s meltdown this morning, followed shortly by the large bay window in the breakfast nook. She had managed to grab a sweater for over her house dress, which luckily obscured the stains from last night’s dinner, but she hadn’t had time to brush her hair or teeth.

Sam the salesman’s slick voice slithered into her brain. She hunched over the desk and tried to re-focus through misted eyes on the catalogue of windows. With a long-ago manicured nail, she pointed at one. “This one, then. That’s the cheapest you have in stock?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, “but that’s a single pane. Wouldn’t y’all want a double pane for only $150 more?”

She shook her head.  “No. That’s all I can afford.”

“We have no-interest payment plans, ma’am. We can fill out the application in minutes.”

She closed her eyes, seeing an image of her monthly ledger, full of red marks and scratched out entries. The knots in her back tightened, but she kept her voice level. “No. I don’t need another monthly payment.” She took a breath. “You said you have a man that can come out today?”

“Yes, it’s only an extra $50 for same-day installment.”

Only. That’s half a week’s worth of groceries. Jaw clenched, she gritted, “Then tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am, I have an appointment first thing in the morning.”

“Great.” She gathered her things and turned to her children. What she found was two mostly empty chairs, identical tablets resting on them with game music playing. “Shit!”

“Ma’am?” Sam gasped.

She ignored him, staring at the lack of children.

I should have known they would lose interest in their tablets. Why can’t I ever predict my children? I’ve been a mother for eight years now.

A door slammed. She grabbed their things, tablets shoved into her purse and headphones clutched in her fist, then hurried toward the sound.  Please don’t let there be another meltdown.

She wove her way through the rows and rows of doors of all different styles. She opened a stained cherry door, with a semi-circle window on top destined to one day be shattered by a wife, after she finds her husband in bed with another. No one. She turned the handle on an interior door, someday to be adorned with fairy and unicorn stickers by a curly-haired five-year-old princess. No one. She depressed the lever to a bright red door, slated for late-night rendezvous’ with boyfriends, the handle quietly turned by a teen wearing his varsity wrestling jacket. No one. 

She put a hand on the last door frame in the row. “Elijah? Macy?” Her voice echoed around the rafters, startling a pigeon.

She rounded the corner and found Macy pouting. Blonde tendrils escaped from her hasty ponytail, dirty cheeks – weren’t they clean when they got here? Isabella could tell something was wrong.  

“Ma!” Macy scolded, sagging against a double French door. “I can’t find Eli. He’s been hiding for HOURS.”

“You two were supposed to stay with me.” She scolded back.

Macy sighed. “Eli was getting antsy. You were too frustrated, Ma.”

Eli soaks up emotions like a sponge in water. I should have known. “You’re right, Mace. We’ll find him together.” They took each other’s’ hand, then together began walking the hallways of doors.

She called, trying for the voice of authority, “Eli? It’s time to go home.” Her voice boomeranged back to her ears, the store eerily empty for a Saturday morning.

They strode up one aisle and down the next, then another, and another. When they found themselves among the toilets, she turned them back around, to their starting point.

Macy flopped down onto the ground, arms and legs out like the beginnings of a snow-angel. “See? I told you, Ma. He’s disappeared.”

How many times is this now? Five? Six? Where he lost both me and Macy? Will we find him before we have to call the police?

Memories flashed: turning around to find both leashes hanging loose, two giggling toddlers hiding in the clothing rack at Walmart. Their slippery, sweaty palms sliding out of hers and their little feet running faster than hers. The cart that should have held two children suddenly empty. Finding Macy crying and hours later, finding Elijah on top of the freezer aisle, playing with the Christmas train display. 

As with all the times before, her stomach turned, the illogical possibilities brewing like a hurricane on the Atlantic.

She sat down next to Macy, running fingers through her knotted hair. “Where’d you last see him?”

Macy pointed to their right. “He went through that dark solid one. The super boring one with no windows or anything. Why would someone want something so boring, anyway?”

A half-smile perched on her lips. Macy has always cared about the aesthetics of things.

“I don’t know, Mace. Some people like simple.” She pushed herself up, then held one hand out to help Macy. “I know you tried with Eli. You always do. Let’s go for another round, k?”  

“I did, Ma. I was only seconds behind him, I swear. He disappeared so fast!”

҉ ҉ ҉

They stopped at the door. Macy was right. It was outstanding in its simplicity. Where did Eli go after this?

She turned the knob, praying to no god in particular that her son would be on the other side.

He was not.

Macy’s hand squeezed hers. “Ma? What’s next?”

“I guess now we go to the next level.”

They stepped over the fake threshold, then wove through the other doors back to the salesman’s desk.

Their shadows alerted him to their presence. She noted frustration in his eyes before he hid it with the typical Southern charm. 

“Hello again, ma’am. Did you change your mind about the same day delivery?”

She ran her hand through her hair. “No, no, that’s still a no.”

“Is something else wrong?”

“Yes, maybe. I mean, I can’t find my son. He’s—” She turned around to look at Macy. “Well, he’s about her height, eight years old. He was wearing overalls like her, and he has dark hair instead of blonde. He has a—” she drew a circle with her finger around her eye “—it’s called something like hemang—” She fluttered her hands. “I don’t remember. But he has a mark around his right eye, it’s dark red, it’s always been there. And he was wearing a Minecraft shirt, I think, or maybe it was Pokemon. And he’s scrawny, 70 pounds soaking wet, and—” She paused, bit her bottom lip.

“Yes?”

She pushed her hands into her forehead. “Well, he’s autistic. I don’t—” She caught a sob. “I don’t know what he’ll do if strangers confront him. He—He doesn’t know how to interact with people, he doesn’t talk a lot, he might hurt someone.”

