*Pinned to the front page through the month of August*
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Imagine a kid who not only isn’t in any parenting book or magazine, but has been described as “the most complex child I’ve ever seen” by countless teachers, administrators, doctors, therapists, counselors, and specialists, and you get an idea of what it’s like raising a gifted child. SENG gives parents the resources and skills they need to raise the kids who confuse the experts.

Pepsi is having a grant contest this month, and SENG is up for a $250,000 award. I can’t get the widget to load on my blog for love or money (my sidebars are all janky and I can’t fix them), so this is the next best thing:

PLEASE VOTE FOR SENG IN THE PEPSI REFRESH PROJECT!!!

The grant money will be used for scholarships to train parent leaders, who will then go on to lead groups of gifted parents. Parents then will be able to better support and advocate for their kids. Full disclosure, I want to take the facilitator training, and while this grant money could provide me a scholarship for the training, I will become a parent facilitator regardless.

In the four and a half years I have written this blog, I have never trolled for votes/contest entries/money. It’s been all entertainment, all the time. This is different. This grant could truly change lives in a population the general public believes “has it all.” Gifted kids aren’t better than others, not by a long shot. They’re just wired differently and often suffer for that different wiring. I am asking, begging actually, that you take the time to click through and vote for SENG. You may vote every day through August 31. Please encourage your friends and families to vote. Spread the word.

Gifted kids need our help. They suffer in plain view, and rarely get the help they need because of misconceptions of giftedness.

Please vote.

Please.

• My husband has had an iPhone for the last couple of months and has yet to set up his voice mail. This isn’t usually a problem until I try to reach him.
• Perfectly ripe organic Colorado peaches with organic heavy cream is one of life’s greatest joys. It makes my pleasure center jump up and run around like a squirrel on crack. Sadly this may be why I’m muffin-topping right on out of my jorts.
• I’m researching website design and hosting for a non-profit. Are all websites this expensive to design and set up or am I living in a dream world? At least in my dream world I can eat all the peaches and cream I like and still wear skinny jeans.
• Our electric bill hit a level I thought only possible if I was butchering beef on the side. And before anyone suggests various energy saving remedies, know I do them all. Just been hotter’n balls lately.
• My sons are fighting over Skype. A was video calling his bff, J is begging to video my mom, and A keeps “calling” me. From the next room. Sigh…got them hooked up with it, and now they’re fighting over who gets to talk to Gram. Srsly?
• If A doesn’t stop with the whole “seriously?” line I may string him up with dental floss. Seriously.
• I decided to just “let it all go” today. Be the eye in the center of the storm. Feels good. However, the house is trashed, the laundry needs to be rebooted, rhubarb marmalade needs to be processed, and the to-do list is mocking me. Tomorrow may be ugly.
• The Emmys and a Broncos pre-season game are on at the same time. Whatever shall we do?

Everyone should have such problems.

Seriously.

Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Botulism? Not me!

Anymore.

For years upon years upon an unreal number of years I have wanted to learn to can fruits and veggies. Something deep and dark in my psyche would awaken in late summer and grumble through the fall, angered that I wasn’t putting up food for the long winter months ahead. I have no idea where this came from, my mom doesn’t can, my grandmas didn’t can…basically, I come from a long line of “I have to cook?” women (I include myself in this; I don’t like to cook if I’m hungry). Don’t get me wrong (mom, looking at you here!), my mom can cook and cook well. But it was never a big thing and I’m certain she has never preserved a thing in her life other than freezing spaghetti sauce. She used to freeze sauce and overnight it to me in college. Sniff…that’s love. Her mom was known for three foods: bologna salad, baked rigatoni, and corned beef and cabbage. When we’d visit my dad’s mom we’d eat BLTs and freezer pickles. Not much in the way of a food heritage. So I have no idea where I picked up the notion of canning, keeping a full backup freezer, drying foods, and having a basement pantry.

We make it through snowstorms very well, thank you.

This summer two friends have taken turns teaching me how to can. One taught me hot water canning and the other taught me pressure canning. And I wonder now what I was so afraid of! I never learned because I was afraid I’d poison my family and waste the food. But it is a piece of cake. Peach cake. Because I have a crapton of peaches.

