Holiday Letter On Steroids

I used to write a cutesy holiday letter every year. Living so far away from family on both sides, it seemed like a justifiable indulgence. But I stopped a couple of years ago in lieu of  a favorite candid photograph from my vast library of digital photos.

There are several reasons for that.

I have always liked getting holiday letters and I am often quite crestfallen when an envelope yields nothing more than a card. But I realize that not everybody loves holiday letters, and I also realize that the art of holiday letter writing is one that few have honed well enough to avoid making all their friends and family roll their eyes in disgust. I don't really  know if I'm an exception or not. Nobody has ever commented, except Husband's Aunt Mary, who did express her enjoyment of our letters as well as a wish that I would resume the tradition.

So there's that.

But then there's also the fact that for many years, nothing changed. It's kind of embarassing to write essentially the same letter year, after year, after year. I'm still a stay at hom Mom. We still live in the same ugly '80's nightmare of a house. Husband still  has the same job. The boys are still playing the same sport at the same park, often for the same coach. They still have ADD.

BORING.

But this year....this year was different. This year, I had a whole shitload of stuff to write about. So I decided that since I'm a fairly competent writer, maybe I really should give it another go.

Well, competent I may be, but succinct I am not. Our holiday letter ended up being four pages long. I don't care who's doing the writing, nobody wants to read one that's four pages long. So I scrapped the idea and sent cards only.

 But I kind of like my letter. And so I decided, what better place to post it than here...my own forum, where I can say what I want, in as many words as I like?

Here it is for you, my dear readers. I've neglected you of late, but this should make up a teensy bit for the lack of posts. Enjoy.

Happy Holidays to all our Family and Friends!

It’s been several years since I wrote a Christmas letter. I always sort of wondered if they were hokey and overblown, and whether people were secretly rolling their eyes as they read, but it seemed like the thing to do, and so I did. But honestly, I got tired of writing about the same thing over and over. It was a little bit demoralizing to write that I was still at home, Husbnd was still at his job, the boys were still playing baseball…and that nothing much had changed at all.  

Little did I realize how fortunate we were to be living such a staid and boring life.

While most of our married life has been uneventful, and dare I say…monotonous even, this past year has been turbulent and full of upheaval. So I decided to revive the tradition and let everybody in on all the changes here at Antagonist manor. Also, one of Husband's aunts recently expressed how much she had looked forward to receiving our annual letter and had missed getting them. She seemed sincere (winking at Aunt Mary).

So, where to begin? Why…at the beginning of course .

In January, a dear friend of mine was murdered in a shocking act of domestic violence. It was especially upsetting because her death was initially declared a suicide. For that reason, the investigation was hopelessly mismanaged and nobody was ever made to pay for taking her life. She leaves behind two beautiful young girls, who are always in my thoughts.

In March, Husband lost both his beloved Uncle Jimmy and his paternal Grandmother within days of one another. It was a very difficult time for Husband and his family, particularly since he and Jimmy were more like best friends than Uncle and Nephew.

In May, we had to do battle with the school system to get a persistent bully situation resolved. We removed Diminutive One from school when the Principal failed to take measures to protect our son. Imagine our surprise and dismay when he, the victim, was expelled for truancy! We hired a lawyer who was worth her weight in gold (and cost nearly as much) and who managed to solve the whole thing with two little phone calls.

You guys think I'm formidable? This broad made me look like little Mary Milquetoast.

At the end of May, we discovered that Diminutive One had not passed the Math portion of the CRCT which is required in order to advance to Middle School. This made little sense to us, as he is an incredibly smart child and a competent student. He had made passing grades in Math all year. But he does not test well due to his learning disability. Meanwhile, Pubescent One, who failed Math every quarter (due to apathy and an extreme distaste for mathematics rather than a lack of comprehension) passed the CRCT, and was allowed to move on to 9th grade. Yes, that’s NCLB at work in the ________ County School System folks. We opted not to send Diminutive One to summer school as suggested but enrolled him in Sylvan instead . He did incredibly well, and even expressed enjoyment of the math instruction he received. He retook the CRCT in June and passed with flying colors.

