Thing 1, Thing 2, Thing 3, Thing 4

Small things pack a big punch

Yes, they are upside down in the picture. I don't care. It just a perfect illustration of something that I find to be exasperating, enraging, unbelievably frustrating.

DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAYS WHEN YOU TURNED ON A TELEVISION WITH ONE KNOB? You pulled it out: voila, ON. Pushed it in: voila, OFF.

I believe I have probably written about something like this before, but things have reached a fever pitch lately in the area of electronics and their absolutely maddening help. Please note: this is about the electronics, and not the electronic setter-upper, no matter what the next paragraph says.

While [the wife cat] was away, [the husband mouse] did play, adding some sort of sound system to our already-complicated (to me) television set-up.

We went from having a TV, a cable box, and a DVD player to having a TV, a cable box, a DVD player, a blu-ray DVD player, and a sound system. And somewhere along the way the television because a really big black box of doom and despair to me. And that's before I even turn it on! I'm not talking about FOX news here! Just the actual appliance!

On/Off has been replaced by Standby. Which means what, exactly. All the remotes have approximately the same configuration of buttons, but they do not work the same, no they do not work the same, no they do not.

Look, I'm already spitting nails this morning because the "simple" task of switching phones with Greg has turned our iMessage accounts into schizophrenic madpeople who send messages to themselves, in the name of being logged into a particular iTunes account.

This morning, Kepler wanted to watch a DVD. He put it into the DVD player, and then looked to me for the rest. I crawled around on all fours, hung from the ceiling to examine the back of the TV, and did a few back handsprings in front of the TV to coax it into action.

First, the remotes are LOST. Stuffed down into the couch cushions or abandoned on a kitchen counter. Except for the one I don't need. So, first order of business is to find them. Where's the TV remote, I ask Kepler, over and over. "The tv remote?" he replies. Over. and Over.

Finally, all four remotes are in hand and I begin to peruse the directions Greg has written out for me on how to use the TV. Push THIS on THAT remote, and THAT on THIS remote, and make sure the THING is in THAT position, hold your mouth just right, and press PLAY.  Success.  "Success." SUCK-CESS.

Because the DVD is not at the PROPER PLACE in the movie, mom, so let's see the scene selections, and now is good. Me, loathing every minute of this, "This one? This one? This one? This one? This one? This one? This one? This one? This one?" Him, knowing exactly what he wants: "No! No! No! No! No! No!" Silly me, I gave up before we got all the way through and said, "Just watch this!"

I left the room, done with the process.

MWAHAHAHAHAHA, WRONG-O, TINY ONE.

Kepler finds me in my hiding place under the bed. (Curses, foiled again.) He comes in, holding the DVD in his hand, effectively telling me that I've done it wrong and I must start again. ONLY THIS TIME, THIS TIME, THIS BLEEPING TIME, the TV has a screen within a screen telling me I must set it up, asking me questions written in English but not meaning anything comprehensible to me. (How would you like to get your television signal into your house: A. by elf, B. through the microwave, C. by courier pigeon).  I answer as best I can, then wait as it thinks, then gnash my teeth when it tells me I have alas committed an electronic crime and must start again. After another fun round of this, I rip the DVD out of the player, and tell him the TV doesn't work and he has to watch it in the laptop. He's happy as a clam to do so. Should have tried that sooner.

Because indeed the TV DOES NOT WORK (like I want it to, in any way that makes sense, like a normal human being would think it would work, like things worked in the olden days, in any sort of logical manner).

And that's all I have to say about that.

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I’m firing my inner critic

Dear Sir or Madam:

It has recently come to our attention that you have elected yourself to be the critic of our life. We believe this appointment was tacitly agreed upon by us quite a few years ago. You were able to stay undetected for quite some time, as we were already convinced that you were right. The purpose of our letter today is to let you know of some upcoming changes in regard to your role as self-appointed Critic of me, myself, and I, and our creative output.

Your role as critic has been carried out with brash aplomb; with brusque equanimity; with bold commentary, and without a scrap or iota of compassion. Your one-dimensional approach has been exhausting to us, but unfortunately seems to be what you actually thrive on, much like the Monsters of Monstropolis did when they used the fearful screams of children to power their city.

You've done your job quite thoroughly. I recognize that you have been attempting to keep me in my place; to prevent Tall Poppy syndrome from arising, as it were. However, your insistent words of caution and unrelenting words of criticism are no longer welcome, and indeed are decidedly unwelcome. All of us are just as Tall Poppy as we are, and do not need the likes of you and your cohorts to cut us down. Have you even ever looked at a field of Poppies? Have you ever considered the beauty that is in every one of those poppies? Same things applies to people, dude (or dudette).