Last night I put up four pints of peach preserves. Today my friend and I put up seven quarts of peaches in apple juice and four pints of peach chutney. I also made two quarts of peach/apple nectar. Last week I put up several pints of strawberry/rhubarb fruit spread, four pints of peach “honey,” and four pints of rhubarb marmalade (this recipe was the find of my life! Killer marmalade and I’m making more this weekend. God knows Roger the Rhubarb Plant Hell-Bent on World Domination is large enough for more pints).

And I’m just getting started. I have more fruit coming from our CSA, and the boys are clamoring to pick apples this fall. Apple butter and applesauce and peach butter and pear butter and more rhubarb and and and…

I can shut up now. I have put up.

As I obviously have an alter for the Goddess of All Obviousness, permit me to also acknowledge the following:

1. Water is wet.
2. Sky is blue.
3. Sun is bright.

Deep breath…Ommmm…erm…Duhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

I decided a few months ago to refer my sons as complex, not challenging. While both are true, complex has far fewer negative connotations. They are both complex 3000 piece puzzles with the same repeating pebble image on both sides with one side’s image turned a quarter turn. You have 18 years. Good luck. Care for a drink?

These two boys of mine are hard. A came out of the womb as Advanced Parenting (prerequisite: pregnancy), J as remedial Advanced Parenting (prerequisite: screwing up Advanced Parenting the first time). I have had so many moments of despair, when I have cried to the heavens, wondering why I thought having children was a good idea. Why I thought being a stay at home mom was a good idea. Why I thought getting married was a good idea. I could have been living in Washington, D.C. playing in a military band. The road(s) not taken taunt me in my darkest moments.

And then the Goddess of All Obviousness takes her rolled up Tome of All Things Obvious (it’s thick, tiny print, a gazillion see-through pages, gilded edges) and smacks me across the nose with it. Sometimes I hear her yell “Bad Jen!,” and I cower in a corner. Obviously I was meant to get married, be a stay at home mom and have these complex boys, or I would be living in Washington, D.C., playing in a military band. Obviously the road not taken wasn’t taken for a reason.

Knowing all this still doesn’t make raising these complex boys any easier. Nine years after our simple life blew up in a blaze of sleepless nights welcoming A to our lives, and six years after adding fuel to the fire bringing home J, we still find ourselves weighing the smallest decision with the intensity of say, peace in the Middle East. What other families do without thinking and with great joy is great cause for discussion, conversation, and dialogue. A weekend ski trip? We have to weigh the length of the drive, the temperature up there, the novelty of skiing, the probable overstimulation (through crowds, temperature, lack of control on skis), and the likely probable inevitable desire to leave once we make it up there vs. our ability to cope with all that. Our town is having a campout in the new community park in a few weeks. No.Way. Sleeping in a tent, crowds, novel situation, change in routine vs. not allowed to have alcohol in a public park…ain’t gonna happen. I think that’s what makes summer so difficult for me. Tom is working all day, the boys start to get on each others nerves, and taking them on an outing solo overwhelms me to the point of throwing them on the Legos and praying for quiet. Add to that A’s new habit of seeing something interesting and darting off, and you can see why I eye the duct tape on an hourly basis.

My “stay ahead of the boys” treadmill is starting to stick and sputter. Coping ability is wearing thin. So I hope, dear Goddess of All Obviousness, that you can put in a good word for me to Dude of Advanced Parenting Skills. Because obviously, I need some help here. These complex kids are hard.

Obviously.

For the last two weeks, I have been in maintenance mode. Anything and everything that could be put off until August 18th was. Emails? Unless urgent, postponed. Phone calls the same. Blogging fuggedaboutit. Books, errands, miscellaneous B.S. that needs to be done so the world keeps spinning…all ignored.

It’s amazing how relaxing life can be when you just tell everything to piss off until a future date.

That date is today.

And what is today, you may ask?

Today, August 18th 2010, is the day my sons return to the hallowed halls of learning. Ahhh….

Back to School. My three favorite words in the English language. They have even beaten out “free wine tasting” and “first class upgrade.” Those three little words ensure that my brain will have a few uninterrupted hours a day to function. I miss my brain. We may need to start dating, to get to know each other again. Dear brain, I like long walks on the beach, coffee in little bistros…turn ons are good books and wine, turn offs are unnecessary interruptions. Love you!