The boys and I were celebrating the good news with lunch at a favorite fast food restaurant, when I got a phone call from Husband. The connection was bad, and I couldn’t make sense of his garbled words, but I experienced a profound sense of dread that I still can’t quite explain. When I called him back, he haltingly explained that he had lost his job.

Thus ensued a month of panic, stock taking and reorganization. Husband had just bought a new car for himself after 11 years of driving his beloved Jeep, which had over 200,000 miles on it and was falling apart piece by piece. We had just signed a contract with Sylvan for a ridiculous amount of money; Pubescent One was sporting several thousand dollars worth of metal in his mouth that had to be paid for….the worries were endless.

I don’t intend to wax political, because we all have different views, but I tell you, if it hadn’t been for ARRA, we could not have afforded the Cobra premiums to keep our family insured while husband looked for another job. They would have been around $1200 a month, but ARRA brought them down to $387 a month. That’s still a staggering and intimidating figure when there are zero dollars coming in, but much more doable than $1200. We briefly considered trying to go without insurance, but decided it would be foolhardy and irresponsible.

Thank God we retained some of our common sense amid the panic, for the next month we experienced several health crises that resulted in the need for many expensive tests and treatment. After going to the doctor for some dizziness, it was discovered that I had suffered a series of small strokes, one of which had damaged my cerebellum; the center for balance and equilibrium. This was shocking and frightening as I couldn’t remember having had any symptoms that would have indicated I was having a stroke. The doctor theorized that they might have occurred during a migraine attack and would have dismissed them as typical migraine symptoms. It was also discovered that my blood pressure was dangerously high.

I decided to take control of my health before I had a more serious cardiovascular incident, one much more debilitating or possibly even fatal. I joined Weight Watchers and began exercising regularly. My blood pressure is down, and I have not had a migraine in three months. Anybody who knows me knows that this is nothing short of a small miracle. The 22.4 lbs of fat I’ve managed to jettison along the way are quite gratifying as well. 

Oh, yes, and there was that little incident where I spilled Ammonia in my face and nearly blinded myself. Actually, I did blind myself. But corneas are amazingly resilient, and I am no worse for the wear now. Word to the wise…corneal burns hurt more than giving birth. No exaggeration.

In August, I took a job as a content writer and social media consultant with an internet services company. I was very excited by the opportunity, but also completely and totally terrified. I had been considering going back to work, but with a 14 year gap in my work history, my choices were limited. So this seemed perfect, as I could work from home doing what I loved best…writing.

Unfortunately, I did not get paid. Ever. So I had to resign. Well, not so much resign, really, as just stop logging in. That was a little upsetting, but, c’est la vie. The upside of that experience is that I proved to myself that I could still hold my own in a professional environment and still deliver a quality product, though it would be have been nice if I didn't have to resort to small claims court in order to collect my salary.

In October, Husband received an offer of employment from a company called__________, which he accepted. As always in these situations, one questions whether they are making the right choice. But in the two months that he has worked there, he has realized that losing his job at ______________was a blessing in disguise; even though it was gut wrenching to leave after ten years of employment.

His skills were stagnating and he was becoming complacent about keeping up with the latest technologies. But working for ___________ has put him back on the cutting edge. He is being constantly challenged, both as a manager and as a programmer. If you know Husband, you know that for him, (and his progeny), boredom results in mischief, so it’s a good thing his mind is being kept engaged and his focus is maintained. He is enjoying the new challenges and feeling as if he is once again using his brain in a constructive way.

I’ve said little about Pubescent One, who started high school this year. How is it possible that we have a child old enough to attend high school? I know, those of you with grown children and grandchildren are laughing at me. He towers over me at nearly six feet tall, and eats like a horse, although his aberrant genetics keep any of what he consumes from sticking to his long and lanky frame. His greatest passion is baseball and he is hoping to make the high school team in the Spring. There are kids from four different Middle Schools competing for the few slots available on the Jr. Varsity team, so the competition is stiff. But he’s made a name for himself as a pitcher, so hopefully he stands a chance. The other all consuming passion in his life is driving. He is counting the days until he gets his learner’s permit, and I am counting the gray hairs that have sprouted at the prospect.