His eyes showed no signs of understanding. “We can close the doors, make sure no one leaves without being checked.” He picked up the phone.

The music paused and the overhead speakers crackled. “I have a Code Adam in Doors and Windows. Can I get a manager please?”

She put one fist to her mouth, the other against the desk. Please don’t let it be as bad as Walmart two years ago.

The weight of Isabella’s repeated failure to keep her son safe whittled her to a jagged edge.

҉ ҉ ҉

Macy put a hand over her stomach to stifle the rumble. “Ma?”

Isabella stared straight ahead, unhearing, her body taut like a violin string, her thoughts caught in the meltdown from this morning. Elijah’s face, when he realized they were out of bacon. The coffee on the walls, her favorite mug in pieces on the linoleum floor, the #1 more a question than fact. What if--?

She shook her head. No. Wishes won’t make him come home. We have to keep going. Her legs did not follow the command her brain gave them.

“Mommy!” Macy shook her shoulder.

The childish moniker startled her, and Isabella returned to the present. “Yes?”

“I’m hungry. My legs hurt.” Macy’s stomach gurgled again, louder, in agreement. 

They had scoured the store, twice, but found no sign of Eli. Now, they were back at the beginning, their backs to the display of doorknobs and locks, facing the hallways of doors. The store had closed their doors to customers, so their only company was the police department. She could hear echoing voices calling out from all over the store.

Isabella took her hand. “No, Mace, I’m sorry, I didn’t plan for us to be here so long.” She checked her purse. “Here, I have two dollars. Let’s go see what the vending machine has.”

I should have known to bring food with us, even for the little trips. Why do I always forget?

“Can I get chocolate?”

Isabella’s shoulders dropped in resignation. “Yes, if they have some. Whatever you want.”

At the machine, a familiar officer came over and wrapped Isabella in a hug. “We have no news. How are you holding up?”

How do you think? Eli’s missing and I’m a wreck, like always, and I haven’t eaten since last night.

“Macy’s hungry. I—” She stepped out of Shelby’s embrace. “Thanks for coming, I’m sure you had other things to do. I wish he’d stop doing this.”

The officer shook her head. “We’ll find him. We always do, and we have a lot of people on this. Have you called your husband yet?”

Isabella snorted.  “You know Henry. I doubt he’ll deign to do anything.”

“You should. Just in case. That may be who he’s with.”

Isabella arched her eyebrows.

“Anything’s possible, Izzy. It’s worth a try.” She squeezed Isabella’s shoulder one more time. “I’m going to walk around again, but you give him a call, hear me?”

Isabella tried to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Macy jumped in delight. “Mama, they have the peanut M&Ms! Can I get those?”

“Sure, babe. Whatever you want.” Isabella chewed on a fingernail, only a few remaining chips of red left.  

҉ ҉ ҉

Back at the doorknobs display, she held her phone up to her ear, knuckles white. The other line rang three times before he answered. Always three.

“What?” He panted. Probably running on that damn treadmill of his.  

“I’m calling to let you know Eli went missing at the hardware store.”

“You lost our son again?” There was a shuffle and series of distortions, then a whirring sound. Probably putting the phone on the treadmill’s holder.

“He wandered off. I don’t know. He’s been gone for over two hours now. I thought you should know.”

His breathing accelerated. “Yeah, ok. What do you want me to do?”

“I just- I don’t know, figured you might want to know? In case you wanted to be here or something? Fuck, I mean, he’s your son!” She slammed her free hand on the display next to her.

Macy gasped behind her. Guilt permeated as she realized her daughter was hearing everything. She was supposed to be playing Plants Versus Zombies 2, not listening to me.

“Yeah, ok. Let me know when you find him.” Click.

She pinched her nose, trying to hold back the scream building inside.

“Mama?” Macy asked, her hand on Isabella’s shoulder, a jolt sparking through her body. “Are you getting one of your headaches?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I am. But I’ll be ok.” Will I?

“You brought your medicine?” The worry line creased on Macy’s forehead.

Isabella nodded. No, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Yes, I did, I’ll go get some water and take it. Want anything?”

“I’ll come with. I need to pee anyway.”

҉ ҉ ҉

Isabella and Macy had fallen asleep in a pile of each other against the wall of handles, their accoutrements strewn about them. If they had been awake, they could have seen the door that Eli had walked through before disappearing. They might have heard, if they listened closely, a clang of a sword.

A voice jostled her awake. “Ma’am?”

A man towered over her, his blonde hair and smooth, his chubby cheeks incongruous with his police officer’s uniform. She slipped her arm out from under Macy and gently laid her back down on her sweater.

Thank goodness she sleeps like a log.

She pulled herself up and picked her hair out of her mouth. “Yes?”

“There’s— Well, it’s been over eight hours.” He looked down at Macy, who was curled up, snoring, her Pikachu sweatshirt a makeshift pillow. “It’d be best if you go on home, wait there. He may be already there.”

Tears stung her eyes as she blinked them back. “Oh.” That’s it?  

“Our search teams will continue in the morning.”

Fear threatened to overwhelm her. “But—It’s cold out there. He didn’t have a jacket.”  

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t have the resources to search at night, especially with the expected storm coming.”

Her voice exploded out of her. “There’s a storm coming, and you’re more worried about yourselves than an under-dressed eight-year-old?!”

