This Ambiguous Life

Logical Empath

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Thu, 08 Dec 2022 11:37:00 +0000

So, I’m a teensy weensy obsessed with personality tests such as Strengthsfinder, the Enneagram, and the Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator. Long story short, I’m fascinated by what makes people tick.

Long story long, while I understand that humans are complex, adaptable, and prone to the types of self-deception that ultimately make the results of personality tests flawed, I enjoy them immensely. Taken with a grain of salt, these tools help me understand myself and other people a little bit more than I otherwise would without them.

By the way, for those keeping score, my top 5 strengths are:

Ideation

Input

Learner

Individualization

Connectedness

My enneagram result is a 4w5.

My Myers-Briggs result has historically varied slightly over the years from INFP to ENFP.

What I’ve always wondered, though, is how our health, our moods, and our current life situation influences these types of tests. For example, if I’m sick, or feeling anxious/depressed/overwhelmed, or I’m, say, living in a post-pandemic world where after nearly 3 years of a lot of social isolation, I am just beginning to dip my toe into the pool of community connections once again, I would think my personality test results would be a little different than they would be if I were healthy, energized, and gracefully gliding across the surface of the water of community connections like a nearly-perfectly thrown skipping stone.

Do the results of these tests vary? Yes. I think so. Does that mean these tests are silly nonsense pseudoscience? Maybe. Do I care? No. Not if if helps me better understand myself and my fellow humans.

All this is to say, last night, I had an opportunity to test out my hypothesis that the results of personality tests do indeed change, depending on things such as health, mood, and living situation.

I won’t go into too much detail in an effort to only air my own dirty laundry and not my entire family’s. I mean, come on. It’s 2022. Modern American women are no longer necessarily in charge of their laundering their entire family’s actual dirty clothes, so it should follow that we are also not responsible for airing the entire family’s metaphorical dirty laundry. If the people in my family want to go into detail with you about their part in the argument we had last night, that’s their business. In a Rashomonesque fashion, I can only share details of my side of the story. I get to control when and how I share my dirty undies. I mean laundry. OK. This mixed metaphor is getting weird and creepy. Let’s move on.

So, last night, my family got into a fight. It was honestly pretty mellow by my standards. No name calling. Only one teen (Kat) flipping off one elder (me) and really it was done mostly in jest. Nothing like the family fights I experienced as a teen, with my dad yelling at my mom and me, calling us stupid, calling me a commie, me flipping Dad off completely serious and unjestlike, calling him an asshole and mom turning, silently, walking down the hallway to her bedroom and shutting the door, shutting us crazy confrontational people out and avoiding conflict at all costs. Being involuntarily committed to the psych ward after having a “nervous breakdown” after finding out your first husband—not my dad, who, sure, he could be an asshole sometimes, but at least he wasn’t a cheater, too—was having an affair, and receiving electroshock therapy on two separate occasions in the mid-1960s might do that to you. Turn you into a conflict-avoidant person. That was my mom, for sure. I don’t agree with conflict-avoidance at all cost, but I understand.

So, now I’m 52. I’ve learned a thing or two since I was a confrontational teen. I’ve learned that there is a difference between being confrontational and being assertive. I’ve learned that avoiding conflict at all cost is a normal coping mechanism for someone who feels powerless and unheard. I’ve learned that yelling and name-calling is also a normal coping mechanism for pe who feel like their grasp of power is slipping and they are beginning to feel unheard. I’ve learned that with so many things, the middle way is the best. At least that’s how it is for me. Embrace conflict, clear the air, talk about feelings, unearth the depths of misunderstanding, but do it all as calmly, as rationally, as empathetically as possible.

So my 16-year-old Kat (Gen Z,) and my 66-year-old mother-in-law (Boomer,) were getting into a disagreement last night about generational differences and our society’s history of corporal punishment. There were some phrases being thoughtlessly thrown around such as, “back in my day” and “well nowadays that’s called abuse.” My 41-year-old husband Will (Millennial,) put in his two cents, which I interpreted as, “Hey, guys, it’s been a long day and I’m trying to watch this comedy show to lighten up a bit, and you’re being confrontational is harshing my mellow so could you cut it out and get back to doing the dishes and getting ready for bed?”

I could see the look in Kat’s eye. She’s got her daddy’s blue eyes, but she’s inherited my emotive stare. She looked like what I imagined I looked like when I was 16, looking back and forth at my mom and dad, thinking, “Two more years! Just two more fucking years and I can get out of here and get away from these stupid people and live the way I want to live.”

It’s funny, because I don’t want Kat to think such things about me, but I completely understand that she does. I try not to take it personally. I know some day she will realize, just like I did, that my parents loved me and raised me to the best of their flawed, sometimes stupid, sometimes brilliant abilities.

But in that moment, when I saw it in Kat’s eyes that she was on the verge of saying something she might regret to her dad, who she adores but who also exasperates her, I, being a 52-year-old GenXer, and therefore in the middle of all these other generations, stepped in and said, “Can I share my thoughts.”

We had, what I think, was a good family discussion about generational differences, disagreements, respect, speaking your truth with empathy and calm rationality.

The air cleared. No one shouted. A few feelings were hurt, but nothing irreparable. Grandma said, “I love you all,” and went to bed. Kat went back to doing the dishes and later came out to the living room to say she thought she should apologize to grandma. I said, “Yes. That’s probably good idea. But I’ve gotta say, I’m also proud of you for being confrontational. Probably because I was also confrontational at your age. It’s developmentally appropriate. Being confrontational can be good, but it can also make life hard for you. Some day you’ll learn how to confront people who disagree with you without sounding like you’re attacking them. You’re already much more evolved than I was at your age. It’s hard to get along with older generations. Every generation thinks the older generations are stupid because in many ways we are. We grew up in a different time than you, and our world wasn’t as open as your world is now. But we also have a lot more experience living than you to, and with experience comes wisdom, which is good, too.”

Kat’s eyes softened. Her mouth twitched slightly. Was that the beginning of a smile? Some semblance of understanding? I’d like to think so. But what Kat said was this:

“Can I go back to doing the dishes now?”

“Yes!” Will, and I said, in unison.

Will unpaused his comedy show.

I took the Myers-Briggs test for probably the tenth time.

It was the perfect opportunity to test my hypothesis. I was feeling healthy. I was in a stable mood. My family had bravely faced conflict head on and managed to avoid getting into a wreck. Let’s see if the results of my test change when I’m in this state of mind.

In the past when I’ve taken the test, I was always going through something. Sick. Grumpy. Not in a good place in my life. Each of those times, I always scored either an ENFP or an INFP. Here are some blurbs about those results:

This time, I actually did score slightly differently: INTP. The logician. Here are some blurbs about that:

Honestly, I can see myself in both.

Maybe I’m a logical empath?

CockLESS: this amBIGuous life

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 12 Dec 2021 18:22:00 +0000

***Trigger warning: poetry***

The thing about healing is the ing

Healing is a to-be-continued kinda thing

A cliff hanger

Not healed. Not health.

Not a lotta hells yeah we done

More like put a pin in it, be prepared

Cause the it from which

You think you've healed

Can pop back up

When you least expect it--shit!

Dropping you face down on the ground

Flailing, failing

Again and again and again

Shit!

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!

I'm a tough bitch

A built up bigger, better bitch

A Nietzschean, that which didn't kill me makes me stronger big bitch

I am a GODDAMN heavyweight champion

Of this ambiguous life

I've got decades of defenses

Brain trained

Skills to kill dementors trying

To torment me into oblivion

But, I know no champion

That has ever learned how

To block a sucker punch

***Trigger warning: sexual abuse. Early childhood, young adult, and, evidently, even middle-age-bordering-on-old-lady sexual abuse.***

It was getting close to closing time. Please do not cue that 90s era rock song. We weren't at a bar. The lights were about to go from bright to dim, not the other way around. Just a regular Saturday late-afternoon at the public library, ushering families out the door, stickers in the hands of the littlest kids, stacks of books in the arms of older siblings. Parents jingling car keys, trying their best at this parenting thing--moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas and nannies and neighbors and foster care guardians collecting their kids, heading to the parking lot, and on to dinner at home or to their next errand.

I paint an idyllic image of my neighborhood public library. Some of you more cynical folks might say it's fake. Art and memories are often subjective, but that doesn't make them untrue. Sure, it's not all happy families spending time together on a Saturday at the public library. We have many adults and teens I suspect are struggling. Sitting alone on the public PCs all day, searching for jobs, friends, and even dates on a box with a screen and a connection to the world wide web. Not the real world, but that doesn't make it untrue.

I begrudge solo surfers nothing. If I hadn't somehow stumbled into this self-assured version of myself, I am certain I'd still be searching for a found family of my own. I spent the first three decades of my life mostly miserable, searching for connections lost before my memories were fully formed.

You know the story. I'm the youngest of six, the baby of the family. My birth order connotes a child with doting parents, rigid rocky rules smoothed to skipping stones over the years by the forces of my older siblings' acts of defiance and compliance. By rights I should have been a completely spoiled child, and in some ways I was, but not completely. My parents had both been married to other people before they each divorced and married each other and then had me. My oldest sister, Glenda, is my dad's child from his first marriage to Shirley. Glenda was 15 when I was born, and I never lived with her, since her mom got custody after our dad left their family. My mom had custody of her kids when she married my dad, two years after she had divorced her first husband, Jim, the father of her other four children--Jay, Kit, Pat, and Jenny, who were 12, 10, 9, and 7 when I was born in late November 1970, just a few weeks before Christmas, a live baby doll gift from Santa to my sisters Kit and Jenny if you believe the tales they tell me. I do.

Kit says she couldn't sleep the night before I was born, so she got up and went to the dining room to practice walking back and forth, positioning her hands so she could hold a pretend new baby's head upon her shoulder. Trying to get it just right. As Kit practiced her steps, Mom was in the hospital, scheduled to have her labor induced the next morning, since I was overdue. Instead, after fifteen minutes of painless labor if you believe my mom (I do and I don't,) at 4:45am, I came into this word naturally, caught by two nurses before Mom's doctor had a chance to get there. Female nurses. If it were still 1970, that would be implied. But it's 2021, and now male nurses are not an unusual thing. Gender lines are blurry now. Gender discrimination is still real, but with these blurring lines, like the best Impressionist paintings hanging at the Nelson Atkins Museum, the views lead to profound beauty and deeper understanding.

Here's a sad story with a happy ending:

Mom said she only saw my Dad cry twice. Once when his mother died, and once when I was born. I could stop there and let you assume what you will. Tears of grief for the death of his mother. Tears of joy for the birth of his baby. But no, both times the tears fell from grief. I was not the son Dad had been hoping for. Patriarchal bullshit like this used to hurt my feelings. But, now, time has passed, and so has my dad. When he died in my living room at the age of 90, his last words were, "I love you all."

I am extremely difficult not to love, despite my missing penis.

Actually, isn't it the other way around? I'm not missing anything. A girl is not simply a cockless boy. Am I misremembering Biology 101? Isn't it true that we all begin as fetuses with tiny little clits, and only if our mothers release androgenic hormones do our sex glands grow into penises? Or do our X and Y chromosomes figure out all that bullshit beforehand? Honestly, I don't care. Whether born with a cock or not, we should all be so lucky as to have our last words be, "I love you all."

Also, I love who I am. It's taken a long time to do so, but I do. And I don't just love myself. I like me, too. I'm kinda ecstatic sitting here thinking about how much I've overcome to be the badass that I am today. Everybody loves an underdog. As I've said a time or two, high self-esteem has not always resided inside me. Those first three decades of my life were rough. I was a cockless child living in a patriarchal society. I was a fat kid living in a fat phobic world. I was neurodivergent before such jargon was in the common lexicon. I was repeatedly sexually abused from the ages of three to five. I began developing breasts in third grade and soon thereafter began catching cocky people staring at my chest as we conversed, as if my eyes had migrated to where my nipples are. I was sent to Weight Watchers in third grade. I was diagnosed with anorexia in fifth grade. I lost my breasts! Hallelujah! But then they grew back when I began eating again.