As previously mentioned, Diminutive One started Middle School this year, which is a big change for him and has been a bit of a struggle. He is amazingly smart, but his ADHD really complicates things for him. His greatest passion in life right now is WW II, which has been a pretty enduring obsession. He is also very interested in weaponry of any kind, which is a teensy bit disconcerting. However, unless and until he begins wearing black lipstick and a dog collar, I refuse to worry  about finding him at the top of a clock tower with a semi automatic rifle. He has about a million and seven airsoft guns, which he leaves all over the house. I am just about fed up with finding those little colored pellets everywhere. They do get into the strangest places.  Just ask the cat.


And so, we came ever closer to the end of the year that wouldn’t end, but not before November took a few more well aimed kicks at the collective Antagonist backside by leaving us with a heap of repair bills when every single appliance in the house decided to break down at the same time. Even the old new microwave breathed it’s last after someone…I’m not saying whom…let it run empty for 15 minutes, thinking he had set the timer. The new new microwave had to be replaced as well, because the turntable refused to turn and broke the tray holder thingy. At that point, we just had to laugh. It was maniacal laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

It seems I have done a lot of complaining in this missive, but really, we have a lot to be thankful for. We survived the year with our family intact. We didn’t lose our home and nobody starved to death, or even went a little bit hungry. Husband was lucky enough to find another, better job with amazing opportunities ahead of him. And I got a wake up call to take care of myself if I want to be around to tell my kids “I told you so” someday.

I hope all of you have had a much less eventful year. Happy Holidays to all and a safe and happy New Year.


Love, the Antagonists

Confession Of A Maternal Humbug

(Reposted from almost the exact same time last year)

This season defeats me.

My mother never liked Christmas, though she made a valiant effort to hide that fact. She decorated the house and she made a dazzling array of cakes and candy. But her heart wasn't in it. When I was a young child, I didn't and couldn't realize that of course. But as I got older, I knew. It wasn't something that was articulated or even fully cemented in my childish mind. It was just an awareness that something was amiss. But I didn't give it enough thought to ruin my enjoyment of the season. Kids are just wired that way.

But I understand now.

Like my mother, I just don't embrace Christmas with the same enthusiasm that others do.

Maybe because I see it as just one more glaring example of how I fall short of the ideal when it comes to being a model parent. I don't bake cookies. I don't make candy. I don't do cutesy crafts. I decorate, grudgingly, but I put it off until my kids are afraid Christmas will pass us by altogether.

Why? I really don't know, but I think it's resentment.

Resentment that all of this is on my head. More work, more worry, more stress...all piled on me. Nobody blames the Dad if there aren't Christmas cookies. Nobody blames the Dad if Christmas cards are late. Nobody blames the Dads if the children don't have matching outfits for the family portrait. Nobody blames the Dad if the teachers' gifts are lame, or the class party is a flop.

Nobody blames the Dad for anything.

I'm supposed to make all this happen. I'm supposed to make wonderful and cherished Christmas memories for my children. I alone am responsible for the miracles wrought and Joy to the World and Good freaking Will Toward Men.

It's been this way for like, always, I realize now. The women make it happen and everyone else reaps the benefit of her hard work. They enjoy the fruits of her labor with single minded enthusiasm. It's EASY to be jolly when someone else is doing all the work.

Hell, even I could be jolly if I had a full household staff to do all the drugework, and then serve me something hot and frothy while I enjoy the twinkling lights and the festively decked halls.

I guess some Moms find it rewarding to be the engineer of carefully constructed Christmas cheer.

I find that it pisses me off.

And I suppose yuletide apathy is my way of rebelling against the onslaught of expectation.