Although yours is a familiar voice, Critic, I will be listening closely for it to creep into my consciousness. That familiarity has rendered me insensate at times and unable to dispute your comments because they have simply oozed into my awareness. Your observations entered just below the level of my conscious awareness, right in the tender spot where I feel my life. No more. Believe that I will be paying attention so as to be prepared to respond to you immediately; to tell you in no uncertain terms to get lost; stop talking; cease and desist; STFU.

Your most-used refrain seems to be all the things I shoulda woulda coulda done; denigrating, minimizing and ignoring what I DID do, overlooking the brilliance of the try, the power of the step. Perhaps you feel mighty when you point out my imperfections. Perhaps you feel in control. Perhaps you don’t know any other way. Perhaps I’ve had enough.

To borrow a phrase from Matthew Kelley, Critic, I’m perfectly imperfect. I do not embrace your equating imperfection with being defective. I learn from my mistakes, Critic, every attempt, every failure, every step -- even the backwards ones.

Your most beguiling trait is your ability to take something that has some truth in it and twist that morsel into a weapon. No, Critic, you are no longer welcome. You shall be as children of old; seen, but not heard.

Critic, YOU ARE FIRED.

www.sandyspadaro.com

If you wish to hang around, listen and observe and learn something, I’ll allow it, but make no mistake: comments will get you banished from the area.

Aside from that, you're outta here.

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Mom, You are a Hero (well, technically, a Heroine)

When your child really doesn't want his fingernails ... or toenails ... trimmed, and you patiently work with him to get it done.

When your child does his best to declare he is all better so he doesn't have to see the doctor, and you take him anyway.

When you help hold him down for Dr. Shott to look inside his ears with the microscope, although you'd rather be the one being held down.

When you try to console him afterward, telling him it's all over now.

When he cheerfully says, "Sure!" after you've heard "No" a hundred times.

When he is so proud of himself for brushing his own teeth, and you go ahead and get the spots he missed.

When your child has you close your eyes so he can surprise you with his clean hands by letting you smell them.

When he is sleeping, and when he is awake.

When your child is in pain and doesn't understand it, and you do your utmost to comfort him.

When he asks loudly for the window lock to be turned on, instead of just leaving the window up himself, and you cooperate.

When he is so delighted about giving or receiving an "appise" (surprise) and you recognize that he has caught your generosity.

When he notices that the picture on the book page matches the cover and shows you, and you marvel at his ability to notice such things.

When you manage the logistics for multiple children and one of them gets sick, and you have to quickly shuffle things around.

When you observe each and every single step he makes toward being more independent.

When your husband travels for work, and believes in your ability to manage your home, even when you feel like you're too tired to move.

During the times you marvel at the blessing that your child is, and you recognize the gifts that come to us through no action on our own part.

During the times you wonder how things can be so hard, but you wouldn't trade it.

During the exhausted times when he has been getting sick, or needy, and asking for Something Different than he just asked for, and you stay patient (or sometimes, not).

When his little body snuggles up against yours and you feel his gentle breathing, and you are reminded what a gift he is.

When he gets out the pictures of his big sisters and brothers and talks about them, clearly adoring them, and you are grateful for the gift of family.

When he mispronounces words and it's too cute to try to correct, and you even pronounce some of his words the same way.

When he pretends to be Santa Claus by making a finger mustache over his mouth, and you act surprised.


I've read some blogs where mothers don't want to be considered heroes. But when I consider the definition that a hero is someone who, in the face of danger and adversity or from a position of weakness, display courage and the will for self-sacrifice for some greater good of all humanity, (definition from DuckDuckGo), it seems to me that it fits.

Life move fast for me. Taking time to write slows me down and reminds me of all that I do, imperfect though it is.

Mom, You are a Hero!

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I Read a lot of Books ...

Of the 33 books I have read so far in 2014, Michael Koryta's Those Who Wish Me Dead has touched me most deeply. Two of my favorite authors, Harlan Coben and Lee Child have review snippets on the front cover. Coben says, "Warning: Michael Koryta's wonderful, riveting, and harrowing Those Who Wish Me Dead may just move you to tears. Enjoy at your own risk." And Child says, "Outstanding in every way ... Don't you dare miss it." With those two recommendations, I was primed to like the novel, but not to get what I got out of it.

The protagonist, Jace Wilson, witnesses a murder and is subsequently pursued by the killers. He is pursued all the way from his Indiana home to Montana, where he has been sent to participate in a wilderness camping program, which will presumably hide him from the bad guys.