So today I start back with stuff. You know, the stuff that needs to be done, even if you really don’t want to do it. Staying on top of things. Planning for the future. Studying up on giftedness to be a better advocate. Working. Flirting with my brain. Weeding the window wells (oh my holy hell, there is a veritable forest in the guest room window well. I may just leave it alone and decorate it for Christmas.). In the interest of balance, I’m also getting a haircut this afternoon. I may have it all chopped off. Or not. I may have a purple streak dyed in. Or not. It’s all wide open today.

Maintenance mode is over. Time to poke the dying embers and throw a couple logs on the fire. It’s going to be a breathtakingly crazy someone please rescue me busy year. Too much going on and fewer resources on which to rely. Add a OMG the lid came off and it all poured out! dash of uncertainty, a pinch of I may need to find full-time employment instead of the awesome flex-time gig I have going on, and top it all off with a shaving of “Please <insert deity of choice here>, we can’t have another school year like the last one. Cut us some slack!” and you can see why I was ignoring the world for the last fortnight. Today is about planning, about planning in silence, and about the awesome head massage I’ll get this afternoon.

Shhh…I’m enjoying the blissful sound of silence.

Ah, while autumn does not begin for another six weeks or so, summer ends here in six days. Next Wednesday, and not a moment too soon, the boys will find themselves with a mom foot firmly in their rears pushing them out the back door. If they’re lucky, it’ll only be 15 minutes before school starts and not the night before. Put a fork in me, I’m done.

I’ve had my fill of summer with the boys; hit my limit on Monday and have spiraled downwards from there. I have cleared my calendar of anything requiring thought, emotion, activity, or my presence. It’s gonna hurt when I finally get back to the gym, but I just couldn’t handle more whining: “But we don’t liiiiiiiike the kid station….it’s booooooring…..” <Insert deity of your choice here> could come down from on high and I’d be all, “Dude, take a number. Can’t you see the cherubs are trying to make each other bleed? I have only two arms and they’re both busy keeping them from killing each other; the dog gets a foot because she’s barking like a rabid animal underneath us. Totally come back after Wednesday and I’ll see if I can squeeze you in. Until then, a little help here would be just awesome.”

Think I’m kidding? This summer A has given J two black eyes, a scratch/gouge down the entire side of his face (thank GOD missing his eye), countless bruises, and I have no idea how many punches. J’s count is considerably lower, though I suspect he’ll catch up: only pinches, punches, scratches from him. At this point I’m just trying to make sure they have all their limbs for the first day of school.

I envy parents who don’t want school to start, who want to keep their kids home. Not that I want that, but I want the situation they have. Either those moms have the patience of saints or kids who listen/follow instructions/learn from mistakes. Neither of those scenarios are at play here. My patience is shot and the other stuff…not yet.

Six days. Just six days. And then maybe I’ll unlock my emotions and thoughts and self to see how bad the damage is.

Six days.

Just six days.

Oh, Sunday nap, how you elude me. I yearn for your soft embrace, yet you stay just out of reach. The few times that we have hooked up it has been a blissful union, and I miss those halcyon days. Those moments are burned into my mind; the soft pillow, the muted sunlight, the heaviness of limbs melting into a stretch. The feeling of oneness and contentment with the universe, of worries floating away, of guilt dissipating into the atmosphere. How I long for you, oh Sunday nap.

You appeared at my door this morning as I blearily stumbled through a pot of coffee, with a coy smile and a beckoning hand. You whispered of drowsy sweetness, of daydreams turned pleasant dreams, of a body drooping with heaviness into the sofa cushions. I reached out to you with a trembling hand, and our fingertips brushed briefly, like a soft butterfly kiss. You winked and murmured that you would be here for me, that you would wait…but only a short while.

I moved through the morning, through the early afternoon, trying to set a few things to rights so that I could settle into your arms. Occasionally I’d look over at you with yearning eyes, lounging peacefully on the couch, and quietly curse the to-do items keeping us apart. The active children, the messy kitchen, the never-ending laundry…all conspired to keep us apart. I tried, oh Sunday nap, how I tried!

And then I looked over and you were gone. The lateness of the hour told the story. You had left me, not to return for another week. Know that I love you, Sunday nap, that there is no one else for me. I will do better in seven days, I promise. Please don’t forsake me, return to my arms, bring me the sweet release I so desperately need.

I will sink into your arms next week, Sunday nap, for our long-desired union.