You have to eat to live, my friends.

I'm currently at the beginning of my sixth decade here on earth, and my breasts are still growing. My bra size is brought to you today by the number 48 and the letter H. Evidently, breast development--at least mine--is not something you outgrow in adulthood.

Fortunately, most days, I feel confidently that my body is nobody's business but my own. I hear my peers complaining that, as the decades pass, they feel like they're losing their looks. My fellow women in their fifties feel overlooked by a culture that deifies youthful beauty. Honestly? I welcome it. Look elsewhere. This show is closed. I am so ready to settle into my happy role as a big fat babushka.

But that's the trouble. No matter how hard I fight it, I am a product of my culture. The fact that I relish my fat rolls, my heavy breasts, my cankles--my role as a fabled babushka--shows that I believe that getting older and fatter means I'm automatically disqualifying myself from the dating game. Because certainly no one's looking to tap this grey-haired saggy ass.

Wrong.

I found out yesterday that even if I don't want it, I still got it.

It was closing time. Idyllic public library. I'm too busy helping patrons check out to notice I'm being checked out. But there he was, standing in front of me, holding out a piece of paper. I had been helping him off an on all afternoon, thinking nothing of it. I took the note from him. I looked at it. It took a minute for me to find that sweet spot on my progressive lenses where I can read small print up close. The note was hand written. OK handwriting, legible enough. Is that a call number? What section of the library's Dewey Decimal System begins with 913? Isn't that the travel section--wait--the ancient world? Or, wait, is that the African origin of civilization section? Mitochondrial Eve? Venus of Willendorf?

My ADHD brain--with the emphasis on the H as in hyperactive--easily bounces all over the place, making connections more typical brains often miss. It can be a blessing or a curse. It's a blessing when I beat your ass at a rousing game of Scattergories, or when I'm trying to interpret a patron question asked with a lack of clarity. But it can also be a curse, as in when my brain is heading to ancient Africa instead of paying attention to the African-American man standing right in front of me, smiling in a way that looks like the only thing he's interested in studying is my body.

Oh. That's not a call number. That's a phone number.

Oh. That's his phone number.

I continued reading below the number, holding the slip of paper out far enough that my progressive lenses could focus on the words.

If you would like to experience waves of pleasure throughout your beautiful body by my big black cock, give me a call.

I looked him right in the eye--or rather, I tried to make eye contact, which is difficult when the other person is looking at your nipple-eyes--and shrieked, in my best Alexis Rose voice, "Ewwwwwww! No!" And then I turned to walk away, saying, "I'm married." As if I had to give him an excuse for why I was reacting to his suggestion with revulsion.

Let me stop here a minute. Here's a lesson for those of you who somehow missed the day when it became obvious to the rest of us:

It is not OK to hit on someone at work. Whether you are also at work or not. I suspect this situation happens to other cockless people a lot, too, if they work with the general public, and the cocky people in particular. Restaurant servers, nurses, librarians. There we are, just trying to do our jobs. Feeding you, healing you, body, mind, and soul. We're not here for your sexual advances. That's what bars are for. That's what Tinder is for. You hit on me a my job at the public library? Nope. That's a big swipe left. I don't care how big your cock is.

I wish I'd had the gumption to say all this to my nonconsensual, not-so-secret admirer. But he caught me off guard with his cocky sucker punch.

I began proceeding through the Kubler-Ross Grief Cycle, which I've noticed also applies to sexual abuse survivors who are suddenly confronted by newly unwanted sexual aggression. At least that's how it is for me.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

Denial: Certainly this 30-something guy can't possibly be making sexual advances toward me, a 50-something, fat, grey-haired babushka. I must be misunderstanding this situation. That's a call number. Not his phone number. He's looking for a book about Ancient African fertility goddesses. He's not looking at this modern American library goddess. Right?

Anger: Who the FUCK does this cocky bastard think he is? I'm a GODDAMN children's librarian. I'm wearing sensible shoes. My cardigan is hanging right over THERE.

Bargaining: Oh, I see. Maybe if I hadn't taken my cardigan off none of this would have happened.

Anger again: I mean, I was running around trying to help everyone get out of there. I'm fat, perimenopausal, and the Sertraline I take for PTSD has a side effect of excessive sweating. I'm not out here flaunting my body. I'm just a sweaty old lady here trying to do her job.

Depression: Ugh. I mean. Jeez. Here we go again. I've been objectified by cocky bastards since I was three years old. When is it all going to end? I'm so tired. So, so tired. Of it all.

Acceptance:

Nah. Nope. Never.

I will never ever ever accept unsolicited sexual advances from anyone. My body belongs to me.

My fat, old body is not for society to shame.

My big boobs and booty are not for cocky bastards to ogle.

I will never, ever accept it.

When I was young, I was told not to talk about it.

Now that I am older and wiser I write about things you're not supposed to talk about.

I had to get home. To clock off and get to my blog. If I can get home and start to write about how I feel, I will feel better.

But I have another job. On the drive home, I began to cry. I'm a mother. That's my real job. I make a living by working at the library, but my number one job is being Kat's mom. I'm crying. I'm upset. What am I going to tell her when I get home? She's so empathetic. It pains her to see me in pain. I have never told her about my history of sexual abuse because I know it will hurt her, and this pain is not hers to feel for me. She is not my therapist. She is not my spouse. She is not my friend. She is my 15-year-old daughter, and one of these days she's going to find out that her mother is the victim of early, ongoing childhood sexual abuse and it's going to make her crumble. She knows I have PTSD, but she thinks it's from other trauma I experienced as a kid--verbal and emotional abuse from my angry father, my parents sending me to Weight Watchers in 3rd grade, growing up with a mom who herself had been involuntarily committed to the mental ward at the hospital on two separate occasions where she received electroshock therapy, before I was even born. Told by my grandmother and siblings to be careful not to hurt mom or she'll have to go back to the hospital. Smile. Don't cry. Don't get upset. Everything is fine. Protect Mom from your hurt.

And now I'm trying to protect my child from my hurt.

I pulled into our driveway. I went inside and told my husband what happened. Kat was in her bedroom, so we were able to talk quietly in the kitchen. There was no time to blog, yet. But I had to talk to someone. A professional. Someone who would understand. I took my phone out to my car and called the employee assistance program mental health line.

The phone rang, and a robot answered.

A guidance consultant will be with you shortly. We have been the premier employee behavior health management system for more than thirty years. Please hold for the next available guidance consultant...It's the holidays, which means it's harder to stay on top of our diet and fitness goals, which is leading to a healthcare crisis. Did you know that the CDC estimates that over 40 percent of Americans are obese?

You don't say? Wow. I had no idea. Thanks, Robot, for reminding me, once again that I'm a fat fuck who is going to die early and be a drain on society's health insurance industry.

We can schedule an appointment with a guidance consultant to discuss healthy weight management...

Nah. Nope. Never. Please just connect me with a guidance consultant so I can discuss how I FUCKING HATE LIVING IN A SOCIETY THAT SEXUALLY OBJECTIFIES LITTLE GIRLS AND OLD WOMEN AND EVERYONE IN BETWEEN AND THAT ALSO CONSTANTLY BOMBARDS US WITH INFORMATION THAT OUR BODIES ARE UNHEALTHY AND A BURDEN AND JUST WRONG.

After waiting on hold for ten minutes, and hearing the message about scheduling an appointment to discuss healthy weight management five times, I hung up the phone.

I cried a little. I took deep breaths. I tried to push aside six decades worth of flashbacks of unsolicited cocks in my face. I wanted to go into my bedroom closet and cry myself to sleep like I did when I was a little girl.

Instead, I called the MOCSA crisis hotline: 913-642-0233. Someone picked up the phone right away. We talked. She listened. I cried. We laughed. She reminded me what a GODDAMN HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION of my own life I am.

She's connecting me with a therapist who specializes in helping survivors of sexual abuse so I can talk some more and continue healing.

Someone’s Special Reward

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 25 Apr 2021 14:48:00 +0000

At the public library where I work, a mom and her kiddo, age four-ish, stopped by to check out some picture books.

Mom explains that they are big fans of my Friday evening online storytime. In fact, “If [insert kiddo’s name] has a good week at preschool, his special reward is to get to watch Miss Becky's Friday evening online storytime with his little brother.”

My heart burst. Right there. In the middle of the public library.

I am someone’s special reward?

What an honor. I swear, if I could go back in time and talk to teenage-me, the awkward, socially anxious, angsty outcast who fantasized about being a famous singer, author, or movie star to fulfil the emptiness and self-loathing I actually felt inside, I'd tell that girl that everything will work out just fine. I might never get to recite my "thank you" speech at the Grammys, the Oscars, or when I pick up my Nobel Prize for literature, but my storytime is someone’s special reward.

I remember how much I loved my own storytime librarian when I was this kiddo’s age. Grownups, remember: everyone has an important role in this village. Raising kids is a heroic act. You might not see yourself as a hero, but some kid out there sure does. Be the hero that kid thinks you are.

Alcoholism is on the rise

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 24 Feb 2021 14:58:00 +0000

Alcoholism is on the rise.

My brother died at age 49 of alcoholic liver failure. I do not see his case as an individual failure, but as a systemic societal failure.

Here are some ways I have learned that those of us who do not struggle with alcohol abuse can help our brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors who do:

Encourage our federal and state governments to pass Medicare for all legislation. Alcoholism is a disease that needs a team of doctors and mental health care providers to treat the whole person. If a person has no affordable health care, they will continue to struggle.

Encourage local, state, and federal governments to legalize the medical use of marijuana. Many people, including my brother, began self-medicating with marijuana but turned to alcohol after getting into legal trouble. Marijuana prescriptions from doctors are safer treatments for pain and anxiety than alcohol.

Work with church leaders, educators, and families to dismantle the patriarchy. Toxic masculinity and femininity teaches us to repress natural human emotions. Often people abuse alcohol as a way to numb uncomfortable emotions.

Work with our communities to dismantle classism. Encourage working class people to feel pride in their jobs. Every worker deserves a living wage and the knowledge that their work is a piece of the whole that supports our economy. Encourage upper class people to focus their talents and strengths on making the world a better place for humanity rather than solely focusing on their individual bank accounts.

Cultivate a sense of belonging for all individual people. Alcoholism, like drug overdose and suicide, are “deaths of despair.” Work with your community to be inclusive so more people feel the support and love that all humans need to survive.

QAnon Shaman Jake Angeli to host third reboot of The Biggest Loser, unreliable sources say [satire]

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Tue, 12 Jan 2021 19:59:00 +0000

This just in, Trump TV has brokered a deal with USA Network to hire Jake Angeli, aka the QAnon Shaman, to host a third reboot of The Biggest Loser, one of reality TV's most lucrative franchises.

An ureliable source tells us the idea came to President Trump after staffers read him a quote from Angeli’s mother, Martha Chansley.

"He gets very sick if he doesn't eat organic food—literally will get physically sick," the suspect's mother explained.

Angeli refuses to eat while being held in federal custody.

Another unreliable source has retrieved a leaked document from the Trump Administration, which appears to be a script. Here is the full transcript:

Episode 1: After a physically demanding insurrection workout, Jake demands organic-only food as he recharges in federal custody.

Meanwhile, Ku Klux Klan members challenge The Proud Boys, Anti-Vaxers, and QAnon supporters to lose ten pounds by Inauguration Day.

Klan Member 1: “This was not the year to buy the new slim cut robes with the face-hugging hood. As it is now, I can’t be seen wearing it. Not that I’m not a proud white power fighter. I just can’t even! If any pictures of my fat face get leaked to the public. Ugh! Eight days. That’s all I need to fast so my cheeks will be nice and hollow for the Insurrection Day red carpet on January 20.”