Having been involved in wilderness camping myself throughout the years, I was immediately drawn to this aspect of the story. I vividly remember the muscles used to rappel, rock climb, canoe and hike. I remember learning backcountry skills like orienteering (before GPS), map and compass, reading a topo map, starting a fire, cooking, making water safe to drink. I remember the little treasures -- gooseberries along a path, a beautiful sunrise, the wonder that is Lake Superior.

In chapter 8, not too far into the book, which I was alternately reading and listening to, I heard the narrator say, "Anyone remember the chain? The order of our [survival] priorities? ... Positive mental attitude, wilderness first aid, shelter, fire, signal, water, food. My mind connected these paragraphs with my son, who is currently in rehab for issues with heroin. I saw how a positive mental attitude would be essential for survival in his situation. And I realized that just as the two killers were tracking Jace in the book, so the killer heroin has been tracking my son in real life.

The wilderness leader, Ethan, was teaching the boys how important shelter is in the wilderness. "With shelter, the environment is no longer in control." With drugs, when you have any type of shelter from the drug environment, the environment is no longer in control. How essential then for anyone trying to recover from drugs to find their shelter, which could be and probably is all inclusive of a physical shelter, a mental shelter, a spiritual shelter, and a social shelter.

As Ethan taught the boys how to survive in the wilderness, he taught this important concept about recovering from mistakes they might make in the wilderness: "Anticipate and recover, anticipate and recover. If you could do the first well, you were ahead of most people. If you could do both well? You were a survivor."

Is this not applicable to recovering from drug abuse as well? And, actually, life in general. Although we cannot anticipate everything, I appreciate the approach here which is suggesting that we are intentional about looking at what we are experiencing, and thinking about situations we may face.

Take for example the simple situation we all face twenty times a week; having a time we are supposed to be somewhere. I may not be able to anticipate the exact traffic jam that is on the highway when I am driving, but I can certainly anticipate the possibility of it happening, and when I anticipate that, and leave ten minutes earlier, I'm that much closer to being on time. And when the traffic jam lasts 15 or 20 minutes, and I can recover from the frustration, I am even more than a survivor. I thrive.

In situations of life and death, which drugs most certainly bring about, anticipating where we might get tripped up, by identifying triggers and urges, puts the recovering user ahead of most people who haven't thought about those things.  Getting connected with others who have traveled this road and who are intent on supporting the recovering drug user into a meaningful life puts the socially connected individual ahead of those who try to go it alone.

Mistakes happen. In drug recovery, relapses happen. But when we anticipate and recover, we have a chance to survive.

Lastly, Ethan gave this speech to the boys, which was instrumental in saving the lives of more than one of the characters:

There is no such thing as quitting time. Remember that, boys. You rest, you sleep, you pout, you cry. You're allowed to get mad, allowed to get sad. But you're not allowed to quit. When you feel like it, remember that you are allowed to stop, but not to quit. So give yourself that much. Stop. Just stop. And then, remember what STOP is to a survivor -- sit, think, observe, plan. Spelled out for you, right there at the moment of your highest frustration, is all you need to do to start saving your life.

Preach it.

Sit.
Think.
Observe.
Plan.

This isn't just helpful for people recovering from drug abuse or addiction. Can you think of five situations in your own life where this would be a wise plan of action? I love the idea of being able to stop when things are stressful or disappointing or I'm struggling. I've always thought stopping meant I was quitting. But if I sit, think, observe and plan, and then get back into action, stopping is simply that -- a stop. It's a step on the journey.

I used to think that me seeing connections and applications like this was enough. That if I could see it and somehow just say it with enough conviction and clarity, he'd get it. He'd apply the idea and stay on the path of abstaining or recovery. I know now everybody has their own path, and it's rather unlikely that he would see these things even if he read this book. But, what a great addition to my toolbox for life wisdom to consider, apply, and share where I can, like on this blog.

So, go on and survive. Instead of quitting, stop if and when you need to, and fortify yourself for the next curve in the road.

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Sauce on the Side -- Restaurant Review

I used to know a kid. He grew up and opened a restaurant in St Looey called Sauce on the Side. I lost touch with him, but thanks to the wonder of Facebook, I caught up with him about 15 years after I'd last seen him. While it's true I don't live anywhere close to St Louis, we traveled through there recently. My official title was "Excellent Restaurante Finder," since Driver, Navigator, Teenager, and Are-we-there-yet-er, were taken.

I phoned ahead. OF COURSE. The answer threw me off. All I heard was, "Hello?" Don't businesses say the name of their establishment usually, to keep the caller from saying, like I did: "Is this Sauce on the Side?"

Thought I'd go ahead and place our order to pick up in an hour, when we'd be driving through the city. They thought different. "Um, can you call back closer to the time?" Maybe they didn't have the electronic ability to mark an hour for any future time? Almost always agreeable and willing to accommodate, I agreed with a laugh. The guy had made me laugh early on by telling me he would write "Andale! Andale!" to speed up the order. (We would later find out how ironic this was.)