His cheeks flared bright. “I—”

She broke in, her hands trembling with the force of her anger. “No. You need to go back to your boss, tell him to keep looking. My son could die out there, and if he does, it will be your fau—”

Shelby appeared out of the dimness. She strode calmly over and put a cool hand on Isabella’s cheek, cutting her tirade short. “Iz, he’s new. Let him be. This came from higher up. And he’s right. There’s a hurricane brewing on the Atlantic, about an hour away it looks like, and we can’t risk our people in it. You should get home, with Macy, and lock yourselves in your storm shelter. It’s not safe, for anyone.”

“How did the weather people not see a hurricane coming? What about Eli?” she whispered.

Shelby’s radio emitted static, then a gruff voice. “Officer Jones, the storm is getting closer, it’s almost on land. You and Davey need to get out of there now.”

“Iz, we have to hope he’s found somewhere safe to be. And right now, you and Macy need to find somewhere. Go.” The two officers moved out so quickly Isabella wondered if they’d even been there at all.

So quick to leave me and Macy. So quick to forget about Eli.

The tears streamed down her face as a gale hit the side of the building and the ground shook.  The lights went out, then the generator kicked in. The lights were even dimmer, hazy almost, and an eerie feeling settled over her, like driving at 3 am when it’s foggy. 

She stared at his door from the end of the aisle.

Eli. Come back to me. We need to go home.

When nothing happened, she leaned down and started gathering her purse and the assortment of snacks the staff had bribed Macy with.

No point in letting food go to waste, especially if we’re going to be locked in the storm cellar.

A light flashed behind her, bright enough to illuminate all the corners around her, and thunder followed.

She jumped at the sound and turned. The door had opened. The light was coming from the other side, but there was nothing there. She felt drawn, found herself walking closer and closer as though pulled by a cord. When a few feet away, a bony, hairy leg emerged from the light, the foot bare and knobby.

A man’s foot.

She froze, hand to her mouth. As she watched, the leg extended and she saw threadbare fabric shorts, then a hand, a shoulder, the other leg, and finally the head. He turned to look straight at her and she almost fell.

He stood at least six feet tall. He wore tan coarsely woven shorts with a rope as a belt and no shirt. His shoulders were broad and strong, but his ribs showed through his bronzed skin. His dark hair was long and his lower face was covered in a bushy beard down to his chest. His eyes were wary. On his hip hung a sword in a scabbard. But most shocking, for Isabella, was the wine-colored birthmark circling his right eye, like a raccoon.

Like Eli.

The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped.

She stuttered. “Y-You have a sword.”  

He looked down. “There were beasts.” His voice grated.  

“In Home Depot?” She wrinkled her forehead.

“No. There.” He thumbed at the door.

Part of her wanted to run away from this strange man. No one else was around, except for her sleeping daughter, and the air felt heavy. Thinking she must still be asleep, she continued. “Where was there?”

He shrugged. “Paradise? Hell? Somewhere between?”

“Oh.”

He hesitantly sidled over. When he was within arm’s reach, he paused. “Have you been waiting long?”

She shook her head. “For what?”

“For me.”

“What? No.“ She laughed. “I’m waiting for my son. He’s eight, about this high—” she held her hand at about mid-chest level. “He has dark hair, like you, and a red—” She paused, her hands aching to wipe away the tear weaving across his birthmark.

“I know.” He croaked. “That was me.”

“No. What— How—" She coughed. “How would that even be possible? You’re at least in your twenties. You have a sword. My son didn’t have a sword. He’s only been missing for six hours, not over a decade!”

“The days—" He splayed his hands up. “They were all the same, eventually.”

She pushed the palm of her hand into her forehead, trying to make sense of this man in front of her, this man that came from nowhere and claimed to be her 8-year-old son.

“Look.” He said, holding something out to her.

She took it and held it up to her eyes, the dim light making it hard to read. “This is my son’s ID bracelet. How did you get this? Where’s my son?” Her voice rose with each word.

“I am.” He said, softly, gently.

“You can’t be.”

He shrugged. “Can’t, but am.”

She stared at his face, the same birthmark, the same colored eyes, the resemblance to Henry. She wanted to believe so that she could have her son back, even if he wasn’t the same. Something moved in the corner of her eye and she looked down.

His hands – he was tapping his index finger and thumb together in perfect intervals, the other fingers spread out in an OK sign.

Eli does that when he’s anxious.

They both startled at Macy’s voice.

“Hey, Eli. You got big.” She squinted through the sleep still crusted around her eyes.

“I did, Mace.” He whispered back.

“That’s cool.” She stumbled, then turned to Isabella. “Mommy, can we go home now?”

“Shit.” Isabella pounded her forehead. “I forgot. How could I forget? There’s a hurricane coming, we need to go!”

“Okay, Ma.” Macy walked to the man and touched his arm. “Can you carry me?”

I should carry her. She’s my daughter. But, she’s too big to carry.

“Yeah.”

I can’t let a strange man pick up my daughter. Can I? If I do it, I’ll hurt my back. But he’s a stranger, how can I trust him? Is he a stranger? Am I dreaming?

Before she could finish her internal dialog, he’d already hoisted Macy up into his arms where she nestled in.

“Go back to sleep.”

She was soon snoring again.

If Macy trusts him, can I? How does he know her name? Has he been stalking us?

She followed close behind them, out the doors and into the dark parking lot. The sky was clear, dotted with stars and a full moon. What happened to the hurricane?

The man navigated the darkness like a cat, around to the side of the building where Isabella’s car was hidden.  

Eli always remembers where I park, even when I don’t.

She stood back as she watched him gently buckle Macy into her booster, careful not to wake her.

Eli and Macy always had a strong relationship, a fierce one. Even in the midst of a meltdown like this morning, he somehow always keeps her out of it, keeps her safe.