QAnon Supporter: “Same, girl! We might be opponents on this Biggest Loser challenge, but I feel you. I can barely show my face in public too. Not that I’m ashamed of being outed as a white supremacist. What I’m ashamed of is this pandemic-15 that’s all gone to my ass. Thank God the pedophiles picked a pizza joint to run their satanic cabal. It’s really helped my willpower to stay away from all those carbs and grease.”

The Marvelous Miss Carleton

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 16 Dec 2020 17:29:00 +0000

From a young age, Kat has been drawn to irreverent comedy. Starting at age seven, she binge-watched the entire series of “Futurama” multiple times. Next came “Phineas and Ferb,” “Bob’s Burgers,” “Uncle Grandpa,” and “Rick and Morty.” I didn’t love it when she moved on to Jim Gaffigan stand-up specials, not because he talks about adult themes—I mean, just because her former comedic obsessions were cartoons, they aren’t exactly full of child-like innocence—but because I worried Gaffigan’s incessant self-deprecating fat-guy jokes would influence Kat into believing the anti-fat bullshit fed to us from the billion dollar diet industry. Gaffigan’s funny, though, and I’ve found that the more I restrict Kat’s pop culture consumption, the more she sneaks. I’d rather she watch with me instead of behind my back so I can chime in with counter arguments.

“He’s got great timing and what he is saying is funny, but I don’t like how he equates fatness with disease. If you dismiss the studies paid for by people who profit off the billion dollar diet industry, most scientific research shows that fatness does not necessarily lead to disease. Correlation is not the same as causation. Some thin people can be unhealthy just as some fat people can be unhealthy, so really—“

“—Mommy, I know. I know," she’d interrupt. "Can you please unpause it? I gotta leave for school in a minute. If I don’t see where he goes with this bit it’s gonna drive me crazy all day.”

“Well, you don’t need that kind of distraction to ruin your school day, now do you?” I'd say.

After plowing through Gaffigan’s life work, Kat moved on to other stand-up specials by Demetri Martin, Josh Johnson, and the like. Then, she discovered John Mulaney. She’s been on a Mulaney kick for a solid two years now.

“Bojack Horseman” is a recent addition to Kat’s playlist. Instead of replacing her love of all-things-Mulaney, she’s learning that it’s possible to fangirl over multiple pop culture icons at a time. She’s evolved from being an irreverent comedy serial monogamist to being an irreverent comedy polygamist.

In fact, now she’s toying with a third current comedy crush: “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.”

The other day, Kat was watching a YouTube video about fashion and décor trends from past decades.

“I’m really getting into the whole 1950s-era look," she said. "Ya know, like, bullet bras and clean lines in furniture."

“I think that’s called mid-century modern,” I said.

“Well if it’s from the 50s, it’s not exactly modern,” Kat said.

“It was modern-ish a couple of decades ago when that term came about,” I said.

Kat shrugged.

“Oh, I know! You’d like Mrs. Maisel,” I said.

“Who’s Mrs. Maisel?” Kat asked.

“The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel," I explained. "It’s a series on Prime. It’s about this upper-middle class Jewish housewife who befriends Lenny Bruce and hires this butch lesbian manager who helps her get gigs at crappy clubs in Greenwich Village that launch her stand-up career in the late 50s."

Before I finished my last sentence, Kat had turned on the Roku, queued up the first episode and plopped her butt next to me on the couch. Her feet were freezing under my blanket, but I didn’t complain for fear I’d scare her away. It’s nice when she wants to spend time with her old lady. Watching “Mom’s shows” is not exactly a 14-year-old’s first priority. I get it. When I was Kat’s age, my mom used to call me out of my bedroom.

“Come watch ‘Moonlighting’ with me,” Mom would say after knocking on my door.

“Mom. Ugh. I have homework,” I’d counter. Honestly, I was mostly likely just sitting in front of my mirror popping pimples while listening to The Smith’s “The Queen Is Dead” for the thousandth time. I always technically had homework. I just wasn’t technically good at doing it. I wonder why.

“Do it later! Come on, it’s starting!” Mom would say, shuffling off down the hall.

I always followed.

This sort of directness, this “Mom’s show” manipulation, doesn’t work with my daughter. At fourteen, she’s already smarter than me and has no problem advocating for her own alone-time needs. When I invite Kat out to the living room to watch most of the shows I like, she has no problem saying no. So, when she does sit next to me on the couch, I accept her, gleefully, icy feet and all.

We’re now on season 1, episode 4 of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. Actually, I’m already on season 3, episode 5, but I’m re-watching the first season with the marvelous Miss Carleton. As I write this, I’m on the couch next to Kat as she sits in front of her school-issued MacBook doing school work. It’s all I can do not to queue up an episode of our show on the Roku and convince Kat that she can focus on school later. But I can wait. She'll be done with her school work in no time.

The good thing about remote learning during a pandemic is that there’s no such thing as homework anymore. I mean, all school work when you’re in online school is technically “home” work, but it’s not extraneous busy work you’re expected to keep up with after school, while Mom's knocking at your door, pleading with you to come watch TV with her. I’m luckier than my mom was. With streaming series on Prime, and online school, my kid and I aren’t committed to a one-hour block of prime time on network TV like my mom and I were back in the 80s. If I took time to finish my homework instead of heading out to the living room at the top of the hour, I'd miss the show. No replay. No rewind. Just have to wait til summer reruns. What a disappointment to my mother. It’s easier to parent patiently in the era of on-demand.

Oh, look! Kat closed her MacBook. It's showtime.

The scourge of humanity

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Mon, 16 Nov 2020 16:25:00 +0000

I write this post while simultaneously overhearing my 14-year-old daughter's video for remote school health class about the ill effects of drinking alcohol, and reading a news report that our County Commissioners continue to allow bars to remain open during this escalating pandemic, even though our public schools are struggling to keep staffing levels optimal for both in-person and remote learning.

Our priorities are turned upside down.

From this post:

New Johnson County health order draws mixed reactions | Coronavirus | kctv5.com

Part of the new order in Johnson County requires restaurants and bars to close at midnight instead of 2 a.m...

“I think it sounds like it’s an attempt to do something without really doing anything. To be honest,” Dr. Larson said.

“While I applaud the fact that something is being done, I think we need to go further,” Dr. Larson said. “A gathering of 49 is just as dangerous as a gathering of 51. Especially if it’s inside. So I think it’s an attempt to do something without angering the base of people who are adamant about not doing it.”

“I think that the medical community would be all in agreement that we need to do what we can to stop the spread of the disease. Obviously nobody wants to see an entire lockdown, but we also understand that we need to do what’s right, even if it’s hard,” he said.

If I were in charge, we would do what's right, even if it's hard.

We would close everything except essential services for our community as a whole.
We would keep open schools, police, fire, and other essential public service departments, public libraries, gas stations, and grocery stores until we get control of this novel coronavirus.
Everyone else in the community would be furloughed and receive unemployment insurance.
If former bar, restaurant, and retail staff preferred to work instead of staying at home, they could be on a team directed by County Health that focuses on a coordinated home delivery system for food, medicine, and other essentials that would be provided to everyone in our community.
Workers who are not on unemployment would receive the first batch of vaccine for free.
Once we have more vaccine available, everyone would receive it for free.
Once we have eradicated the coronavirus, bars, restaurants, and retail stores could open again, and workers could get off of unemployment.

This puts the priority on education, basic needs, and the community as a whole.

Instead, our County Commissioners prioritize profit over people. They give in to adults who whine about the inconvenience of not being able to drink wine with their friends in a bar as scientists, parents, and educators soberly face reality. My daughter learns about the dangers of alcoholism in remote school at home, unable to socialize with her peers or experience high school life in-person, while selfish adults gather at bars to drink and socialize with their peers. The scourge of humanity is not the disease itself, but our inability to unite and fight against it.

I love you, whoever you voted for

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Mon, 09 Nov 2020 15:35:00 +0000

Excellent analysis from Ari Melber, quoting Shakespeare and Tupac:

Trump is going, going, gone. Still, we're stuck with ourselves.

The most disturbing ah-ha moment in the clip above is when Melber points this out: when you walk into a room full of registered white voters, most of them voted for Donald Trump. Not in 2016, but in 2020. After all Trump has done to disenfranchise our BIPOC brothers and sisters during his four years in power, a majority of white people still chose hate over love.

White people: we can do better.

White people: now is the time.

White people: listen.

Now is the time for us to stop and listen to Black, Indigenous, and People of Color. We need to unlearn the biases and bigotry ingrained into us since birth as citizens of a country founded on the morally reprehensible ideas and actions of white supremacy.

Now is the time to open our hearts and our minds, to accept the call to love our neighbors—ALL our neighbors—as we love ourselves.

White people: if you struggle to love your BIPOC neighbors, start with yourself. A person who truly loves themself has no room for hatred of others.

Despite my political beliefs, I love you, whoever you voted for. I have no room in my heart for hatred. Let’s listen and learn and grow, together. Love is an action verb.

The Pandemic Slide

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sat, 10 Oct 2020 19:52:00 +0000

I'm not a fan of standardized tests. At our 14-year-old Kat’s public school they are mandatory. Each year the teachers and administrators start freaking out and reminding parents to make sure their kids eat a good breakfast and get plenty of sleep the night before a Big Test.

This year everyone seemed to be especially anxious over the results. Due to the pandemic, students went home for Spring Break and never returned for in person learning. They skipped the spring Big Test, which was fine by me.

Kat has still not been back inside a physical classroom since March. She chose remote learning, which, as an introvert, she loves. She says it’s less distracting to be in a virtual classroom where most students have their mics muted so she can actually focus on what the teacher says instead of having to deal with a bunch of rowdy, chatty teens around her.

Not only did I not ensure that Kat got plenty of sleep the night before, but I also did not oversee her breakfast to ensure it had the proper balance of nutrients. I slept in. In fact, I’d forgotten it was Big Test day until nearly noon when Kat came out of her bedroom only long enough to shush her librarian mom. The stereotype of a shushing librarian is a fallacy, especially someone like me who works in the children’s department of a public library. I am always more apt to get shushed than to do any shushing myself. My family knows it. I am an extrovert living in a 935 square foot house with three introverts. Shushing happens.

“Mom, could you please lower your voice? I’m taking my reading MAP test. I need silence.”

Me, whisper-shouting as Kat turned to walk back to her bedroom, “Sorry!”

Will, whisper-laughing at me, “Notice she said, ‘Mom be quiet’ not Dad.”

A bit later, Kat came out of her room for lunch.

“Sorry I disturbed your test. How did it go?” I said.

“Oh, it’s OK. You didn’t know I was taking a MAP test.” Kat said. “I did great, though.”

“Oh, you already got your score?”

“Yep. It’s all automated so you get your score right away. I scored two points higher than last December on my RIT score, and my Lexile increased by ten points.”

“Increased?” I said. “What happened to the ‘summer slide’ or, for that matter, the ‘spring-summer slide’? They should call it the pandemic slide,” I said.

When under stress, I try to pay as little attention to the outside world and just focus on what I have control over—namely, myself. It might sound selfish, but it’s the only way I can keep my anxiety from spiraling out of control. I have a natural inclination toward over-functioning as the great Dr. Harriet Lerner calls it. If I don’t keep myself in check, I start worrying about everyone else and neglect myself. Then I get pissed off at everyone else I’ve been worrying about because how dare they not change the way I think they should, and look at all this time I’ve spent worrying about them and they don’t even have the decency to let me control them?!

Yeah, I’m a recovered hot mess. Well, recovering hot mess, I should say. It’s hard not to worry about my 14-year-old daughter and my husband and my mother-in-law who lives with us, and all my friends and family and community members during a fucking pandemic. But I do the best I can.