Perhaps it would be easier if there were some snow. All I see here is the dead landscape, bleak and brown. For a gal who grew up in Wisconsin, Christmas south of the Mason Dixon is a little bit...incongruous.

You know what always cheers me up though? Little House on the Prairie. You know, that one where Laura sells Bunny to buy Ma a stove. Pa wants to buy the same stove, but Laura already bought the only one in Mr. Oleson's store? And then Ma and Mary make Pa a shirt out of the same fabric? So Ma pretends that she didn't get anything for Pa. She surreptitiously pushes he package underneath the Christmas tree skirt. And then...and THEN...Pa makes Laura a saddle for the horse she sold to Nellie. And Ma tries to stop her and Charles says, "It's her horse, Caroline. She has the right." and then Caroline says, "But she LOVES that horse!" and then Charles says, "But she loves YOU more."

Sweet weeping Jesus. Now that's what the fuck Christmas is all about.

Not who has the brightest lights or whose Mom makes the most cookies or who got the teacher the most expensive gift.

My kids are older now. They see. I know they do. I know I can't fake or hide it anymore. I don't want them to think that I resent them. Because I don't. I would buy them the world if I could. I just don't want to decorate it or bake it cookies.

Is that so wrong?

I don't know. Maybe I just need to quit worrying and do it my way and just be okay with that. Maybe "enough" is just what I make it. And maybe...maybe I should just accept that Christmas isn't for me. Once, I reaped the benefit of all my mother's work and worry and that was my time.
I find it immeasurably sad that I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have then.

SIGH.

Well, whatever. I am who I am. Christmas at our house is what it is. It will have to be good enough.

Any of you Christmas freaks want to come decorate my house and bake my kids some cookies?

I'll make it worth your while (wink).

This Might Be The Easiest Way To Do This.....

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Thanks!

I Can't Believe I'm Doing This, but....

If you wanna be my "friend" on Facebook....email me.

I just signed on for a new writing project with a great big fancy schmancy Los Angeles marketing firm, (which scares me to death, frankly) and hopefully have another one in the works.

I'm also committed to regaining my health, so I have been working out faithfully for an hour a day. And starting next week, I am going to try very, very hard to work on my novel at least an hour a day. I'm also supposed to be doing PT several times a week to regain my balance and equilibrium, but I've been procrastinating on that one.

In short...I'm living life in fast forward motion.

Anyway....I miss the interaction with my readers. I feel out of touch with all of you. Some of you have been reading and commenting here for years, and have become like old friends to me. No...not "like" old friends. Old friends. I'd like to keep in touch. So if you have a FB account and want to stay in touch, just send me an email.

Please know...I won't be friends with just anybody. I know who my regular readers are and it is them with whom I wish to remain in contact. Obviously, my facebook page has personal information on it, both mine and those of my children and other family members. I'm very protective of our privacy, so I'm not one of those people who is comfortable with having 600 people in their friends list. I'm not trying to be elitist, I'm just trying to keep my friends and family safe. I've encountered too many whack jobs on the world wide web to not be aware of how vulnerable we all are when we put ourselves out there.

This doesn't mean the end of BAS by any means. I just need another tool in my arsenal to help me keep up with all the wonderful people I've met because of it.

Thanks bunches.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Master Bathroom today.....

Oh...hello interwebs. Long time no see. S'up?

Me?  Oh nothing. Same ole, same ole.

Oh wait, there was that thing on Saturday, where I inadvertantly seared my eyeballs with a caustic substance known to cause permanent blindness.

Good Lord...wouldn't you think the Antagonist family has met their quota of crises this year?

Well...you would be wrong.

Saturday, after waking early to walk at the park with a friend, and anticipating an afternoon of baseball followed by a yummy dinner off the grill and some good red wine, for which I had been banking points all week....

I ended up in the Emergency room with severe chemical burns to my right eye.

It was a stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid accident.

Aren't they all? In fact, I prefer to call them "stupidents".

Baseball got rained out, so I decided to put the time to good use and do some of the much needed cleaning around my house while husband bought groceries for our meticulously planned, point conscious but hopefully still really delicous and soul satisfying dinner.