The stress and emotions from the day finally caught up to her. She sobbed silently, glad of the dark parking lot, the moon hidden by clouds.

The door shut with a quiet thud and the man stood in front of her.

“Hug time?” He asked, quiet, somber.

That’s what I say to the twins when they’re upset. How would he know that?

“Um. No. I mean yes. I mean, I don’t know you.”

He hugged her anyway, his arms wrapped around her back, his face nestled into her neck.

Eli always gives amazing hugs.

Why Don't Food Bloggers Have Mobile-Friendly Websites?

I recently got into an online debate with a food blogger, that has me thinking. Most things have me thinking, but this one has me thinking more, in a way that I can't turn off.

Back story: my son wanted lemon cookies. I searched on my phone for a lemon butter cookie recipe, and found one that looked good. I went to the site, started scrolling, and instantly, there's a video pop-up/ad obscuring my view of the page. Even more odd, it was a video of another, completely different recipe from the same blogger, so it took me some time to figure out I wasn't watching her make the current recipe but a totally different cookie. Worse, it followed me - it was one of those scrolling ads, so no matter where I was on the page, it stayed at the top. I couldn't read the recipe. I moved the view to read it better, and the video moved too. Eventually, about five-ten minutes of trying, I figured out how to close the pop-up. But then, every time my phone refreshed, the pop-up was back. Considering how often my phone falls asleep and the number of times I have to re-check the recipe to verify what's next, have I already done x y and z and so on, making these cookies took me about three times as long as it would have without that ad. So by the time I was done making the cookies, I hated this website. The dilemma came from me liking her writing style and the recipe itself. What to do?

I commented. Thanks for the recipe, but the scrolling video made it so I couldn't read your recipe. Or something along those lines.

I didn't really expect her to respond, and at the same time, hoped that perhaps, she might see my comment and think about making her site mobile friendly, so that I could come back for more recipes.

She did, indeed, comment: I have to have the ads on my page so that I make money and still keep the content free for you. Seeing the ads is a small price to pay. 
Again, I'm not quoting completely verbatim (though the phrase "small price to pay" is a quote).

My frustration, the added time and my literal inability to read her recipe were, in her opinion, a small price to pay for her profit.

Yes, I know my access to a website is low on the list of horrible things that occur in this world. Like, so low it's not even worth noting. Right? So why does it bother me so much? Why has it kept me awake at night, trying to figure it out? Trying to get over her complete lack of care for another person, if it meant a potential decrease in her profit?

I finally realized, it's the concept of someone else suffering being a 'small price to pay" for another's profit.

Amplified to a grander scale, this same mentality is everywhere and it *is* a big deal. That someone can think another person's pain and frustration are worth it, if it means they get paid  It's placing a priority of money over people.

We can look at any number of companies that are asshats to their employees, so that they can make more profit. I won't name them, because we all know them and I don't want to shame any particular one. It's the mentality that I want to call out - that someone's profit is worth more than another's comfort, pain, frustration, or life.

Most commonplace chocolate companies get their chocolate from farms that hire children to do the dangerous work - this site here  shows children wielding machetes. The chocolate that my children eat has a high likelihood of having been farmed by other children who have perpetually empty stomachs (as a side-note, I am making a concerted effort to only purchase fair trade chocolate from reputable companies - see here for a small list. But that is not to say my kids don't get chocolate from other sources, that I haven't screened). The major chocolate companies make greater profit because they use cheap labor in the form of children. These children are not valued, but the profit is.

Sugar is bleached using sulfur dioxide, and acquiring that sulfur is done by dramatically underpaid workers ($5-$13 per day, per this site, or $10-$15 per day, per this one) who carry 90kg loads long distances with no protective gear, working around poisonous clouds that can eventually melt their teeth. In western/civilized countries, we pay people barely any money, for the privelege of having white sugar, as opposed to brown sugar. Profit and aesthetics are prioritized over the lives and well-being of others.

I could share more, but I think you get the picture. We live well, because other people don't. I know this, and at the same time, I don't always know how to stop or fix it. If I go to the grocery store, I can't check every single brand, every single source of fruit or vegetable. I have to trust that I'm not doing harm, when I buy strawberries or a chicken or a bag of flour. I try to shop sustainably and from transparent companies, but the cost is usually much higher, to the point that I wouldn't be able afford to feed my kids if I only bought food from known reputable sources.

I recently read an article (from 5 years ago, so perhaps it's changed?) that Trader Joe's - a name that I'd thought was reputable and trustworthy - actually is (was) not transparent and will source its food from companies and then rebrand the food as their own. Trader Joe's will buy chips from Stacy's, then re-bag them and label them as their own. What other companies are they buying from and re-branding? Are they buying chocolate from one of the companies in the above article, the ones using child labor, and then selling it as their own? The theme is repeated - they buy this food at a low cost, then sell it higher, making a profit and not being transparent about where it came from. The profit matters more than honesty, more than the consumer knowing where their food came from.

The prevalent use of video ads on food bloggers' websites - and it does seem primarily to be food bloggers, at least in my experience - is obviously drastically different from child labor and dangerous, underpaid labor. But it is a systemic undercurrent through our culture, that profit is primary over the well being of others.

My husband put forth, while we watched a YouTube video of a Japanese way to work with bamboo, that in the US, we do not have a history of craftsmen, we are founded on the concept of industrialization. Always making things more efficiently, finding ways to get more profit, rather than making things well. In the above mentioned video, there was a concept repeated several times (starting around 16 minutes in), of creating the object with the user in mind. The function of the object and how well it worked was a priority for the craftswoman, and so she took great care in each part of the process. It was beautiful to watch her. I am sure her work was expensive, as it took a lot of time. Or I hope it was, that she was properly compensated. And I'm sure that if we were to watch the American way of making a similar object, it would be done with a machine, in a mass assembly line with very little care and even less beauty. Efficiency would be valued, over the beauty, because efficiency would yield greater profit.