Despite my best efforts to not pay attention to people and things I can’t control, friends keep inviting me to various social media groups where it seems the sole purpose is to rant about how shitty our school board members are and how shitty our county commissioners are and how shitty our other local elected officials are and WHY CAN’T MY KID PLAY FOOTBALL RIGHT NOW HE’S GONNA LOSE HIS SCHOLARSHIPS. I swear, groups like that stress me out even more than I stress myself out. I don’t need to focus on everyone else’s worries. I manufacture plenty on my own.

However, like a train wreck, it’s hard to look away. I’ve noticed many parents are freaking out that their kids are going to succumb to not just a typical year’s “summer slide” where students’ standardized test scores drop over summer vacation, but that their kids are going to lose out on the quality education that comes with in person learning due to Governor Kelly’s state-wide stay-at-home orders, which began in full force last spring, but by now have petered out to, “Well, I wish you would stay-at-home, but since I’m a Democrat in a red state with a Republican-led state legislature, I’m not going to mandate anything and let each county decide how to handle this global pandemic.” Parents are freaking out that their kids got shitty, slapped together at the last minute virtual school in the spring and with the new academic year they were at first told everyone would start the school year in remote learning only and eventually parents could choose whether or not their student could go to a hybrid model of some in-person learning and some stay-at-home learning. They are worried that our school district will not remain competitive, which is another way of saying they worry our kids are going to test poorly and we’ll lose Federal funding for our public schools.

It’s a bunch of crap. Whose idea was it to give funds to schools that test the best? If we’re going to use standardized tests to measure students’ success, shouldn’t funding go to the schools that have the worst test scores so they can hire more teachers and purchase more materials to help kids test better?

Also, who the hell are we competing against? The whole world is a shitshow right now. If our students have to all basically repeat a year once we get a vaccine and eradicate this current plague, so what? Won’t everybody basically need to repeat a year? Why can’t we just chill out, stay at home, and when it’s safe to venture out into the world again, have a do over year?

I was thinking about all of this when I realized that Kat had said something about her Lexile score.

“What’s your Lexile now?”

“I just said. I don’t know. 15-something-something. Close to 1600,” Kat shrugged.

“So pretty much still college level?” I smiled. This kid’s Big Test score has been at the college level since fifth or sixth grade. It’s something I want to feel proud about, but at the same time, since I think standardized tests are bullshit, it feels weird to gloat.

“Yep,” Kat said.

“So how did you not succumb to the pandemic slide? I bring books home from the library all the time and I never see you pick them up,” I said.

This is a fact that most librarian parents will acknowledge. When they’re little and love to sit in your lap, librarians’ kids squeal with joy when their parents bring books home for them. By the time they’re old enough to think sitting in your lap is gross, suddenly every book you think they’d like is lame.

“Mom, you say so yourself all the time. Nobody wants to be told what to read. I like to read what I like to read.”

I patted her shoulder, “Yes, yes. You’ve got that right. Once someone tells me I should read a book I suddenly lose all interest. So, what have you been reading lately that’s keeping the gears in your brain well lubed?”

Kat looked at me like I was an idiot. You know, the way I looked at my mom when I was 14. “Well lubed? Gross, Mom.”

We both laughed.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “What’s kept you from succumbing to the pandemic slide?”

“I dunno,” Kat said. “I’ve mostly been reading manga. And, I guess I have been reading a lot of Hamilton’s letters,” she said as if it were an afterthought.

“Alexander Hamilton’s letters? You mean, like, The Federalist Papers?”

Now don’t go thinking this has anything to do with my influence. The only reason I know that Hamilton is the author of most of The Federalist Papers is because Kat made me watch Hamilton with her on Disney+ as soon as it was released this summer.

“Yeah,” Kat said. “The Federalist Papers and, you know, just some of the letters he wrote to his family and friends. I found this website that has all of Hamilton’s letters you can read online. They’re fascinating. He has a real way with words.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I’m not worried about you.”

“Finally,” Kat said and rolled her eyes.

Don’t be the kid who makes us all lose out on recess

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Tue, 09 Jun 2020 03:14:00 +0000

You know the kid in school who wouldn’t listen to the teacher’s instructions and so the teacher would hold the entire class hostage inside the classroom, denying our precious recess time until the non-complying kid got back on task, basically punishing all the rule-followers in class? That’s how I feel about my fellow citizens who aren’t following CDC social distancing guidelines during the re-opening of the country. Remember, we are STILL in the midst of a pandemic with no vaccine and no cure.

image source

I really want to take my kid to the caves in southern Missouri before she leaves home for college. I want to take her to San Francisco to see the sea lions and to have a cup of tea at Cafe Flore in the Castro district. I want to take her to New York City to explore the Museum of Natural History and the Met and to see a show on Broadway. I want to take her to DC to see the The National Museum of African American History and Culture and to peacefully protest outside the White House. I want to take her to Yellowstone National Park and to the Great Smokey Mountains. I want to take her to Chicago to ride the L train and to New Orleans to taste a beignet and listen to jazz. I want to take her to swim in the oceans and hike along the Appalachian Trail. I want to do all of these things before she goes off to college, but I am afraid to take her to the grocery store just down the street because a few reckless people can’t follow these simple directions from the CDC:

Social Distancing: Keep Your Distance to Slow the Spread

Do not gather in groups.

Stay out of crowded places and avoid mass gatherings.

Limit close contact with others outside your household in indoor and outdoor spaces.

Avoid gatherings of any size outside your household, such as a friend’s house, parks, restaurants, shops, or any other place. This advice applies to people of any age, including teens and younger adults. Children should not have in-person playdates while school is out.

Please, as our public spaces begin opening back up, listen to the advice of our nation’s infectious disease authority. The more you ignore them, the longer we wait for the reward we all deserve for the hard work we have done socially distancing ourselves these past few months.

Read with your kids, especially when you don't know the words

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 07 Jun 2020 17:56:00 +0000

Early today, on this Sunday morning after three days of grieving its loss, my faith in humanity has been restored. Not by a preacher man but by two little kids and their parents. It feels good to make a comeback in my belief that human beings are inherently good, that evil has not won, that love and compassion can transform my empty shell of doubt into a vessel full of hope. This must be how Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome felt when they greeted a resurrected Jesus outside the tomb.

Hallelujah!

This restoration of my faith in humanity came from, in my experience, an historically unlikely place: local TV news. I prefer to keep abreast of current events from non-partisan media with strong journalistic integrity. Trustworthy media sources such as NPR and PBS Newshour.

I've largely avoided watching local TV news in my adult life. My parents were local TV news junkies. My mom to check the weather, my dad to keep his finger on the pulse of the community. As a kid I thought the local TV news was boring, so I mostly ignored it even while it was blasting from our living room. As a teenager, local TV news caught my attention mostly in soundbites that I'd use to flame the eternal fire of arguments I had with my dad. By the time I was an adult my dad and I had cooled most of our conflict and I stopped paying attention to local TV news unless there was some kind of emergency happening.

For the longest time my husband and I didn't even have a TV that would tune in the local news. At age forty-nine it fills me with extreme pride to brag to the fact that I have never once in my life bought a TV. I've owned lots of hand-me-down TVs over the years. For example, in 2009 when the FCC forced the switch from analog to digital, my mom didn't want to fool with getting a digital converter box, so she just bought a new TV that came equipped to broadcast digital signals. She gave us her "old" TV which was fine with us because it worked with DVDs, which is mainly what we used it for. This was back when my mom lived in Nebraska. She routinely called me to let me know it was going to rain that day so I'd better take an umbrella to work. I'd glance outside to see with my own eyes that it was already raining, and I'd get annoyed with Mom for treating me so childishly, but now that she's gone I miss her reminders, however unnecessary. I realize now it's not what you say but just the fact that you say something that matters most in maintaining a good relationship with our loved ones.

I've been watching more local TV news lately for three reasons.

1) My mother-in-law moved in with us. She like both of my parents before her, routinely watches the local TV news.

2) We are in the middle of a global pandemic. Most of my favorite news sources focus on how COVID-19 is spreading throughout the world, and throughout the nation, but not specifically in my region. With a virus that spreads from close person-to-person contact, I find I feel less panicky when I'm able to mitigate my risk of transmission before heading out to pick up my anti-anxiety meds at the local pharmacy. During times of uncertainty, I want all the facts. Give it to me straight. Don't sugar coat it. Tell me what we're dealing with so I can make rational choices.

3) We live in the suburbs of Kansas City, right smack in the middle of a nation of Black Lives Matter activism. I want to see how these protests are panning out so I know which people in power in my community I need to send my complaints to if they continue propping up the racist status quo.

That's how I stumbled onto this faith-restoring piece from KCTV5:

Kids in Lee’s Summit come together, ride against racism by Zoe Brown and Abby Dodge. Posted on Jun 5, 2020. Highlights:

Weslee Rhodes, 8, read a book about racism and told her mom the next time there was someone to stand up for, she wanted to help. That time came on May 25, 2020 in Minneapolis.

“Our heart just breaks for that situation,” said Kimberly Wegleitner. “George Floyd deserved better. Black people deserve better.”
Weslee’s mom admits she has a tough time talking to her kids about race.

“I know it’s really important, but it’s hard for us to do that and we don’t necessarily know the words,” said Meg Rhodes, who also organized the event. “If I’m experiencing that, I’m wondering if a lot of other people are.”

So, she connected with Thompson on Facebook to create a way for their community to celebrate diversity.

I am a children's librarian. In my profession, I regularly read to children during storytime. I also regularly answer reading recommendation requests from parents and caregivers who want to read with their children on a particular topic. Not only do I strongly advocate for the public library as a professional, the public library is in my blood. I grew up going to our local public library for storytime three times a week with my mom before I started kindergarten, and after that, at least once every three weeks to pick out books for both my parents and myself. Going to the local public library was as regular as going to the grocery store or the gas station. It was just some regular routine my parents and I did when I was growing up.

No big shock that I gravitated toward working in the public library. At age twenty-two, just barely a grownup myself, I got my job at the library where I still work today, twenty-seven years later.

I have spent my life surrounded by words. I understand their power. I understand the transformational power of books. I understand that books educate us about things we don't understand. For kids, who believe that their parents understand everything, it's unsettling when they discover their parents don't know the words to explain everything. As a parent, I understand how much of a failure I feel like when I don't know the words to answer my child's questions.

Today, there's a lot of things none of us understands about the world. To help alleviate my anxiety about all the unknowns, I turn to books. None of us knows the words to explain all the world's problems. But everyone knows some words that explain some things. And they can share those words with other people. And those people can add those words to the words they already know and share them with even more people.

No one likes to be caught not knowing the words. All of us can lean on each other to help us discover new words, which help form new ways of thinking, and that new way of thinking is how gradually, over time, the moral arc of the universe bends far enough that we start to see justice on the horizon. It gives us the hope we need to carry on.

I was raised by two imperfect parents. My guess is you were, too.

I was raised by two parents who did the best they could with what they had. My guess is you were, too.

In my forty-nine years, I've encountered no one who cannot say the same.

Words raised me up. I learned to speak my mind by arguing with my dad. I learned that pens win over swords from my artist mom. Both of my parents modeled for me a love of reading and patronizing the public library. They didn't always "know the words," when confronted by my challenging questions. But they knew where to find them. Knowing where to find the words inside books from the public library is the greatest gift my parents gave me. That I have the honor now to help patrons of our public library know where to find the words gives me courage. It makes me feel hopeful I can rise to the challenge amidst all the unknowns.

Why Did Daddy Have to Die to Change the World?

