Gone Fishin'

Took H fishing today because he's been dead set on it and I finally had an opportunity. Most of the time we go fishing, we have no luck. Today, we caught three things. A yellow perch, a bluegill, and a turtle.

Henry catches a gigantic fish, I swear.

The perch was first, then the bluegill. Both in pretty quick succession. The turtle was a bit later. Was an accident, of course. Luckily it barely got hooked, it mostly just had the line wrap around it's foot. I was able to free it with no visible damage, though the little yank I had to do probably wasn't pleasant for ol' Shelly (I just named it now.) H wanted to put the turtle in the bucket we had the fish in, so I did.

Shelly

Bucket o' lake life

After a few seconds, H wanted me to get the turtle out because turtles breathe air and he didn't want it to get hurt. I reached in to grab it but got a bit poked and couldn't catch it, so I dumped out some of the water to make it easier. Was able to get the turtle out and let him free. So long, Shelly. That left the bluegill and the perch. I tried to add a little extra water into the bucket, but in the process, the bluegill jumped out, leaving only the perch behind.

As is usually the case when we go fishing, H had wanted to take it home and cook it. And because I'm way too overly sensitive about things including a dumb ol' fish even though I eat meat because I'm a complete and total hypocrite, I agreed to do it and didn't let my own feelings on having to kill a fish myself show. I told him we would take the bucket home so his brother could see the fish first. We went and picked up the brother (still need to find a nickname for him for this blog, or I could just use their real names, but whatever) from camp and we went home. We had to leave the fish behind so the younger one could go to his therapy so we did that, ol' Perchy sitting in his bucket, waiting for his demise, none-the-wiser. (side note: Perchy is not nearly as cute of a nickname as Shelly. That fish can't catch no breaks.)

On the way home from all that, H decided that he didn't want to eat the fish, because he felt bad for it. He wanted to let it go. I offered to let it go in the pond behind the house, but he said no, he wanted to return it to the lake, so it could be with its family. Can't really say no to that, can I?

So we took Perchy back to his home in the lake. I am proud of H, more than I can really express. His empathy, his willingness to stand up for what he believed, his ability to tell me what he thought, but mostly, his being him.

Letting Perchy go

Another year

I apparently can only post here when it's summer time and I start getting the passion to be something other than a lump, even though this summer, finding that passion is taking some real doing. Volunteering a couple places when I can, some coming up very soon, outdoor stuff. Got a book from the library about getting the kids outside more, but it's secretly actually for me. Looking for some sort of inspiration to get myself interested in being outside or doing anything other than wasting time on the internet or whatever. Depression is a killer and it wants me dead more than you can imagine but I'm gonna keep working against it, not for me, but for those (admittedly fucking crazy lately) little boys o' mine.

I look at H and I see a sadness in his face, or maybe I'm projecting. Wife says I am. I don't know. I want to find a way to make him happy that doesn't involve buying him things. Too materialistic. Both are. I am. So much shit piling up for me to feel good about for two seconds before it becomes just another anchor, trying to remove it is like putting on a life preserver made of lead, to continue the oceanish lingo.

I is having a lot more tantrums when things don't go his way (maybe I need a better pseudonym for him instead of his initial, damn confusion.) Keep hoping therapy for him is going to work but how can the therapy work if he throws his tantrums whenever we try the skills given?

Time to look for my own therapist even though finding the time and the money is hard. Don't know my work schedule ahead of time more than like two weeks so I need to find someone who is flexible, and I need to get over my feeling of needing to be home all the time to help with the kids. More of my own craziness.

Amelia

When I was younger, I worked as a grave digger. I naively thought it would be cool, then I thought eh, it’s just a job. Then I ended up having to help dig a grave for a kid and I quit that day. I couldn’t do it. I never wanted to dig a grave again in my life.

 I dug a grave today.

 My sweet little dog Amelia was hit by a car, she died as I put my hand on her chest. She was a member of the family only for a bit over a year. She was probably about nine months when we adopted her, they said. We adopted her on February 7, 2015, and she passed away today, July 16, 2016. 

 She was across the street and I called to her to get her to come home. She came running toward me. I’ll never forget that image, and I’ll never feel like it wasn’t my fault. I ran to her. I watched her take her last few breaths, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I touched her and she stopped moving. I picked her up and cradled her, my sweet puppy. 