Bread Girl

I bought a man with bread money because I liked the look of his hands. He married me because he liked the taste of my dough.

I went to the charity ball to deliver an order - tarte tropézienne, eclairs, canele. Unlike previously, my contact was not in the kitchen.

I searched amongst the guests, out of place in my dough-crusted apron, my hair pulled back in a messy bun, flats on my feet. Jewel-adorned women and diamond chandeliers refracted light; I found her by the cloying stench of perfume.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I sighed. “Hello, Karen. The pastries are in the kitchen. If you don’t mind paying me now, I’ll be on my way.”

But then I saw him.

He stood on the stage, holding a number 6, unremarkable in all ways. Except his hands. They called to me, pulling me closer. I wanted to trace the lines on his palms, caress his knuckles, feel his fingers on my bare stomach, inching lower and lower until-.

“Like what you see?” his voice, melodic, slipped into my fantasy.

“Is this the Graecostadium?”

He laughed. “Yes? It’s a fundraiser for the hospital.” He gestured to the others near him, then at the sign above his head. ‘Win Dinner with a Firefighter.’

Karen shoved her way between us, towering over me. “Excuse me, bread girl. What are you still doing here?” 

“Bidding.” I folded my arms and glared.

She huffed and walked away.

Turns out, my paycheck was exactly enough to win the bid.

In the taxi after dinner, he put those hands on my hips, triggering a cascade of shivers up and down my body. “Am I worth the price?” he whispered, then kissed me gently.

I put my hand on the window to block Karen’s view and kissed him back.

Barren Lands, Installment One

Melika walks down the empty street, weary from the long ride and not enough sleep on the inn’s hard bed. Her skirts rustle around her in a wide arc; an annoyance, but they’re good for hiding things. Her cap sits tight to her head: one of those with goggle attachments, which she, deployed over her eyes while outside. The transparent glass works to shield her sight from dust blowing everywhere. Despite the tightness of the cap, her hair still escapes. Just an hour ago, she had managed to wind the long mass onto her head in a tight braid. Now a nuisance, wispy tendrils of fire leak out. She shivers, glad to be out in the sun, but she wills herself not to turn her head towards its warmth, because you never know who might be peering out from the darkened windows. She steps under the shade of the eave, taking off her goggles so she can see in the dimmer light of the bar, about to push open the swinging doors with her shoulder, when two men come barrelling out, one on top of the other, curses spitting out like desert rats.
“Gods be damned, Kace, not again,” she whispers, her voice scratchy from disuse. She watches them for a minute, contemplating what to do; the other man is large, large enough that she doesn’t want to get involved. But also large enough that he might give Kace some trouble, and they really don’t need more lawmen after them. She sighs, walks toward them.
“Alright, boys, break it up,” she says, staying about ten feet away, using a hint of command. Hopefully not enough that anyone will pick up on it, but enough that they both obey her. They pause and turn their black-and-blue faces to her.
“Hey, Little Sis,” Kace calls. “We’re just playin’.”
“Don’t sound like play, Big Bro, and those bruises ‘round your eyes are gonna smart tomorrow,” she calls back, in the same playful jeer, her arms across her chest. He knows she doesn’t like being called ‘Little Sis’ but at least he remembered not to use her real name. She cocks her hip, just enough to be seductive, and then nods to the big man. “Who’s your friend, then?”
He shoots up, wipes his hands off on his already dusty pants, shrugs, and then looks sheepishly at her. “Hi, there, Miss, it was just a friendly brawl, that’s all. Didn’t mean to get your brother in no trouble.”
“Oh, well, that’s alright, then.” She puts her hand on her hip; the rough fabric of her petticoats help to center her, but she also knows the effect on men. “Well, I’m damn parched being out in this hot sun. You can buy me a beer if you want.”
“Oh, yes, please, Miss, I’d be much obliged if you’d let me.” He rushes over to hold open the door, while she turns her head slightly to glare at Kace. Her eyes do all the talking. Let’s make this quick. He nods, barely, so she knows he understood.