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Thu, 04 Jun 2020 19:28:00 +0000

Like many, I dig a good underdog story. Righteous martyrs are the best. We're talking humans who have the moral fortitude to overcome their flaws, to lead by compassionate example. Imperfect pacifists like Gandhi (the pacifist sexual abuser,) Dr. King (the pacifist adulterer) and John Lennon (the pacifist wife beater.) Then there's the perfect, non-misogynist pacifist, the King of all Sacrificial Lambs, Jesus of Nazareth. Talk about sacrificing yourself for the greater good!

But when I see how George Floyd’s murder has triggered his 6-year-old daughter to declare that, “Daddy changed the world,” it breaks my heart.

I’m a children’s librarian. I read stories and sing silly songs with 6-year-olds. I know how heroic their daddies and mommies are in their eyes. It makes me want to barf when I hear this precious child say the words, “Daddy changed the world,” knowing full well that he didn’t have the luxury to change the world by living long enough to see her grow up and reach her full potential. George Floyd was not granted the time on this earth to reach his full potential as a daddy, as an American, as a human.

I’m sick of all the sacrificial lambs leading humanity's herd. I’m tired of the best and the brightest amongst us, those whose work truly honors “the least of these my brothers and sisters” being assassinated by the insatiably power-hungry wolves of the world. When will we begin to understand how absurd it is to expect the best of us to have to die to change the world?

Prodigal Song

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 12 Apr 2020 17:50:00 +0000

I got it bad for The Prodigal Son. Some women are attracted to good guys. Some chicks dig bad guys. I love bad-guys-turned-good.

The Prodigal Son by Pierre-Cecile Puvis de Chavannes

Listen, always, with this caveat: words, and their connotations, are relative. The gander ain't always turned on by the same things as the goose.

While many women in my peer-group (middle-age, middle-class, Middle-America-living white women) seem drawn to a spouse with a college degree, a professional job, a big savings account coupled with little personal baggage, I am not. These are the good guys. The kind of guys you can rely on for material wealth and emotional stability.

These are not my type of guys.

I've always been attracted to the bad-guys-turned-good.

Who are the bad guys?

Some chicks gush over the baddest guys out there. These guys fuck the rules. These guys put the dick in unpredictability. Whether nerdy Sherlocks, jock-boys, or socks-on-cocks rock stars, these guys leave you crying out for more. These guys leave you, never ever bored.

These are not my type of guys.

I love the Prodigal Son. The son who leaves his family home, searching for riches and fame, breaking the hearts of endless bitches, then finally, fed up with the game, returning, begging forgiveness, full of repentance. Hopeful for a welcome arm around the shoulders, an extended hand, a kiss on the knee. It'll all be better now that you're home, son. Let's gather around the fire. Let's feast on the best food in our pantry. Let's drink our best wine. Let's sit together and sing, as a family, the song of the Prodigal Son.

That's my type of guy.

Or chick. I am a bleeding-heart sapiosexual, after all. My sexual desires skew intellect and emotional vulnerability no matter their sexual orientation or gender identity. I happened to marry a man, so often I'm mistaken for a cis-gender heterosexual. It awards me a position to speak freely of things my LGBTQ friends must hold inside. I am lucky for that. I am lucky in many ways. I'm lucky to have Will. I knew I'd married the right guy when Will burst into tears at the end of the movie, "The Fisher King."

The Prodigal Son gives me a major lady boner, for sure. I also gravitate toward prodigal sons and daughters as friends. Anyone who has ever been out into the wilderness and returned, admitted defeat, asked for help, and accepted grace into their heart is my friend.

Here are three such friends, Jay, Nancy, and Jacob Cantrell.

Our dear friends, The Cantrells. From left to right are husband and wife, Jay and Pastor Nancy, and their son JJ. If you're looking for some uplifting gospel music, check out the video I posted above.

Our family has been intertwined with the Cantrells for longer than I’ve been a member of the Carleton Clan. My husband Will has been jamming with JJ since they were about fourteen. Will's mom, Pam Davis Carleton, first met Jay and Nancy Cantrell in the 1990s when, along with her dad and mom, Bill and Sadie Davis, she became a member of HABOT (Heart of America Bluegrass and Old-Time Music,) a Kansas City-based organization of local musicians.

The first time I met Jay and Nancy was in the fall of 2003, if memory serves, when Will introduced us in the campground at the Walnut Valley Festival, in Winfield, KS. They were sitting around a campfire with Will’s mom and dad and a few other musician friends--guitars, mandolins, banjos and other acoustic stringed instruments in hand--going round the circle taking turns leading everyone in song.

It was amazing. What a way to feel connected to our fellow humans, to gather in a circle and sing together.

I grew up in a much more bourgeois household. We did not go camping. We did not gather in song. My parents were both accountants. The most outdoorsy thing they ever did was go golfing. I was unaccustomed to singing in front of others, other than that time I wore a fancy dress with poofy sleeves and wobbled around in high heels at my sister Jenny’s wedding, or in a "Robbing Hood costume for our sexist sixth grade musical, It Takes a Wizard.

image source (my red arrow directed toward "Robbing Hood")

screenshot source (my highlights emphasizing sexism in yellow)

Singing was more about giving a performance and less about being part of a circle sing-along.

I never learned how to play an instrument or read music. My mom and my older siblings taught me nursery rhymes, but once I “grew out of it” we stopped singing those songs. Thankfully, my mom was a quirky housewife during my formative years. I grew up listening to her play Queen’s A Night at the Opera on her portable eight-track player while cleaning the house, or the soundtrack to the film The Way We Were, featuring Barbra Streisand, while crafting on the couch. Every now and then she’d even break out Sonny Lester's How to Belly Dance for Your Husband album and practice in the living room.

Image source

Needless to say, Mom’s eclectic taste in music influenced me greatly.

Mom actually met my dad because of music. Around 1966, when Mom first left her abusive first husband, at just 28-years old with four kids ages 3-8, she was looking for an outlet for her adult social needs. My paternal Aunt Donna, whom Mom knew through her first husband, who she as friends with Donna’s husband at the time, invited Mom to join her woman’s singing group called Sweet Adelines. From there, Aunt Donna and Mom became good friends. A couple years later, when Aunt Donna’s older brother, my dad, Glen Burton asked his sister if she knew of any single ladies he could date—he was going through a divorce from his own first wife—Aunt Donna suggested he call up Beverly, my mom. A year-and-a-half later, they married. A year after that, I was born.

https://sweetadelines.com/

My older siblings were all pop music fans. From the year I was born in 1970 to 1977 when we moved from St. Joe to Kansas City, I don’t think a day passed that I didn’t hear songs by artists such as Jim Croce and Elton John playing on St. Joe’s Top-49 radio station, KKJO either on my big brothers’ and sisters’ bedroom radios or in my mom’s car. One of my earliest memories is standing in the back seat of Mom’s car (what seatbelts? This was the 70s) belting out my favorite song at the time, Helen Reddy’s “Delta Dawn.”

My dad was a huge Big Band swing-era music fan. When I was a teen and he was nearing retirement, I’d wake up on Sunday mornings to the sounds of Dad playing his Glenn Miller and Count Basie albums while making biscuits and gravy. As a flexitarian, I’ve always hated biscuits and gravy. Why would you ruin a perfectly good biscuit by ladling greasy ground pig onto something that obviously pairs much better with butter and honey? I used to hate Sunday mornings as a teenager. Bleck. That smell.

But the sound? The rustling pots and pans, the sizzling sausage, the clarinets and sultry singers. I loved that part of Sunday mornings.

We weren't big church goers. We went to Wyatt Park Christian Church for a few years until we moved away when I was six. We joined Park Hill Presbyterian Church when I was twelve, but we moved again that same year and pretty much gave up physically going to church.

Off and on over the years, I've gone to church, all sorts of mostly protestant Christian denominations. Unity. Metropolitan Community Church. Bethel AME. Shawnee Mission Unitarian Universalist. Grace Covenant Presbyterian. The Foundry. Weston Community Church of the Nazarene.

This final church on the list is the latest one I've attended. I went a few weeks ago with my family--husband Will, daughter Kat, and mother-in-law Pam--right before our local health departments shut down all in-person gatherings of 10 or more people. Since then, I've been attending virtual church in my living room. I have to say, I like it better than church IRL. I don't have to wear a bra. Or pants. And I can watch anytime I feel like it because it's on YouTube.

Here's the latest sermon from Pastor Nancy. View it on your own time.

Here's a clip of The Cantrell's Sing-along on this Easter Sunday. The day of new beginnings.

I've written in the past about our friend JJ. You can read it here, if you like. In that post, I say, "JJ is no longer our friend." That is no longer the truth. Hallelujah, Jesus! Our friendship with JJ has been renewed. We have forgiven, and we have been forgiven.

JJ--like my husband, like myself--sings the prodigal songs. Prodigal songs make the best sing-alongs.

It's not my story to tell, but one of the things I love the most about JJ Cantrell is that he eschews his personal beliefs for the greater good. He might be a nonbeliever, but he's still at his mother and father's side when they call upon him to sing along to the Prodigal Song.

Now What? Rest In Peace, John Prine, Scott Carleton, and Pat Kerner

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 08 Apr 2020 16:53:00 +0000

John Prine image source

“Prine’s stuff is pure Proustian existentialism. Midwestern mind trips to the nth degree.” --Bob Dylan, NYT obituary

"After graduating from high school, he worked for the Post Office...In and around his hometown, composing songs in his head. 'I always likened the mail route to a library with no books,' he wrote on his website. 'I passed the time each day making up these little ditties.'" --NYT obituary

“I guess what I always found funny was the human condition,” he told the British newspaper The Daily Telegraph in 2013. “There is a certain comedy and pathos to trouble and accidents.” --NYT obituary

“Sometimes, the best [songs] come together at the exact same time, and it takes about as long to write it as it does to sing it...They come along like a dream or something, and you just got to hurry up and respond to it, because if you mess around, the song is liable to pass you by.” --NYT obituary

Rest in peace, John Prine.

Rest in peace, Scott Carleton.

Rest in peace, Patrick Kerner.

I first heard about John Prine when I was my brother Pat’s caregiver. Caregiver's a loaded word. All my brother needed from me in the last few months of his life was to keep him comfy, which is a euphemism for making sure he had enough booze to remain loaded. That, and to keep him company so he wouldn't get too lonely.

His fiancee, Sharon, had died of alcoholic-induced liver failure just a few weeks before Pat was diagnosed with the exact same thing, at age forty-nine. During the four months I cared for my brother, I turned forty. Too young for such shit. But we were used to it. We both grew up way too quick.

Eventually I could no longer care for him. I had a full-time job. I was the mom to a four-year-old. My husband saw how the emotional toll of caring for my brother was wearing me out. Pat went on hospice and moved in with our older brother, Jay, who cared for Pat until he died peacefully in his sleep on January 14, 2011. I got to help Pat smoke his last cigarette, a Camel unfiltered.

Camel Unfiltered ad, 1974. Source.

Our last words to each other were this:

"I love you."

When I was Pat's end-of-life primary caregiver, he'd occasionally ask me to drive him to his doctor’s appointments and pick him up some food, but mostly we just talked. My brother and I had a weird relationship. We were both, in our own way, the black sheep of Mom's flock of five lambs. Mom used to say, "You and Pat were both the best babies and the worst teenagers. Jay, Kitty, and Jenny were more of a handful when they were young, but relatively easy teenagers. But you and Pat were the opposite. So easy when you were young. Then you hit your teen years and watch out!"

Pat was no saint. He hurt me badly when I was very little. He also, many more times than he ever hurt me, supported me in a way most people don't understand. We related to each other. I could talk to Pat easily about things I couldn't talk about with anyone else in our family without them trying to change the subject to something more pleasant. I don't blame them. It's hard to always wallow in shit.

I never could talk to Pat while he was alive about the horrible secret we kept. After he left this world, it suddenly became easy to talk to him about it. He's apologized. He's repented. I've forgiven him. He still loves me. I still love him.