I was reaching for a jug of Ammonia...

(okay, here's why I keep Ammonia in the house. Did you know that many household cleaners are simply ammonia and water? So then they charge you like four bucks for one bottle. But, you can get a bottle of ammonia for .99 and mix it with water yourself. You can make like....sixteen batches of household cleaner with one bottle of ammonia!! Until Saturday, I thought myself  very clever indeed for sniffing out and then circumventing THAT little ruse.)

....which I keep on the top shelf of my bathroom closet; a habit left over from the days of having small, inquisitive children.

Alas...the top was not screwed on tightly.

I grabbed the bottle around the middle instead of by the handle, as the handle was turned away from me. Because the shelf was above my head, I had to tilt the bottle downward to get ahold of it. At that moment, it slipped just a bit and when I tightened my grasp to avoid dropping it, the liquid shot out of the top, directly into my face and eyes.

I spent the next ten minutes frantically flushing my eyes with water while my eldest son called my husband to tell him he needed to come home RIGHT NOW.

My eyesight was worsening by the moment, and I knew it was bad. I could scarcely see out of my right eye at all. I could see a white haze with very indistinct areas of light and dark. That was all.

Now, usually, I'm pretty calm in the face of a crisis. But blindness has always been one of my greatest fears; perhaps because I have had such bad vision my entire life. Honestly, I would rather lose a limb than lose my eyesight. I would rather be deaf, dumb....ANYTHING....than be blind. Which, of course, is why letting someone put me under a laser and slice through my corneas was such an incredible leap of faith for me.

And besides that? It hurt like a motherfucker. (I'm sorry...really, I am. I try to keep the profanity here to a minimum, but there's just no other way to describe the sensation of your cornea being slowly seared away)

So, in a nutshell, when my husband arrive home, I completely lost my cool. As soon as I realized he was standing in the bathroom doorway, I broke down into hysterical sobs and threw myself into his arms. He did his best to calm me, but once that damn breaks....

He gave up trying to calm me down and did his best to simply get me moving. He pulled me out of the bedroom by the wrist, like an adult leading a small child. I was still zipping up my pants and pulling my shirt over my head as he coaxed me down the stairs and out the front door.

I sobbed all the way to the urgent care clinic.

"We spent all the money on my eyes and now they're ROOOOOOOOOOOOOIIIIIIINNNNED."

I was scared to death and sick over the waste and so very, very angry.  I had blinded myself. What a moron. I would have to spend the rest of my life with my hair in a bun telling my story to school children and lobbying for the return of prominently placed Mr. Yuck stickers on every bottle of household Ammonia.

When we arrived at urgent care, the waiting room was absolutely jam packed.

"Oh fuh-fuh-fuhhhhck! I'm going to be waiting fuh-fuh-fovever!!!" I sobbed.

I could feel the hysteria rising again. But it's amazing how quickly hysterical weeping and blazing red sclera will get you seen. No really, I think what did it was the fact that my eyes had gone two distinctly different shades of green. One remained a sedate, but, I think, rather pretty green, while the other had turned a sort of a sickly, limey, nuclear accident green. That's really quite alarming, in case you can't imagine it.

Whatever the case, I was whisked back to an exam room before the "-onia" had left husband's mouth. He said, "She spilled Amm...." and BAM! I was flat on my back with a tube stuck in my eye.

Yes, because when you have a chemical burn to your eyeball, what could be more comfortable than placing a rubber disk the size of a fucking dinner plate upon it?

It's called a Morgan lense and it looks like this:

 Yes...it's every bit as comfortable as it looks.

There is an actual picture of me with the Morgan lense in place, but I will not share it here. Mostly, because it's spectacularly unflattering, but also because it's kind of gruesome. At least, judging from my mother's reaction, it was.