At the bar, she finds a beer and the large man waiting for her, a big smile plastered on his face. The bartender stands at the opposite end, filling up two steins for a couple of old men. All three of them watch her. She stifles her groan, not wanting to play this game again. Grandma May would have told her a pretty face can deflect a fight, though, so she curls her lips up at the corners and straddles the bar stool. She sips slowly, having to consciously not use her tongue to drink. The slow sips have the added benefit of holding men’s attention better, anyway.
“So, your brother said you all crossed the barren lands?” The man squints his eyes in question, a mixture of fear and disbelief. She notices the bartender creep closer and the bar is unusually quiet.
Gods be damned, Kace, can’t keep his blasted mouth shut. No matter, she’ll use that disbelief, then.
“Oh, gosh,” she says, waving her hand and using a hint of persuasion. The bartender has moved closer, not even trying to pretend like he’s not listening. “He’s a right damn show-off. We barely skipped over a corner. We walked max five minutes on the barren lands.”
He sighs. “Oh, good. I thought… Well, no matter what I thought, I’m just glad we don’t need to call in for reinforcements. He didn’t mention he had such a pretty sister, that seems like a far better thing to brag about.”
“Oh, I’m nothing worth bragging about…” She smiles up at him through her lashes. “You, though… Well, not many men can take down my brother like that.”
The bartender walks over, fills both their steins. It’s good beer, for a small town on the edge of the barren lands. Her metabolism works quickly, so she lets herself enjoy the taste.
He puffs up his chest. “Well, he’d mentioned the barren lands, you know, seemed so positive that y’all had spent days walking through it. I needed to protect my town, you know.”
More like years. Memories of growing up flicker behind her eyes. She hopes it doesn’t reflect. “Oh, I know, I know. And I really admire your bravery, if he had been telling the truth… No hard feelings, by the way, my brother… Well, he likes people to think he’s a bigger man than he is, so he brags about everything.”
“What about you? I didn’t get your name, yet.”
Gods damn, she hates lying. One would think it’d get easier and it never has. “Jersey,” she says, remembering a word Grandma May had used once, talking about the before times. One day she and Kace will plan better; they never can use the same name more than once, seeing as they’re always discovered. Maybe now will be different.
“Jersey? Sounds familiar.”
She coughs. “It’s a family name.” She tries her best at looking embarrassed. “I always hated it, but can’t turn away from family, right? What about you, what can I call you?”
“Oh, I’m Jeremiah, the town sheriff. If you need anything I’m your guy.”
Of course he’s the sheriff. Only Kace would pick a fight with the one man we don’t need the attention of. “Wow, the sheriff? Do you go out and fight the… you know… the barren demons?” She whispers the last phrase, her voice timid; but she thinks of Fluffy. If only these people knew what was really out there.
He finishes another beer. “Not yet. I just took the job a few days ago, after the last sheriff…” He looks around, then leans in conspiratorially. “Well, he didn’t come back one night. We haven’t seen him for months.”
Kace saunters in and walks over, towering above them. He’s tall, she’s short, and it certainly doesn’t help that she’s sitting down. “Hey, Mel, we’re all good.” His voice is serious, and she knows that means they need to leave sap.
“Mel?” The sheriff scrunches his face. She hopes the news hasn’t traveled this far already, so he won’t make the connection, or that their pictures aren’t clear enough to make an id.
She shrugs. “Childhood nickname. Silly, really, but a long story. Maybe I can tell you sometime, over another beer?” She raises her eyebrows, eyes wide, lips parted slightly.
“Yeah, maybe…” He looks thoughtful and turns to Kace. “What’d you say your name was?”
An even worse liar than she is, Kace stands there, mouth open, eyes staring. “Uh…. Job?” He says, finally, his voice lilting at the end in question.
“Your name’s Job? You sure ‘bout that?”
“Yup!” He beams, and Melika wishes they were back out in the barren lands, fearing what’s coming. Perhaps they can leave quickly enough, before anyone else gets hurt.
She stands, squeezing his arm and saying to Jeremiah, “It was nice talking with you, Sheriff, but we have a prior appointment to make. I hope we can do this again sometime.” She knows that’s unlikely; even if this day doesn’t end in blood, they can’t stay here any longer.
The sheriff also stands. “I think maybe we should step down to my office and chat some more.” His voice is friendly, but the hand creeping to his gun is not.
Melika shakes her head. “No, I think it’d be better if you rest for now.” On the word ‘rest,’ she looks pointedly at Kace.
He picks up on the cue. She hears the click in the back of his throat and can see the glands at the base of his jaw flicker, opening to let out the sleeping gas his body concocts; she can’t smell the gas coming out, but since she’s immune she can only hope he gets the right combo this time. She shudders remembering the time the gas didn’t wear off for two days, by which time three people had died from dehydration. On the opposite end, there’d been the time that it had only lasted for five minutes, not long enough for them to leave town. The death count that time had been even higher, because then she’d had to deal with it, good intentions useless.
The gas releases quickly, dispersing concentrically from them, so the sheriff is hit first. Realization dawns in his eyes, and he puts up a hand to his nose.
It won’t help, she thinks, but doesn’t stay to watch. She grabs Kace and together they flee, a little burst of speed to help them. She can’t sustain it for long, but it’ll get them out of range of the sheriff’s gun.
“Where are the horses?” She shouts as they burst through the bar doors, the speed of the wind rushing by them making it hard to hear.
“The post out of town.” He shouts back.
“Everything loaded?” She hopes, turning off the speed when they hit the sunlight.
He scoffs. “Course.”
She nods, breathes out deeply. Maybe they’ll make it, this time. “Let’s go, then. But don’t draw attention.” She tilts her head in the direction of the bar. “You got the combo right this time?”
“I think so. Should be down for only an hour, long enough for us to get away but not long enough to do any harm.”
She twines her fingers through his, the feel of his hand comforting, a reminder of being children, running through the daisies together. “Thank you, Kace.” She unconsciously relaxes her shoulders when they reach the horses. “Did you get enough supplies to last us?”
“Should have. Two months if we’re frugal, one month if we’re not.”
“That’ll do.” She strokes her horse, Peri, then sets up the sun shade, mounting it on Peri’s shoulders so it will cover both her and the horse. She is about to pull herself up, when an impending sense of danger washes over her. She knows this feeling. “Cover.” She says. With lizard reflexes, Kace leaps behind a large rock, crouching, watching her as she turns to face what’s coming.
“You won’t get away this time.” A man shouts from the shadows.
“Shit.” She whispers, the voice familiar but it can’t be. She pulls her goggles back on, activating the low light sensors. It is. “Hi again, Sheriff. Feeling rested?”
He shoots. The bullet would have hit her if she hadn’t leapt onto the post seconds prior. “We know about that trick of yours, after the last time. You won’t be able to pull that one again.”
She shakes her head, the last of her red hair flying out of the attempted braid. Their one way of doing a non-lethal take-down, and now that’s a bust. Probably some kind of implant, they’ve been getting better with that. “We don’t want to hurt no one, Sheriff.” She indicates their saddlebags. “We needed food.”
“What about Talpaca? And Tenoch? Sissery, Teka, and all the others?”
She shakes her head. She spits out, through clenched teeth, “Accidents.” She leaps to avoid another shot, landing on the second story of the building he hides under. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone. We didn’t start the fights.”
“But you sure do finish them.” They’re at an impasse, now, with her above him and he still in the shadows. He’d have to emerge from the shadows to get line of sight on her.
“This doesn’t have to end in blood, Sheriff.” She says, creeping to the edge of the roof so she doesn’t have to shout.
“It won’t be my blood. Reinforcements are on the way.”
Feeling exposed on the roof, she darts to a window. Her goggles enhance her vision, letting her see through the darkened glass. No one. It’s unlocked, and she climbs inside. She crouches, hands hanging down between her legs, then wills her skin to change. Her light brown skin becomes mottled, gray, to match the walls and furniture; her carmine hair shifts to almost black. She lacks control over her clothes, but that’s why she wears dull colors. She uses the snaps on her skirt to convert them to pants. Once camouflaged, she moves into the next room. No one. Stairs are on her left. She peers over the balcony and doesn’t sense anyone; she leaps down to save time then quickly walks to the side of the house Jeremiah was on. It’s only been ten seconds since he last spoke.
“It doesn’t have to be anyone’s blood.” She says when she senses him.
He startles. “How…?”
“It doesn’t matter. My brother and I just want to go home. Please.”
“I can’t. I’m the law. I need to uphold it.”
“What have we done? We paid for our food and supplies with money. We paid for our room at the inn. What crime have we committed?” She activates persuasion. It can’t change a person’s mind, but if they’re already open to something it can encourage them.
“You’ve killed people. You have to pay for that.”
“Only in self defense.” That’s enough; too much will do the reverse. “Please let us go home. There are children waiting for the food we have.”
“Children?” He hesitates. “Lizardfolk?”
“Yes. Please.”
He’s about to let her, she knows it, but then she hears Kace. “Melika!” His voice is wrong. Scared. He’s in trouble.
She bursts out of the house, back to his side. Or to where he was when she last saw him. He’s being dragged, now, four men, all wearing stars. Must be the reinforcements.
Kace screams as they wrench his arm. She runs, leaping, her talons already extending out of her forearms and heels, testosterone flooding her body, and she knows there will be no stopping her until it’s run its course. The first man’s neck is slit before he sees her coming. The second reaches for his gun and she rips his arm off like it was made of paper. The third one has his gun out, finger on the trigger, so she pounces on him and twists his arm to shoot the fourth in the head. Finally, she stabs the third man in the eye with her right talon. As he falls, she falls too. Kace catches her.
“I’ve got you, Mel.”
“The sheriff…” She whispers, not sure what he’ll do now that she’s killed again. Knowing there’s nothing else for her to do, as she’s exhausted all her resources. She draws her talons back in, the blood sliding off. It drips onto the already saturated ground. More lives taken.
“He’s not here. Let’s go.”
“What have I done, Kace?”
“You saved me. That’s all.” He points at the post they brought. The ropes. The hammer and nails. She chokes on the sob, remembering, and buries her face in Kace’s chest. His arms are strong around her, like the first time they met.