But I still don't like to talk about it with the rest of the world. I'll write about it. I'll even sing about it, even though I can't carry a tune.

My husband Will and me, singing John Prine and Iris DeMint's song, "In Spite of Ourselves" at Pat's wake, July 2011

That's the thing about art. It helps us express the unspeakable.

Pat was a raging alcoholic. A functional alcoholic, for the most part. He usually had a job and was only homeless a time or two. When he did have a job and a place to live, he often took in friends--he never knew a stranger--hit by hard times, because he'd been there. He understood. I never saw Pat shut the door on anyone asking for help.

Despite his good qualities, Pat was a drunk. He'd be the first to admit it. Sobriety sucks when you've lived a hard life like Pat did. He self-medicated, as many people who have survived trauma do. I'm not going to go into detail here about all the traumatic things Pat and I endured in childhood. I'll just say this. Hurt people hurt people. Our parents and grandparents and their parents and grandparents did the best they could under the circumstances. They fucked up a lot. They also, in their own way, loved us a lot. It's hard to understand. All I can do is learn from our foreparents' mistakes, growing myself into the best parent I can be under my own circumstances.

Pat once told me that he probably wouldn't have started drinking as much if pot was legal. He used to smoke--and sell--pot in the late Seventies/early Eighties, as a teenager into his early twenties. Then when he turned twenty-one, he found that it was cheaper, easier, and less criminal to buy booze and get a "real" job as a carpenter. His real jobs often required a drug test, so he had to quit smoking pot, but his bosses didn't care if he drank every evening, from the moment he clocked off til he passed out, and all day on the weekends.

It's the "what ifs" that get me. What if Pat hadn't suffered such early childhood trauma? What if our parents had taken him to the doctor for medication? A therapist to talk about his problems? What if our federal government had never put marijuana in the same category as heroin? What if Pat had survived and moved to Colorado? What if...What if...What iffff...fuck.

I can easily get stuck in the "what ifs." I feel better when I spend more time in the "now whats?"

Now what? We figure out a way to live this life we're given. Art, specifically writing and singing, helps me live my best life.

That's why I'm so sad, so furious, at the news that the world lost one of its best singer-songwriters yesterday. John Prine sang the songs we understood. Pat and Sharon. My husband and me. Even my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Pam and Scott Carleton. It's one of my greatest regrets that I never got a video recording of my in laws singing, "In Spite of Ourselves."

Just as I learned about the song from my brother, Pat, my in laws learned about the song from me. They took the song and made it their own. They won first prize singing it at some festival I somehow didn't have time to attend.

Scott and Pam Carleton, together in their home circa 2018.

I should have made the time. My dear father-in-law Scott died last August of lung cancer at the age of sixty-five. Way too young.

And now John Prine, the person who brought this song into our lives, has passed on. Way too young. It infuriates me. Our elders deserve better. John Prine's voice healed so many people, and yet, because of the inaction of too many of our leaders, he took his last breath alone. The lack of support, especially from our federal government, especially from President Trump himself is literally suffocating our national treasures.

I am sad.

I am furious.

I am alive.

Now what?

***

Update 4/9/20

I was wrong, thank God.

View this post on Instagram

Our beloved John died yesterday evening at Vanderbilt Medical Center in Nashville TN. We have no words to describe the grief our family is experiencing at this time. John was the love of my life and adored by our sons Jody, Jack and Tommy, daughter in law Fanny, and by our grandchildren. John contracted Covid-19 and in spite of the incredible skill and care of his medical team at Vanderbilt he could not overcome the damage this virus inflicted on his body. I sat with John - who was deeply sedated- in the hours before he passed and will be forever grateful for that opportunity. My dearest wish is that people of all ages take this virus seriously and follow guidelines set by the CDC. We send our condolences and love to the thousands of other American families who are grieving the loss of loved ones at this time - and to so many other families across the world. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the outpouring of love we have received from family, friends, and fans all over the world. John will be so missed but he will continue to comfort us with his words and music and the gifts of kindness, humor and love he left for all of us to share. In lieu of flowers or gifts at this time we would ask that a donation be made to one of the following non profits: thistlefarms.org roomintheinn.org nashvillerescuemission.org

A post shared by Fiona💚 (@fprine) on Apr 8, 2020 at 8:04am PDT

Our dear John Prine did not die alone. I'm still furious he's gone, but it helps me in my grieving to know that at the very least he got to be with his wife at the end. So many other of our brothers and sisters who succumb to the virus die alone. I suspect that privilege protected Mr. Prine. We shouldn't have to be award-winning singer-songwriters to be at an advantage at the end of our lives. Amateur singers and everyday people should not die suffocating in silence.

I'm grateful to the hospital staff that allowed Prine's wife to sit with him in his final hours. Maybe it wasn't privilege, but the fact that Fiona Prine had already been stricken by the virus, built up antibodies, and probably is now immune to it. I don't know. It's just speculation on my part. Whatever the reason, it's but one small silver lining on a fucking apocalyptic storm cloud.

Ritalin

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 26 Feb 2020 14:36:00 +0000

About six months ago my primary care doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist for a mental health checkup. I was first diagnosed with depression in 1982 and last diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder in 2011. I’ve been on Zoloft for coming on 25 years. It’s helped tremendously, but with all the stress and grief my family has been going through in the last two years, I’ve been struggling.

Part of my problem is time-management, something I’ve sucked at my whole life. I over-focus on projects that most adults know to put on the back burner, and I under-focus on daily tasks that most people know are important —you know, dishes, laundry, following my doctor’s advice to get a psychiatric checkup. And then, when I realize I’ve ignored things that are important to other people, I succumb to an anxiety spiral where I worry that I’ve let everyone down and my brain starts overthinking and beating itself up.

Anyhoo, I finally saw a psychiatrist yesterday. I didn’t like the last psychiatrist I saw for many reasons but mostly because when he found out I’m a librarian he shared with me his love of Ayn Rand. *shudder*

I like this new shrink. She was very thorough. We spent a full 60 minutes talking about my history and current symptoms. She validated my feelings and made me feel exceptionally not-crazy. She complimented me on how well I’ve been managing my life considering all the major stressors.

She wants me to continue taking Zoloft since it does a good job of treating my PTSD. To help alleviate my depressive symptoms—mainly apathy and fatigue—and to hopefully help my time-management skills and focus, she’s prescribed Ritalin.

We’ll see how it goes. I’ve had two doses so far, and I already feel better, but maybe that’s just a psychosomatic reaction to getting treatment from an educated person who validates my feelings and wants me to be my best.

Here’s to trying new things and continuously improving. If the Ritalin doesn’t help, we’ll try something else.

Fans

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 02 Feb 2020 19:52:00 +0000

It is human nature to want to belong. I feed off the frenzied energy of a crowd of fans, whether I’m seeing Johnny Marr at a little casino venue with about 100 other 49-year-olds, or in line to get my favorite author to sign their latest book, or at my 8th-grader’s choir performance. It feels good to get outside your head every once in a while, to look around and notice that others care about the same things you do. You are not alone. That’s a powerful feeling.

It’s wholesome.

It makes me smile when I see a region of over a million citizens who can’t agree on politics, religion, or barbecue come together in spirit for this year’s Super Bowl contenders, The Kansas City Chiefs. Everybody from babies to grandmas are adorably dressed from head to toe in Chiefs merchandise.

What I don’t like about living in Kansas City on the day the Chiefs are at the Super Bowl is the Tomahawk Chop. The racist tropes. The headdresses and the war paint fans wear in the stadium as they watch their team defeat the other side. Us vs Them. I like the unity that grows out of professional football. I don’t like the divisiveness. I do not like that our team name insults an entire group of people whose ancestors lived on this continent before mine did, before many of yours did, before the game of football was invented. It’s disrespectful and divisive and goes against our group dynamic.

I am rooting for the Chiefs today. Even more so, I am rooting for people in our community to come together to respectfully cheer on our team in a way that doesn’t offend our neighbors of Native American heritage.

Ain’t no party like a no-pants PT party

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 15 Jan 2020 05:39:00 +0000

Striding through the door to the physical therapy place, I realized too late that I should have worn pants.

The guy on the phone scheduling my appointment told me to wear comfortable clothes. I’m at that age where I give zero fucks about owning anything uncomfortable, so I just showed up in what I’d been wearing all day: my work clothes. I’m a children’s librarian, so my work clothes consist of a frumpy, long cotton dress and an open-front, long drapey sweater vest, both from Lands’ End, and Birkenstocks with no socks.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed through the windows that the place has lots of exercise equipment. Treadmills, a weight machine, free weights, those giant balls that you sit on to strengthen your core. You know, typical workout stuff.

“Huh. That’s weird,” I thought. “What is this? Some kinda health club or something? What have I gotten myself into?”

You see, up until tonight, my only experience with physical therapy had been as an observer while visiting my elderly parents in rehab as they tried to recover from things such as having a ventilator shoved down their throat for a few days, or after bouncing back after a third episode of renal failure. Each time I observed them “getting physical therapy” they were laying in bed or on a comfy lounge chair, wearing pajamas. The physical therapist would lift one of their legs and see how far they could move it this way and that way. They’d do a few rounds of toe crunches and ankle rolls. I think one time my mom even got a massage out of the deal.

I, personally, had never been to physical therapy before tonight, but I had been to a chiropractor a handful of times after a car wreck, and when I was experiencing back pain with my pregnancy fourteen years ago. No special clothes necessary. Each time I’d simply lay on a cushiony table and the chiropractor would push my legs around and shove his hands firmly into the small of my back. A couple times I got this nice, steamy heat treatment on my shoulders even. Oooh, that was nice.

I have lots more experience with massage, both professional and spousal. All you have to do is take off you clothes (talk about comfortable), crawl up on this cushiony table and cover yourself with warm blankets. The masseuse takes care of the rest. You don’t have to lift a finger until you tip the professional massage therapist at the end. Or, when you give your spouse that look with the wiggling eyebrow and the “come hither” finger motion, wordlessly announcing it’s your turn to touch them.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up striding through the door of the physical therapy place tonight without any pants on. I hadn’t really thought about it being the kind of place where I’d be the one doing all the physical movements in a manner much less like lying back and getting a massage and more like having a personal trainer demonstrate, and then observe you completing, various exercises to improve your muscle strength to relieve pressure on your sciatic nerve so you can do things like putting your right sock on all by yourself or sitting chris-cross-applesauce with the kids at Storytime without crying out in agony. Miss Becky is cranky when she hurts. Miss Becky hurts so much she’ll try whatever she can to make the pain go away, including going to physical therapy. Next time, though, Miss Becky will show up fully prepared, pants and all.

Beautiful Butterfly

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sat, 17 Aug 2019 22:50:00 +0000

It's back-to-school season. I can't believe our daughter, Kat, is in eighth grade already. She turned thirteen this summer. She stopped going by the name "Katie" last year. Kat's less babyish sounding.

She was five--"a whole hand"--and just starting kindergarten when I began this blog. Our Katie Bug's become a beautiful butterfly as time flies by.

Kat brought home her first homework assignment. It's an essay for her English class, a "tell me everything you'd like me to know about your child" writing assignment for the parents.

When I was in eighth grade, I hated homework. This homework, I like. I enjoyed writing it so thoroughly, I decided to share it--with Kat's consent--on this blog:

Thank you for this opportunity to brag on my kid. Generally, I don’t wait for an invitation, as my Facebook friends, my co-workers, and random strangers trapped with me inside an elevator can attest.

Kat is one of my favorite people.

My husband, Will, would say, “ditto” and pretty much leave it at that. Brevity is his jam, not mine. I’m a total overachiever when it comes to writing about our daughter.

Just know that Kat’s parental love is not lopsided because Will and I have different communication styles. Kat is one of his favorite people, too.