In 30 minutes, I called the hello guy back. He needed to put me on hold. Actually, he needed to put me on HOOOOOLLLLLLLD. Three minutes later, I called back thinking maybe my call had been dropped. I called back -- TWELVE TIMES. Each call went to their voicemail, which says, "don't leave an order on here, buddy. call back."

Finally, I reached them and placed our order. Thanks to the wonders of electronic navigation, we cruised right downtown and found a parking place in front of the store. We went in and I told them I was there to pick up an order for Susan.

This started a veritable "who's on first?" comedy of errors. That'll be $39, he said, and handed me two receipts. One for me to sign, one for me to keep. So far, so good. But THEIR copy of the receipt said $42.65, and my copy of the receipt was for a completely different order and had been signed by Brandon. I inquired about the difference in the price, and mentioned that Brandon’s receipt really wasn’t mine.

The young man (let’s call him Dude) was clearly mystified. Apparently, they had had another order for another Susan, which was further confusing this terribly bemusing situation. So, Dude called another guy (aka Fuzzy Hair) over to investigate this huge mystery. Of course, in any case of mystification, the confusing item must be restated at least 8 times. Dude and Fuzzy Hair needed a third guy to come and powwow with. Crewcut, who I suspect was management, came in and authoritatively cleared everything up. But this process took approximately 10 minutes.

Remember I had called ahead.

We proceeded to wait for about another 15 minutes in the store. The order was originally supposed to take 20 minutes. So, from the time I called in, it had now been about 40 minutes. Well, we weren’t in a big hurry, so we were ok with it.

Finally, Fuzzy Hair walked out from behind the counter and began to call out my name in a monotone: “Suzanne, Suzanne.” Pretty much exactly like Bueller’s teacher did in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. He walked to the left of the pillar in the center of the restaurant, and was walking clockwise. I heard “Suzanne” and assumed it was me. Problem was, I was on the opposite side of the pillar, and also walking clockwise. I began to speed up more and more, but couldn’t seem to catch him! I finally decided to stop, drop, and roll. Or at least stop and turn around.

We had to ask for silverware. Hm, seems like something that should be included in an order which contains three salads. But, I digress. Suzanne and the crew carried the to-go food to the car and began loading back up. Suddenly, Fuzzy Hair appeared next to the car. “Do you have a pen?” he asked. “Did you eat at Sauce on the Side?” (as though we are complete strangers he’s never seen before).

Sadly, the extra chicken we paid $2 each for for three salads was only on one of them, so the three of us divided the two little pieces of chicken into sixths.

The salads were good. The calzone was reportedly good. The location was good. The restaurant decor was cool, although a bit of a mystery.

However, I’m all for letting “art ... flow ... over me.” The guys were friendly. Overall, it just seemed like they were still working out some of the bugs. I don’t know how long they have been open, but they are opening a second location, so it’s been a little while.

Although I didn’t get to see the guy I used to know who was the reason we even stopped there, I’m glad we stopped. I recommend it, and even more so if you are eating there, and can have them correct anything they leave off.

I love the concept and the energy that clearly exists among the three principles. So, much to commend it. Just don’t walk clockwise around the pillar when you hear your name (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). Stand there.

Suzanne? Suzanne? Suzanne?

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Now is the time

Now is the time to blog.

It's been awhile.

Sometimes living and managing all of the excellent lessons The School of Life presents is all I can do.

I have missed blogging. Maybe some of my readers have missed me.

I'm officially baaaaaaaaack!

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Thoughts from Room 8

It's 3:17 am.

I'm sitting in the emergency room. As I drove here, I passed the church of my childhood and I remembered how often my dad had to go out in the middle of the night to respond to the church burglar alarm. Never once was there a burglar. Never once did dad hesitate to go check out another false alarm. I always felt like my dad would protect me. It wasn't his fault I found the world to be a big, scary place.

Each time I've come to the emergency room, it hasn't been a false alarm. My heart breaks. Just like it wasn't dad's fault, this is not my fault. And yet, I'm not sure I've done anything harder than stand by while someone makes their own choices that do not serve them well.

The doctor thinks we'll be able to leave at 4, that it will be safe by then. We will leave behind that little crying baby girl down the hall, all the lights and sounds of the E.R. and head home where we will see if "I'm really sorry" lasts.

I'm numb because of what else will come in response to this night. I'm thankful that of all things today, I drank some iced tea, which is why I'm even able to be awake in the middle of the night. I'm tremendously grateful for the emergency personnel and the doctors and nurses.

May this be a turning point.

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