Through the Fire

My husband insisted I write tonight. He tells me I need it. He's probably right, I keep melting down and losing patience. Surprisingly with my daughter more than my son; lately she has been 'all mommy, all the time.' If I'm around, I have to do everything for her. She will not accept a towel from my husband, she will not let him get her food, she will not let him help her get dressed. It is increasingly hard for me to manage 'demands.' People demanding things. Even if it's not seeming to be a demand, lately just by being around me, I feel you wanting things from me. Wanting me to be a certain way, do a certain thing, sit in a particular spot (ok, that one's my daughter, and she definitely vocalizes that demand, as well as the demand to nurse, to play with her, etc etc etc). I honestly would love a veg out day, where we watch stuff or play games or whatever and eat whatever we want but do all this with a minimum of screaming and fighting... but neither of my children seem capable of doing that. With the death of D'Argo, with the results of a particular diagnosis, with, just, everything, I am feeling this overwhelming pressure bearing down on my head and heart.

Anyway. That opening paragraph is just to say, I have no idea what to write, but obviously need to. I keep having this image of fire in my head. My children are the fire, I think, burning away... Something of me. I hope they're burning away the bad, the parts of me that are not respectful, the parts of me that aren't the parts I want. I don't know. It definitely feels right now like I'm not the parent I want to be, or the wife I feel I should be, or the pet owner I wish I could be, or a friend at all to anyone. I constantly second guess myself, constantly wonder what other people think of me, whether they think I'm as big of a mess as I feel and if that's why they never reach out. So maybe it's just that I want to be scorched, to be cleansed, so that I can feel 'good enough.' Good enough for who, or for what, I don't know. In self-help mentalities, it'd be good enough for myself. I should be the one that I am trying to please. But there's that damn word, should. All these fucking should's in life are... toxic. You should eat healthy, you should exercise, you should get enough sleep, you should have sex regularly, you should should should should just fuck it all.