I expect—and hope—you receive similar statements from other students’ parents. I firmly believe that all kids are special and gifted in their own unique ways. Please understand that when I gush over Kat it does not mean I think she is better than any other student in your classes. I’m my own daughter’s cheerleader. I’ll let the other parents rally around their own kids.

When Kat was three, we had another married couple over to our house. They brought with them their six-year-old daughter, Lilly. It was our first time meeting Lilly. At one point in the evening, Lilly broke something inconsequential and Lilly’s dad, our friend JJ, reprimanded her pretty harshly. Lilly balled up on the floor, shaking and sobbing.

Will and I froze. We didn’t know what to do. JJ was our friend. JJ is no longer our friend. JJ is the kind of guy who was fun to hang out with until he had kids. JJ is the kind of man who doesn’t remember what it feels like to be a child, the kind of man who thinks sparing rods makes spoiled children. JJ’s wife, Lilly’s mom, ascribed to the same line of thinking.

So there we were, the four of us grownups, just standing there, not knowing what to do while Lilly bawled. Lilly’s parents glared at her. Their faces looked like they were both about ready to give Lilly something to cry about. Will and I shoved our hands into our pockets, and bit our lips. Our eyes darted back and forth between Lilly and each other. I, personally, felt like throwing up.

Before I made a mess of things out of an already sticky situation, along comes little Katie Bug.

I should explain. Katherine is the name on her birth certificate. She’s named after my sister Kathryn, who goes by the nickname Kit, who in turn was named after our great-grandmother, Catherine, known as Kitty. We called our child Kate or Katie Bug before she decided she’s more of a Kat, although she still lets her Dad and me call her Katie Bug as long as her friends are not around.

So along comes our little Katie Bug, all of three years old. She ignores the grownups in the room, hyperfocusing on Lilly as she walks right up to her, crouches down, and wraps her arms around this weeping ball of six-year-old.

“Thewe, thewe, Lilly. It’s OK,” said Katie Bug. She held her and rocked her, as if she were the wisest old nanny in the world.

I don’t remember what happened to the other grownups. I think they all went into the kitchen to grab another beer. Later, when Will and I discussed the interaction we both agreed that the three-year-old in the room had more fierce compassion and moral standards than the adults in the room combined.

As I stood there, watching our kiddo cuddle this older kid she’d just met that night, doing the right thing when no one else seemed to know what to do, I knew this person was going to leave the world a better place than she found it.

This is the essence of Kat. She’s strong-willed, righteously indignant, and the most sensitive soul you’ll ever meet. Everyone struggles with strengths overdone, and in Kat’s case that means she’s sometimes rebellious, hot-tempered, and moody. But mostly, she’s a pretty great kid.

Kat has struggled in school over the years. She’s bright, and creative, and curious, but she gets bored easily and her classmates often annoy her. Once, when she was in second grade, she came home from school, threw her backpack on the couch and yelled, “I’m so sick of these second graders. They don’t know anything about empathy!”

“They’re seven,” I said. “They probably don’t even know what the word empathy means, let alone how to be empathetic. Give them time. They will learn. Everyone learns at their own pace. You’re just a 53-year-old trapped inside a 7-year-old’s body, like Dr. Bostwick says.”

Dr. Bostwick is the first child psychologist Kat began seeing. She’s the one who encouraged us to advocate for Kat’s needs at school. I’m old, so when I went to school you just had to buck up or change schools. There was no such thing as trauma-informed care, or gifted education, or homeschooling.

We don’t want to homeschool Kat because we firmly believe in the value of a quality public education system, and we want to support it as much as possible. We also, frankly, can’t afford to homeschool Kat since we are working class people and not independently wealthy. Plus, I don’t want her father and I to be Kat’s only teachers. We want her to experience life and learning from many points of view. We want her to learn how to exist in a diverse, challenging world.

On the other hand, Kat’s mental health is our primary concern. She began exhibiting signs of anxiety in first grade. She was diagnosed with precocious puberty—a genetic difference she inherited from my father and me—at age 7. She was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety by fourth grade. She was tested and accepted into the gifted program by fifth grade. By seventh grade, she was diagnosed with dysthymia, in addition to Major Depressive Disorder. Her current psychiatrist, Dr. Christopher Van Horn, has prescribed regular aerobic exercise, methylated folic acid, fluoxetine, and monthly cognitive behavioral therapy.

In addition to her genetic and hormonal issues, Kat’s home life has been particularly difficult. Here is a list of stressors our family has experienced in the last couple of years:

Will quit his job of eleven years when Amazon bought Whole Foods.

My 90-year-old father moved in with us for three months of hospice car. He passed away in February 2018.

My 80-year-old mother moved in with us for eight months of hospice care. She passed away in February of this year.

Will’s 65-year-old father was diagnosed with lung cancer in June of this year.

Will was the primary caregiver for my mom and dad, and now he is for his dad.

Our two-year-old puppy died unexpectedly this summer.

I am not only grieving my parents’ death, but I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anorexia at age 11, and PTSD in my late 30s. With meds, exercise, a fantastic job as a children’s librarian, tons of therapy and reading self-help books by Dr. Harriet Lerner, and especially the support of my amazing husband, I can function well most days. But long story short, it’s a bummer when your mom can’t get out of bed sometimes.

All this is to say, we greatly appreciate all you do for our family in general and our daughter specifically. It’s been a roller coaster, but we’re hanging on.

Nothing Left to Do

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Tue, 26 Feb 2019 21:58:00 +0000

The insidious transition
From old age to the afterlife
Undignified and aggravating
All control, lost
Your body, your mind
Succumbed to the dreaded bed
The burden you put
Your middle aged children through
With goals and aches of their own
These grown folks, once babies
Bottled, burped and bathed by you

Now feed you
Now diaper you
Your eye for art, once great
Now cataracts cloud your vision
Colors, once vibrant
Grey matter sees only grey
Hearing fades
Songs don’t sound the same
Tastebuds betray you
Favorite foods lose their flavor
Meat, too tough
Coffee, too bitter
Donut, too dry

Nothing left to do but die

Sunbonnet Sue

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Thu, 21 Feb 2019 21:21:00 +0000

As I kept vigil at Mom’s bedside, I felt compelled to take her picture. But isn’t that weird? Wanting to take a picture of a dying woman.

Mom was deeply asleep. I couldn’t even rouse her when her favorite TV show came on. I was stuck. I wanted to take her picture, but it was probably too late to get her permission.

Years ago Mom gave me permission to write anything about her. But she was always camera shy. I had to guess what her wishes would be. I figured she wouldn’t mind, as long as I captured her at a good angle. And turned her into art.

Mom was a maker before making became the hip new trend. As a kid growing up in her house it was not unusual to walk by more than a day’s worth of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink on my way into the living room where mom had the TV on as she sat at a card table strewn with art supplies, coffee cups, and abandoned projects. Mom would smile as I’d walk into the room.

“Hey, Becky Sue! Look what I’m making.”

I always hated my middle name. Sue. It’s such a pansy ass name. I dropped it as soon as I got married and replaced it with my maiden name. Rebecca Burton Carleton. No longer Rebecca Sue Burton.

She’d set down her soldering iron or her paint brush, her crochet hook or her jig saw—whatever artist’s tool she’d been using to make things. She’d hold up her creation for me to see. Making art brought Mom more than joy. It was therapeutic. In the late Sixties Mom went through an art therapy program at the hospital where she was treated for a “nervous breakdown.” The psychiatric nurses would hand Mom a potholder kit that was easy to weave as she rested in bed following another round of electroshock therapy.

I’m not as good with my hands as I am with my words. Mom was always my biggest fan. She read everything I wrote and encouraged me to keep at it. Mom taught me that it’s not just OK to express myself creatively, even when it’s hard to do. It’s essential. It’s therapeutic. Making art is creation. Making art is life.

I think Mom will be OK with my taking her picture on her deathbed. It’s kinda weird. And kind of morbid. But I want a way to capture this moment as I sit here with my mom, my mentor.

One of my favorite creations that Mom has made me over the years is this Sunbonnet Sue quilt. Earlier in the day I laid it on top of Mom. She opened her eyes for a minute.

“”Hey, Mom! Look what you made. It’s your Sunbonnet Sue quilt.”

She smiled and blinked her eyes.

“My favorite is this one,” I pointed to the girl with the cat on her dress. “And look, Mom! Her sunbonnet is magenta!”

Mom smiled and blinked.

A few weeks ago, Mom was frustrated. We had been talking about our favorite colors. She couldn’t think of the word for her favorite.

“It’s pinky purple,” she said.

“Fuchsia?” I asked.

“Yes!” The excitement immediately fell from her face. “No. That’s not it. I can’t think of the word.”

“It’s OK, Mom. It will come to you.”

Later, after I returned from work, Mom said, “You are so lucky. You have the smartest husband.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because he knew the word!”

“What word,” I asked.

“Magenta!”

“Magenta?”

“Yes! Magenta is my favorite color.”

For Valentine’s Day I bought Mom a tube of magenta lipstick. She was thrilled. Despite not being able to steer a fork to her mouth without spilling most of the food onto her nightgown, Mom successfully opened the tube and applied the lipstick to her lips. No mirror. Half blind, anyway. She looked beautiful.

So as Mom laid on her deathbed, I pointed out the magenta bonnet-wearing Sunbonnet Sue.

“Look, Mom! It’s magenta! This Sunbonnet Sue, right here.”

Mom smiled and blinked and said, “Hey, Becky Sue!”

That did it. I burst into tears. I started laughing and crying at the same time.

I haven’t cried much since Mom moved in with us eight months ago. It has certainly not been all fun and games, but honestly having her around in my daily life has been a blessing. But hearing Mom call me “Becky Sue” just did me in.

“I always hated that name! Becky Sue,” I shuddered.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“It’s just so dorky. But I never realized until now that you named me after Sunbonnet Sue.”

“Becky Sue, my Sunbonnet Sue,” Mom said in her lilting voice. And then she closed her eyes and fell back asleep.

It’s not the last thing Mom's said to me. As the day’s progressed she’s mostly speaking in word salads, if at all. Now I sit here, watching her sleep. Not sure if she’ll wake again.

I hold Mom’s hand and this is what I’m thinking.

Mom, you gave me life. Your eternal creative spirit resides inside me no matter where you rest. I will always love you. I will always be your Sunbonnet Sue.

My artistic mentor, Beverly Martinmaas, my mom

There’s nothing more to say

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Thu, 14 Feb 2019 02:24:00 +0000

There’s nothing more to say except

I love you

There’s nothing left to do

To show I care

But being next to you

Inside this room now

I hold your hand

With warmth beyond compare

I learned when I was young

How best to love you

For giving me this life of mine to live

You’re always there when I need you to talk to

To dry my eyes

And show me no despair

No other mother can compare

With you now

When I was young you taught me how to share

This love you filled a well

That’s deep inside me

I learned to love

From you because you care

I’m filled with love because

I am your daughter

You taught me well

You showed me that you care

Now you’ve grown old

Our time is drawing nearer

And still our love’s for always ever there

It’ll do no good for me to

Tear my heart out

There’s lots of love for me I’ve got to share

With others in this world who need assurance

More than my mama needs me to despair

To sit and cry and worry what’s to come now

It’s hard to think we’ll say one last goodbye

But mama dear don’t worry ‘bout your daughter

You’ve grown old but

Love’s forever there

Fat Bottomed Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Wed, 06 Feb 2019 04:54:00 +0000

The other night Mom was asking for morphine and talking about how she thought her time to die was drawing near. She didn’t want to crochet. She didn’t want to watch The Game Show Network. She didn’t want anything to eat, not even a cupcake. We knew something was wrong.

I asked if she’d like to listen to any music.

“YES!” she said.

“What would you like to listen to?” I asked.

“Bohemian Rhapsody!” she said, instantly, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all day.

