Find your happy place

There are many occasions in life when is next to impossible to do the right thing. If you are forced to act in a manner in which you would prefer not to, then it’s a good idea to find a method of keeping your cool.

Some people are naturally calm, unflappable, no matter what life throws at them. They are people that I greatly admire but other lesser mortals, such as myself, are more easily ruffled.

Around here, a frequent occasion pops up in the form of car travel. The car has long been an aversive experience for the boys, but they have developed their own coping mechanism, namely circular little ditties and noises that help calm them. These phrases are not calming to either the driver, nor other passengers. For long journeys we have different strategies but for short trips it’s merely a case of grin and bare it. It is essential to concentrate upon the art of driving, remain unflustered and resolute.

We drive to the restaurant, a party of seven, with the boys independently perseverating in their own unique ways.
“Shut up already!” bleats my daughter, sandwiched between the pair of them.
“Don’t worry dear, we’re nearly there, just tune it out.”
“But I can’t,” she wails.
“Just take yourself to your happy place and lock the door.”
“But I don’t have a happy place.”
“Everyone has a happy place you just have to find yours, remember?”
“I can’t think about anything with all this din, it’s torture.”
“I think your current happy place would be a barrel full of darling Webkinz, up to your neck in them, all soft and fluffy……muffling the sound. You just need to imagine pulling the lid down over your head, turn the key in the lock……or are you too old for Webkinz now?”
“I can’t I just can’t.”
“Hey…….Mom!”
“Yes dear?” Ooo a chink in the chain, a brief pause.
“Dya wanna know where is being my happy place?” This, though he didn’t appear to be listening, seemed to be tuned out.
“Ooo yes please!”
“Tribe.”
“Tribe?”
“In dah jungle wiv all my Spore friends.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Me!”
“Yes dear, where’s your happy place then?”
“Er…..my happy place is…….nest.”
“Ooo of course. How you love eggs still.”
“No……not eggs……..video games.”
“Sounds a bit uncomfortable and pokey to me!”
“Heaven mom, pure heaven!”

This could be yours:-

Don’t forget to add your name to the “list” and help spread the word for the giveaway.

p.s. should you happen to have a free mo about your person, you may wish to nip on over to “Kristina” at “Change.org” where you might want to consider signing the petition to encourage President Obama to fully fund IDEA as that would help make a lot of people very happy.

p.p.s. it is, of course, a very polite letter.

Cheers dears


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Art for arts sake

“What are you doing?” he says in a tone that appears to be genuine interest.
“I'm planting the old teapot.”
“You are planting?”
“Yes.”
“The old teapot?”
“Yes.”
“Why you are doing that for?”
“Because I can't use the teapot for tea because the lid is broken, so I thought I'd use it as a flower pot instead.”
“The lid is broken? What is 'lid'?” Often ordinary words lose their meaning or cannot be retrieved.
“A lid is a top.”
“Oh.”
“Why it broke, I mean, why it broked, I mean why it is broken?”
“Old.”
“Old and mould?”
“Yes. Don't you think it looks nice?” He gives his standard response;
“I don know.” I dither whether to pursue him and risk a meltdown? I risk it.
“This isn't an 'I don't know' kind of a question. This is a ‘yes,’ ‘no’ or ‘a little bit,’ kind of a question.”
He flinches. He teeters on the brink of a meltdown and then sighs. His body rearranges itself. He seems to take the matter seriously and gives it his due and careful attention, muttering under his breath, 'now then, let me see.' [translation = self talk] He examines the teapot with the ivy cuttings in it minutely, from every angle, both spout and handle. His body is contorted on the step in case he misses a bit. 'Hmm, I think may if I turn it, oh no, oh no, oh no,' he murmurs.

Many people would describe this son as ‘clumsy.’ [translation = a klutz] It’s not so much that he has invisible butter on his fingers, more that his whole being is an oil slick. As he grows, he has become more aware of the fact that his body cannot be trusted, that it lets him down and deceives him. He mutters, sotto voce, [translation = whispers] so I can hear some of his thought processes and awareness. When he is in this whispering mode, his language can be quite fluid. His ‘real’ voice comes back “you can maybe be turn it for me,…. please? I don wanna be break it” he grins. I oblige by 180 degrees. He peers at the yellow china, his nose skims the surface. He stands up straight on the step ready to give me his considered opinion; hands on hips, tummy stuck out, shoulders back, looks me straight in the eye with a jaunty expression to announce, “You know, maybe, I think it looks like a teapot with green bits stickin outta it.”

Can't fault him for accuracy.

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