They irrigated my eye with a litre of saline. It was a bizarre feeling. My eyeball was numb, thanks to some truly, truly miraculous stuff they dripped into it (I may or may not have offered an intern at the ER sexual favors in return for a bottle). I screamed just a little when the drops made contact but it only took a moment to quote Roger Waters...to become comfortably numb. And then I couldn't feel the pain, but I could feel the sensation of cold, and the feeling of pressure against my eyeball as the liquid flowed from the Morgan lense.

After that, they wiped a strip of litmus paper across my raw, abraded eyeball and decided the ph. was still not what it should be. Then they looked at my cornea under a fluoroscope. The doctor, the nurse and husband all gazed down upon me with brows furrowed in concern, but also with unmistakable interest. I sort of felt like a caterpillar in a jelly jar as the doctor pointed out the large starburst shaped occlusion directly over my pupil. The question was, how deep did it go?

The doctor decided I needed to go to the actual ER where they would have eye people on hand.

I had calmed somewhat once the pain was brought down to a dull ache, but that caused me to freak out all over again. She wouldn't have been sending me to the ER if it was good news, now would she? .

Again, we were given expedited service and I soon found myself  on a hard gurney in a curtained off little stall. On the other side of the partition, a small child coughed a horrible, tearing cough while his mother crooned to him in Spanish. By that time, my drops had worn off and I was once again in agony.

People, I have given birth. Twice. The second time, I gave birth to a baby so big it caused all my friends to unconsciously cross their legs whenever his birthweight was mentioned. And that didn't even come close to hurting as much as my eyeball hurt.

Later, I got some really good drugs; injected so they would work fast. The downside of that? Puking my guts out for three hours. Some of you may recall that I have something of an emetiphobia. I absolutely loathe throwing up. And I especially loathe doing so in front of other people. I will employ any and all means necessary to avoid doing so, usually with success.

But I was helpless. I puked in front of husband. I puked in front of the doctor. I puked in front of the nurse. I puked in front of the guy mopping the floor in front of the women's lavatory. I puked in front of the lady next to me who, owing to the ventilator, was mostly oblivous, but it was humiliating nonetheless. I puked in front of the homeless guy panhandling in the ambulance bay while I waited for husband to get the van. And, I puked in front of both of my children, who, heretofore, had never seen such a horrifying spectacle. Not only was I hurking uncontrollably, but I was high as a kite, incoherent, scarlet-eyed, dishevelled and soaking wet from the repeated irrigations.

I've had finer moments.

The doctor told me that eyes are the most resilient organ in the body and that these kinds of injuries usually heal quickly and completely (while fully acknowledging that they are unimaginably painful.) but I was dubious.

How could something that HURT so badly and so thoroughly ravaged my vision possibly heal with no lasting damage? I mean....I spilled a chemical in my eyes! (not an acid, I'm told, but a base, which is still pretty bad) And here I am three days later, none the worse for the wear.

Un. Believable.

Face It

I've written a couple times about the evils of Social Media. And I meant everything I said.  But I find that being employed full time seriously infringes upon my freedom to waste time, as I simply have no time to waste. I find that blogging is a time suck that I just don't have time to indulge the way I used to; reading or writing.

And I miss everyone, yannow? I feel disconnected and out of the loop.

So I'm forced to admit that it's easier and quicker to jot a quick little status update on the much maligned Facebook, than to sit down and write something meaningful here. I hate eating crow man. I really, really do. But I can choke it down when I have to.

So here goes:

I understand now why Facebook and Twitter have become indispensable to many people. I still think it's evil, mind you, but I'm obliged to concede that it has its uses.

I'm still not interested in having every Tom, Dick and Harry privvy to the particulars of my private life, or having 600 people on my friend list. I couldn't keep up with that many friends in real life any more than I can online. And I don't want to wade through pages of inanity from people I barely know to get to the meaningful stuff from people I actually do know and want to hear about. I roll my eyes any time I see a friend list longer than 100 people or so.

No offense if you have one. I just don't need my kids' dental hygeinist to know that I had a terrible bout of gas yesterday from the drastically increased amount of fiber I am now taking in and accidentally and completely involuntarily cut the cheese while I was working out.