I’ve decided to kumquat go crazy. Really not a difficult decision, as I was already 3/4 of the way there, but just deciding to give in and just go the remainder of the way was freeing. I haven’t felt a mental snap yet, but I’m sure that will occur when I pick the boys up from camp shortly and they begin their post-camp-whinefest about how much they hate it and never want to go back and MINUS SEVEN THOUSAND STARS MOM! I’m considering a full-summer sleepaway camp for the two of them next summer, so I only get one day of that instead of every single afternoon. Plus, I’d be able to complete a thought without the competing thought of shoving dirty socks down their throats for a few minutes of whine-free peace. Bonus, the socks would finally be up off the floor. It’s a great day camp, full of swimming and games and rock-wall climbing and free play and camp stuff; they hate it because they can’t do what they want to do. Well, until there is a Phineas and Ferb-style camp, this is what we got and can afford.

We are t minus 12 days until Back To School. Those are usually my favorite three words in all languages, but not so much this year. For the last six years I’ve been doing the Sweet Baby Zombie Jesus It’s Back To School Time dance. Not familiar with that particular dance step? It’s a hybrid of the mashed potato, the robot, and Elaine from Seinfeld, with just a dash of Burning Man chanting for flavor. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. This year I’m more worried about school and don’t have the heart to kick up my heels. As much as the boys are driving me kumquat crazy, I worry that things will go downhill. We barely survived 3rd grade, 4th grade is scaring me. Plus this year will be the first year we’ll have two kids with homework.

This morning I finally acknowledged that I couldn’t keep living with the level of stress and anxiety and depression that was threatening to drown me. I had an appointment with my doc and we are tweaking my anti-depressants. For the last several months I’ve felt I’ve been one breath from a panic attack, have had a scream lodged in the back of my throat, and am barely hanging on. I have chewed through my nighttime bite guard and am getting a new one this month. The last few weeks have been hard, partly because it’s summer and my biggest stressors are home for the summer and partly because I don’t think the meds I’ve been on for nearly 8 years (time off for good behavior pregnancy) aren’t as effective as they once were. I know I joke about wine getting me through, but there is more than a tinge of truth to every piece of humor. I realized a few weeks ago that when the only way I could get the lodged scream out of my throat was with a glass or three of wine, it was time to look for help. The two biggest metabolism slowers are stress and alcohol; using one to deal with the other has slowed my metabolism to the point that it’s running backwards. While I’m not working out consistently this summer because of schedules, I’m working out more than I have in the last 15 years with little to show for it. I can feel muscles in my arms and don’t get as sore as I used to, but visible results? There are none. Depressing…and it just all cycles upon itself. As stressful as I expect this school year to be, I need to be on my A game, not barely functioning.

So kumquat going a little crazy is hopefully going to help me. I’ll get some help, get my poop in a group, and be better able to take care of my family. If not, you can find me under my desk, rocking fro and to, picking colors for my underwater basket weaving and speaking in tongues.

Kumquat.

If you’re joining from the Living My MoMent Summer Blog Tour, welcome! Somehow I was lucky enough to be given the very last day of the tour. It’s been a long summer, with a lot of wonderful blogs to read, so I hope you enjoy this very last post on this very last day.

My newly revised elevator pitch describes Laughing at Chaos as “an eclectic look at the absurdities and insecurities of raising gifted kids. And a bunch of other stuff.” Today it’s just all about me. For a change, it’s not about the hell of home repair or how my sons are driving me batshit crazy or even the continuing saga of Princess the PMSing Laptop/MacDreamy/MacDreamy2. For the record MacDreamy2 is happy and healthy and loves me because I turn him on every day. Bah dum dum. Thank you folks, I’m here all week, try the veal.

No, today it’s about something else. Something more…sinister. <cue campy bad guy music>

I cannot freaking stand the book “The Giving Tree.” I never read it as a kid, so when Tom bought it for the boys several years ago I was all, “Meh. Whatever.” I’m more of a Dr. Seuss person anyway. And then I read it. Oh my freaking God are you kidding me? Did Silverstein have mother issues? The first time I read it to A I was horrified. The tree/mother kept on giving and giving and giving and what the hell ended up a stump. A STUMP! A stump that became a seat for the boy turned old man. Even as an old man the boy took advantage of the tree. Hey, tree! You don’t need to keep giving like that! It’s ok to tell the boy to go away, I promise he’ll survive the disappointment. You are allowed to refuse to give the boy your apples to sell for money, to refuse to give him your branches to build a house, to refuse to give him your trunk to build a boat. The little shit never visited except to ask for more and more and more, so it’s ok to say no.