So, yeah, you can obviously see the mood I'm in. I can't keep to a budget, and I feel so inadequate that I can't give my children all the things they want, all the food they love, that I can't afford another cat after losing one that I couldn't afford to pay for the surgery to fix his tiny urethra. I can't keep up with laundry and dishes and cleaning and still be a mother - though aren't all those partnered with being a mother? how can one be a mother and not be able to keep up with the laundry and the dishes and the cleaning? I can't keep my patience with my daughter screaming in agony about EVERYTHING, and I do literally mean everything, she screamed because the only towel available to hold her red otter pop was white, not red. And yes, she needs a towel to hold her otter pop in, because it's too cold for her hand otherwise. Not that it's a bad thing to be opinionated or to have strong emotions. It is, for me, however, always been hard for me to be around strong emotions. It overwhelms me, overloads me. My mother was always strongly emotional, and I couldn't handle it then, and now both of my children are strongly emotional and it is hard for me to handle now. Though, to be honest, I'm also strongly emotional, so I suppose it just runs in the family. I know, for me, I feel everyone's emotions so strongly it's like... It's like I'm immersed in their agony, or their joy, or whatever. With joy, it's not that bad, joy is generally a great feeling to be immersed in. But the agony... The constant, never-ending agony that is life for my 3-year old is wearing me down to a raw, messy blob. So, obviously, that's why I'm here, writing it for all the world to see. Makes perfect sense.

I have always had this desire to write something that resonates with people so much it becomes... well, I guess, a classic. And for much of that, when my emotions get strong, I bare my soul for the world to read. It's never been hard for me, to bare my soul. Once I bare it, then I have all kinds of doubt and anxiety and fear, but the actual act is easy for me. Almost necessary. I will probably let this blog post sit on my website, unmentioned, quiet, half hoping no one reads it and half hoping everyone does. I think it may partially be because I can't talk about my emotions, but I can write them. So when I feel strongly about something, I want to write it, and since I feel strongly, I want everyone to read it.

Autism has been a current subject of interest (someone in my family has been recently diagnosed. I choose not to share who, because, well, that's their story to share, not mine, but it is not out of any shame over the diagnosis). Anyway, there's a Facebook group I've been frequenting that's composed of autistic people and people who care for autistic people, and the latter come to get advice from the former, and the former come to vent or get advice on how to handle things or just get support. It's actually super awesome, for the most part (and the part that's not, well, nothing is perfect). One of the things I see come up a lot is anger at 'autism parents,' especially 'autism moms,' who appear to be characterized by a fair amount of anger towards autism as well as frustration with their child and a general 'woe is me' for having to live with/care for someone who is autistic. This type of parent is a trigger for the autistic people in the group, and it does seem rightfully so in a lot of ways, primarily because the stereotypical 'autism mom' isn't actually autistic herself, she tends to take ownership of her child's autism, she tends to speak for her child, she tends to harbor ill will towards anyone who is autistic but doesn't agree with her about what's best for autistic people. I saw one post recently angry at autism moms who lament that they don't get to do all the things they wanted to with their child. I see the anger - but look at all that you can do! Look at who your child is, not who you wanted her to be! But I also see the mom's perspective, because parenting has not been anything like what I thought it would be.

I can only speak to my own children. They are wonderful, and I adore them, and they are exhausting (see = the constant agony noted above), and this whole parenting thing has been a constant cycle of reevaluating what I want, what I believe, what I feel, and how to be. And it is so incredibly hard to shift an entire worldview, an entire way of being, an entire super-structure of what you enjoy doing. An example - sitting down in the evening and watching a movie with my family is, to me, an ideal picture of relaxation. For my children, it is a picture of stress and overstimulation and will lead to running, jumping, screeching, hitting, etc. What I envision is never what happens, and it has taken us a long time to figure that out, to adjust to that, to accept that TVs are dangerous, dangerous devices (and somehow we have three of them, all boxed up in the garage). Tablets and phones are fine, but there's something about the large screen, especially in the evening, that always leads to a meltdown. It's a simple thing, and what we get instead is also nice, but it has taken a shift in my thinking and a shift in my instinctive desires and still, after a long day out and about, I want to come home and watch a movie on the TV. But, through the fire, right? My children have burnt the TV watching out of me, at least for now (there has been talk of bringing one inside the house again. It's hard to say if this will happen). In a similar vein, movies at the movie theater are a fond memory for me. With how hard the TV is, I can only imagine a giant screen would be even worse - but still, I remember going with friends, with family, on dates, and it's something that I want to share with my child. I want to recreate the sense of  bonding I got when I went, and even though I *know* that I won't get the bonding in that place or in the way I want it, I still crave it sometimes. I know, now, that going out hunting for bugs and lizards and other critters is better bonding. I *know* that playing a game is better bonding. I know all this, and it doesn't change my memories and what I envisioned parenting would be.

I am constantly finding new ways that I unknowingly try to control my children, and having to figure out how to stop doing it, because any level of control leads to a meltdown. I am constantly finding new ways to speak, to be, and still, I fail daily (right now, as mentioned, my own meltdowns are coming when too many people want things from me and they are too vocal about their needs). I wish I could be constantly patient, constantly loving, constantly kind. I haven't been, and every unkindness eats at me. I feel sick, that I couldn't hug my daughter when she desperately needed one, because I was too overwhelmed with the needs - my daughter's, to be comforted when sick; my own, to have some alone time; my husband's, to focus on my son; my son's, to play a particular game. Everyone had their needs, and most of them were not congruent with mine, and if I'd accepted that, I wouldn't have melted down, my daughter wouldn't have been upset, my husband wouldn't have had to stop playing with my son. It was my failure to accept things as they were that led to a stressful evening, my desire for rejuvenation that led to a complete lack of rest. So often, I find this to be the case - If I could just accept that this is what things are, then things would be easier. I wouldn't have to swim against the current. But I get so set on what I want - what's up river - that I don't see what's down river, what's with the current.