I wouldn't really post anything like that anyway, but you get my point.

So anyway...I get it now. I still don't love it, but I get it.



                  

Thankful

I try really hard to keep the lines of communication open with my kids. I want them to know that they can come to me with any problem, dilemma, or decision. I want them to know I will always give them the truth,  no matter how difficult that might be.

I had great parents, but there wasn't a lot of real nitty gritty discussion going on between parents and kids in those days. I wouldn't have dreamed of asking my parents about sex, and they wouldn't have dreamed of telling me. Same goes for drugs, alchohol, birth control, religion, politics...that's just not the way  parents related to their children in those days.

So I talk to my kids. A lot. Truth be told, I probably talk too much.

Boys are different from girls when it comes to communication. They don't feel the need to verbally disect every thought, emotion or impulse. They don't examine things too closely. If they do, they keep the findings to themselves.  I have had to learn to wait for those little gifts of information that they dispense far too slowly for my taste. When I try to rush them into divulging the details that I prize, they simply clam up, batten down, and beat a hasty retreat.

So when I talk, I wonder if at some point, my voice doesn't just become the wah-wah-wah-wah-wah of the Charlie Brown adults.

I know they hear. But I wonder if they really listen.

We don't often get to see the fruits of our parenting labors until the hard part is over with. We don't often get to know if we did it right until it's too late to do it differently. So on those rare occasions that we do get to know....its very sweet indeed.

I savor those moments. Then, after I have wrung every drop of gratification from them, I file them away in one of the many drawers in my mental filing cabinet; the one labelled "good Mommy moments". I pull them out when I need them, to remind me that I do get it right sometimes.

I got one of those moments the other day, courtesy of my teenager.

He and I sat facing one another at a local pizza place where Diminutive One's team had gone to celebrate a three game winning streak. Some of the team parents at an adjacent table began discussing a situation that has the entire Metro area up in arms. A transgendered teenager at one of the local high schools has petitioned the school board to be able to attend school in girl's clothing and make-up.

You can imagine how well that has gone over here in the Bible Belt.

The comments I have heard regarding this young man have ranged from mildly distasteful to downright hateful. I have not encountered one person who supports his right to dress as he pleases.

One of the parents turned to ask me what high school Pubescent One attends. I told her (it's not his school, but one that many of his friends attend) and in reply she said, "You must be really glad he doesn't go to that school!"

I am, glad. DAMN glad. But not because of Jonathan Escobar. I'm glad because I have no respect for a Principal who tells a student that he must man up or withrdaw and I do not want such a person to be an authority figure to my sons.

Through all of this discussion, Pubescent One listened quietly with a look of disgust on his face.

When the woman turned back to her table mates, Pubescent One said, "Geez what's the big deal??" 

"I don't know, but it is a big deal to some people. They want him expelled...or worse."

"WHY???" he asked, clearly incredulous. "Oh, oh, wait, because he's DIFFERENT, right?" his voice was dripping with scorn. He rolled his eyes, shook his head and said under his breath...."God...he's not hurting anyone."

I was so proud of him at that moment.

I've talked to my kids time and again about tolerance, acceptance, embracing diversity and reveling in our differences rather than fearing them. But here in the South, beliefs are handed down like family heirlooms. They are accepted and perpetuated, even if they are antiquated and offensive within the scope of modern thinking. Those who are different or unusual in any way are scorned, if not persecuted outright. There is no room for them in the comfortable little construct of Southern acceptability.

Thus, a panty wearing faggot at the high school is just the kind of thing that would incite an uproar of unparalleled magnitude. And has.

But my son has not fallen prey to the prejudices around him. He sees them for what they are...useless artifacts from an intolerant era. He is learning the way of things, my man child.  And he is learning to be his own person, think for himself...lead instead of follow. And even more importantly, he is learning to judge people for who....not what they are.

I'm sure before his teenage years are over, there will be plenty of things I do all wrong.

So I'm thankful I got to know that I did this one thing right.


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