Will began spinning Queen’s “Greatest Hits.” Mom grabbed my hand as I sat next to her chair. She squeezed it. She’s become more affectionate in her old age. While the song played, Mom subtly bobbed her head up and down like someone who is awfully agreeable.

When the next song, “Another One Bites the Dust,” began to play, Mom’s free hand shot up, her mouth turned into a frown, and she sliced her hand through the air horizontally as if to say, “Nuh nuh nuh nuh no!”

“You don’t like this one?” I asked.

Mom flared her nostrils like something stinks.

The next song, “Killer Queen” got Mom’s head bobbing in approval once again.

Next was, “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Another head bobber.

Later that evening my sister, Jenny, and my brother-in-law, Brian, visited. They asked what was up, and I said, “Oh, we’re just sitting here listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “Fat Bottomed Girls.”

They both laughed.

Let me stop you here.

Part of the reason this anecdote is so funny is because my mom looks nothing like the type of person you’d think is a fan of rock n roll in general and Queen specifically. Mom was born at the end of the Great Depression and was a young girl during World War II. Her family got a TV when she was 12. They were the first family on the block to get one of those newfangled contraptions. Mom went to dances in high school in the 1950s. She did not like Elvis Presley. She and her friends used to drink malts and giggle over jokes like this:

Did you know Elvis the Pelvis has a twin? His name’s Enis.

Mom’s record collection was comprised of mostly musical soundtracks such as “South Pacific” and easy listening soloists such as Barbra Streisand.

Then, in the Seventies, likely while paring apples from our backyard to bake a pie, Mom heard the song, “Bohemian Rhapsody” on KKJO, the popular radio station that one of my older siblings was always listening to. Mom loved it so much she went out and bought the album, “A Night at the Opera,” on eight track tape. Mom had a portable eight track player she kept in the kitchen so she could play “her” music while the big kids were at school and I was in the living room watching Roosevelt Franklin and the gang on “Sesame Street.”

Much later Mom admitted to me she had no idea that Freddie Mercury was a bisexual man. “I didn’t even know he was a MAN. His voice is so high. I just thought Freddie was short for Frederica.”

Mercury’s gender and sexual identity didn’t stop Mom’s love of Queen. They’re still one of her favorite bands.

Back in our living room, Mom was directing everyone where to sit.

“Jenny, you sit here. Brian, go over there. Will, no, over here, no, hold on, over THERE...”

For some reason I ended up on the commode. It had been temporarily moved directly in front of Mom’s recliner, in front of the white board Mom used to keep track of what day it is and what events are upcoming.

We all got to talking, and laughing, and trying to get serious again, and talking and laughing some more.

Mom held the crowd like the grand matriarch of the family she has become. We couldn’t understand half of what she was saying, but the other half was extremely entertaining.

Someone said something about what day is Super Bowl Sunday. Without batting an eye, Mom craned her neck around and said, “If Becky would move her fat bottomed girl out of the way I could see the calendar.”

I almost peed my pants laughing so hard. Good thing I was on the commode.

Spoiler alert: everything is not OK

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sat, 08 Dec 2018 05:57:00 +0000

"You are such a good mom."

"She is so lucky to have you."

"She just needs your love and understanding and everything will turn out alright."

It's easy to smile at these compassionate lies, comments my well meaning friends tell me when I'm worried about my kid. It's easy to encase these words inside my mind, as if they are true. To use these words as a protective shield around my breaking heart. Deceptively simple.

Don't worry. She'll be fine. She has YOU for a mother.

As if it matters.

I used to believe it. I believed that I was put upon this earth to help my child thrive. Yes, thoughts trickled inside my mind. It's a mean world. So much violence. So much hate. Do you really want to bring a child into a world like this? But the answer was always yes. Yes, I do want to bring a child into the world. I will love her, and that love will protect her. With the strength of our love, we will conquer all the hate we encounter.

I honestly believed that as long as we didn't beat her she'd be fine. I believed with open eyes and a full heart that if only my husband and I don't fuck up, we'll finally figure a way out of the labyrinthine cycle of family dysfunction that began generations back beyond our memories. Our child will have a good life, with a good mom and a good dad. We will love her and everything will be OK.

Spoiler alert: everything is not OK.

I come from a long line of creative, clever women, who have all, at some point in their lives, cracked up. A cuckoo bird flies freely on our family crest.

My mother recalls, in the 1940s, tagging along on many trips to the doctor with her mother. Mom would sit quietly in the waiting room, drawing pictures and coloring, behaving, obedient, such a good girl. Not getting on my grandmother's already frazzled nerves, awaiting a prescription for my grandmother's "nerve medicine."

I recall, in the 1970s, sitting at the piano just outside my brother's basement bedroom, gently placing my little thumb on middle c, behaving, obedient, such a good girl. Trying hard to keep the secret of what my teenage brother and his best friend had just done to me in his bedroom, scared to tell our mom. My brother's words ringing in my head as I plunked on the keys. "Don't tell Mom or she'll freak out and end up back in the hospital." My siblings and I forever hyper-vigilant of Mom's moods after her stay in the psych ward where she was forcibly committed and received electroshock therapy after experiencing a couple of "nervous breakdowns."

In the 1980s, Mom showed me a letter my brother had written her in which he used the exact same phrase when referencing his memories of our grandmother abusing him. "Don't tell your mother or she'll end back up in the hospital."

It was also in the 1980s that a doctor told my mom to take me to talk to a psychologist, someone who could help me overcome the anorexia I'd developed in fifth grade, two years after my parents began sending me to weekly Weight Watchers meetings. I'd gone overboard on my dieting. It was a form of perfectionism. "You guys want me to lose weight? I'll show you."

I waited a long time to become a mother myself. I spent decades working on myself. Seeing doctors and psychologists. Reading self-help books and memoirs and novels--the good ones that actually helped me grow and develop a sense of self. The Dance of Anger by Harriet Lerner. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. I dated and broke up with a handful of people. I was mean and angry and insecure. I was a terrible girlfriend. I took a decade off of dating. I lived with my cat Zach in a one-bedroom apartment. No boyfriends. No girlfriends. No roommates. No family. Just me and my cat.

It was great.

But after a decade or so, I started to feel lonely. I wanted a family. A family of my own making. A spouse who loved and understood me. Children who laughed with me and listened to my stories. People with whom I could share all the goodness I'd found in the world.

I met Will. Everything was too easy. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone I'm not. I liked the me I was around him. He loved me, and he showed it. There was no guessing with him. He admitted why he liked me. He said, "You're the smartest person I know and you call me out on my bullshit." He also said, "I like the way your ass looks in that dress."

I stopped taking birth control pills two months before we got married because we were in a hurry. I was getting old, I had fertility issues, and we both wanted kids right way. Will wanted six kids. That sounded great to me. Although I doubted my body would cooperate. With the help of a fertility specialist, I was able to finally conceive. We named her Katherine after my sister Kathryn, and McKenna after Will's middle name Kenneth. Katherine McKenna Carleton. A good strong name for one good strong girl.

She's lived up to it for the most part. We nicknamed her Kate, then Katie. Pumpkin, then Punkin, then Punk. At the age of four, when she was learning how to write her name, she asked if we'd please stop calling her Kate and instead call her Katie. The summer before seventh grade, when she'd switch to middle school and meet lots of new classmates, she took the opportunity to re-nickname herself to Kat. Kat Carleton. Sounds like a badass to me.

And she is a badass, mostly. Badass because she's compassionate and kind. Authentic. Clever. Creative. Philosophical.

But, she's a twelve year old girl. She can also be fearful, and absent-minded. Moody. Sensitive. Shy. Anxious.

It was the 2010s when her doctor convinced us to start giving her antidepressant medication. She was ten and she'd been exhibiting signs of anxiety and depression since she was six, in first grade. It's the same anti-depressant medication that I take. The same my dad took. There should be a bottle of Sertraline on the crest of my dad's side of the family.

My friends, family, and coworkers often ask how she's doing. She has her ups and downs. Her behavior seems normal to me, but I was a moody, anxious, depressed teenager at one time myself. If I could bubble wrap her and keep her by my side at all times, I'd feel less stressed, but neither of those options will teach my little birdie how to fly.

I just worry so much about her. I try my best, and that's all I can do. Sadly, no matter how "good" we are as mothers we can’t protect our children from the awful aspects of this world.

I had an amazing conversation with one of my heroes last April. She was in town to give the keynote speech at a reception for the teen literary arts magazine I support. We had dedicated the 15th issue to author A. S. King, or Amy, as she told us to call her. I got to ride around in the car with her on our way to the various teen writing workshops and author talks we had booked for her. We're the same age, with daughters of similar ages. We shared our struggles of raising daughters with depression. It's a difficult topic to talk about, so it felt good to bond over it. It made me admire Amy even more. She's a fantastic author, and a good mother, too. I had proof.

If you haven't read any A. S. King novels, you're missing out. Most of her protagonists are teenagers. All of them are smart, funny, thoughtful, sensitive, and wise. Their stories relateable and feel true. There's a lot of weird shit that happens in an A. S. King novel. Surreal. Curious. WTF moments. But that just makes it all the more like real life. Amy’s novels focus on the lives of teens and kids in today’s chaotic world full of tests, and grades, and active shooter drills at school, and family violence, and divorce, and suicide at home. Amy writes with such an astute insight into young people’s minds. She understands young people. She remembers what it’s like. How hard the struggle is. How the only way out is through, and the only way through is with love.

I just wish her fictional stories weren't so true.

This weekend, Amy's oldest daughter died. Just sixteen years old. My heart breaks for Amy and her family. Yet it's still true: the only way out is through, and the only way through is with Love.

Love. That's all I got. It's all I have to give, even during the darkest times. Love is what I'm sending Amy and her family this week.

https://www.snyderfuneralhome.com/obituary/gracie-edith-king/

Love is what I'm sending them because

I have no words.

Letter to Representative Kevin Yoder: Detaining families in military encampments is immoral

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Fri, 29 Jun 2018 02:14:00 +0000

I emailed my representative:

Please do all that is in your power to stop the Trump Administration from detaining people who enter our country illegally. It is cheaper and more humane to allow these immigrants to live freely in the United States until their immigration hearing. Detaining families in military encampments is immoral. Kansans are better than this. Fight, Representative Yoder. Do all you can.

My body is none of your business

noreply@blogger.com (Becky Carleton) — Sun, 24 Jun 2018 14:52:00 +0000

It’s been a bit since I’ve posted anything about my mental health and my Health at Every Size advocacy. So maybe it’s time to send out a reminder.

I have Post-traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of trauma I experienced as a child. One of the major traumas I experienced was being a fat kid in a fat phobic family and culture. I was sent to Weight Watchers in 3rd grade. I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa in 5th grade. I struggled with disordered eating and body dysmorphia for decades. I hated my body so much that I defied convention by not inviting our extended family and friends to our wedding because I knew I’d have a panic attack standing in front of all those people with their eyes on me.

The year I turned 40, my brother died of alcoholic liver failure. The same brother who had sexually abused me when I was a young child. The same brother who, when he came back into town after having been gone a few years, asked my mom why I had gotten so fat. As if my body were any of his business.

The same year my brother died, I checked out a book from the public library: Health at Every Size by Dr. Linda Bacon. The book saved my life. I still struggle with body shame as a fat, sexual abuse survivor living in a fat-phobic, misogynistic society, but the Health at Every Size philosophy has changed my mind. I can see clearly that I deserve to be happy and healthy and loved and understood. It is not my fault that I live in a culture that hates fat women, and it makes me feel proud when I speak up and defend myself.

This morning I defended myself again. A so-called friend, knowing that I live with PTSD that is triggered by diet talk and fat shaming, took it upon herself to share unsolicited advice by recommending to me a weight-loss book.

No.

No diet advice. No weight-loss talk. No discussion with the assumption that there is something wrong with my body.

My body is none of your business.

#Unfriend.