Being a mom is a lot like that tree. (Really Jen? Do you worship at the alter of the Goddess of All Obviousness? Yes, yes I do.) Our kids want so much from us and they’ll keep taking until we say no. No, you can’t have that. Why? Because it’s mine and you can manage on your own without it. I will shelter you with my leaves and feed you with my apples but I’ll be damned if I let you destroy me for a house or a boat.

It comes down to self-respect, and that’s where I have such a problem with this book. I worry that moms reading it think they’re failing if they’re not giving til it hurts, but even more, I worry that kids reading it think that that sort of dysfunctional giving is ok. And it’s not. There are limits, and limits are good.

I’m torn between quietly removing the book and reading it with the boys again to see what they think. Given the vast issues we have here with intensities and overexcitabilities, methinks it would be best to take the book out to a farm where it can happily live out its natural life make sure it’s in the next donation box. I just don’t think I have it in me to explain just why this book is insensitive and insulting.

And then I will bring out The Lorax…again…and feed their insatiable appetite to fix all things environmental.

But for me? I will watch this Second City clip again and laugh…because it’s true.

If you’ve ever hung out with me for any length of time, you may have heard me say, “If this is the worse thing to happen to me today, I’m in pretty good shape.” It’s a philosophy I embrace whole-heartedly. I may bitch and moan and whine about things, but I really do know how incredibly blessed I am. I know I have intensely complex sons, but I also know that they have sensitive and loving hearts. I have a husband whose stress level is often pinned in the red zone and flirting with “blow the roof,” but I also know that he is a hard and dedicated worker and loves us all deeply. I know I often have a to-do list that turns my stomach, but I also know that if push came to shove I could drop 3/4 of it and the world would keep spinning. I truly know how blessed my life is, and I give thanks to <your deity here> every day.

Today I am eating those words, with a double margarita to wash it all down.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a day like today. I’m usually able to see the absurdity of the situation and laugh, proof that attitude is the most vital component in reacting to a situation. A few weeks ago, when our furnace/door fiasco flew in to say HI HOWYA DOIN’ YOU DIDN’T NEED A SAVINGS ACCOUNT DID YOU?, after the initial shock of home repair gone SNAFU, I was able to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Today I’m not laughing. I’m tired. We painted the boys’ rooms this weekend, and because I’m a little on the crazy side, I decided to repaint the powder room too. You know, because we had extra paint and apparently no sense. On the bright side, the rooms look fantastic and the powder room with its new paint and mirror and totally kick-ass new faucet is now my favorite room in the house. On the not-so-bright side, I’m wiped out and the house has been torn to hell for several days. I don’t like it when my house is torn to hell, makes me titchy.

But that’s just the back story.

Last night A and J were putting their rooms back to rights (kinda) and some sort of demon possessed A and he hit J in the face. While wearing some cheap-ass ridged ring he got from the pediatrician (irony). And scratched hell out of J’s face. We’re lucky J’s eye wasn’t damaged. Oh, and this is right as he was healing from the black eye A gave him last week by throwing headphones at his head. J now has a double scratch from his hairline nearly to his chin.

So this morning A is grounded for the day, J pukes grape juice all over the kitchen (including the hang-to-the-floor curtains), A has a less than ideal swim lesson proving that executive function is a touch and go thing with him, I have library fines out the wazoo, and got into a fender-bender in the Walgreens parking lot. All before 10:30 am. Now, in the grand scheme of things, this.is.nothing. I know how blessed I am. But. Several days of one thing after another on top of the deep guilty feeling of “I’m failing my sons because I can’t keep them safe from each other” and it was a good thing Walgreens didn’t sell rum to go with the coke I had just bought. The MomVan is fine, but won’t be repaired. It’s worth less than it would be to repair the double dent in the back hatch; the other guy’s bumper popped right back out.

Once home I just laid low and other than going out to clean out the MomVan, just hid from the world. It was a miracle that the storm that was blowing up didn’t strike me dead as I wound up the jumper cables. I’m praying that the rest of the evening is entirely uneventful and I can continue with my plan of drinking margaritas until the day is over.

If these are the worst things to happen to me this week, I’m in pretty good shape.