 The car had stopped and the guy got out and he was saying something about thinking she was a branch. I have to admit I didn’t really listen. I told him it was ok, it wasn’t his fault. He stood there for a while saying something or other and I told him it was fine, it was an accident. He kept saying he was sorry and I told him it was ok and told him he could go and he did. A neighbor was by, I don’t know who it was, but he stood there with his hand on my shoulder as I stood in the middle of the street and cried and cradled my poor Amelia to my chest.

 The kids were outside. I don’t know if they saw it happen. I hope so much that they didn’t. They are only four and six, they don’t need that. They stood on the sidewalk watching me, Ian didn’t quite get it. Henry did. He cried and puked. Amber took them inside.

 The neighbor offered to grab the hose from the side of the house and spray off the puke, I thanked him as best as I could. I wish I knew who it was, but I was still in shock. Thank you again, whoever you are.

 I took her into the garage and I held her and I cried. I put her down and I dug a hole in the back yard, and there she is now, feet away from where I type this. 

 Ian still doesn’t get it, I guess that’s a good thing about his developmental delays, even though I know that sounds incredibly fucking shitty of me to actually say. He loved that dog more than anyone in the family, I bet. He was always with her. When I would take him places, he would tell strangers out of the blue, “guess what? I have a pet, and her name is Amelia!” I don’t even know what else to say about Ian to be honest. I feel like Amelia getting hit was my fault. And because of this, I took his friend away. I don’t know how I’ll forgive myself for it.

 Henry does get it, though. He’s taking it better than I expected on the surface, but I know him. And I know his last image of her was her in my arms. I know him, and I know that is going to stick with him. I only hope he doesn’t blame me, but I’m too terrified of it to ask. It’s funny how much he loved her, especially because when we first got her he was so afraid of her.

 He made her a card. His words mean more than mine ever will.

The Blue Sky

This is another message board post, one I wrote for my Children's Literature class, reflecting on the book The Blue Sky, by Andrea Petrlik Huseinović. You can read the book online here.

This book really hit me. While I’ve never had a parent die, I did come from a home where I was abused both physically and mentally, so despite having a completely different starting point, I was really able to relate to the girl, her sadness, and her longing for happiness and a sense of belonging. 

The book made me reflect on my own life, and my own past. Much like the girl, I sometimes struggle to remember the good times. While I don’t forgive my family for the way I was treated, I do know that there were some happy memories mixed in with all the negativity. I felt glad that the girl was able to remember so much good, and to hopefully find that happiness and sense of love again at the end. If someone knew my experiences, they may wonder if I was jealous of the girl for maybe finding that happiness again, but I’m not. I’m a parent myself now, and the book made me want to really make sure that any happiness that I missed out on is given to my own children ten-fold.

I thought the main character was a fantastic representation of the feeling of sadness and loneliness that we have surely all felt at some point in our lives. Maybe not all of us have lost a loved one. Maybe we are too young, or we didn’t have anyone close to us when we were children. Maybe we came from an incredibly sheltered home, and our parents were incredibly doting and did everything to make us happy. The fact though is, life is not always happiness. We all have sadness in us, we all have sad experiences. But we all must find a way to take this sadness and grow. Don’t let it fester. It will be a drain on your whole life. I believe the girl realized this at the end.

I think the author was trying to make the reader understand that one event does not define your life. The book starts with the girl, only reflecting her sadness. She is defined by the loss of her mother. Through the book, however, we learn of all the little events that the girl and her mother experienced together. The girl reflects on her happy experiences with her mother, and how they shaped and affected the lives of the animals they helped through their actions. It made the girl realize that she is not defined by her sadness alone, even if it is a part of her. She starts off as a one sided character and by the end, becomes whole.

The way the author wrote reminded me a lot of my own writing style, which I appreciated. Her writing in this book focused less on concrete information and facts, and more on a sense of feeling and experience. It reminded me a lot of the memoirs I enjoy reading, which focus less on what happened and what order, and more on how the experiences shaped the writer.

Another message board post

I started up a new class on Children's Literature, and had to write my initial post to the message board introducing myself. I decided to post it here, too, because it's easier than original content. Enjoy!

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As a child, I was a voracious reader. I didn’t have many friends, and my family life was abusive, so reading was one of my escapes from reality for a time, though it wasn’t only fiction I read. I also read a lot of nonfiction, mostly books on space and science. As my school career went on, I grew to dislike any book that was assigned reading, as I felt like it was my escape, and I didn’t want to be forced to read X when I wanted to read Y. I think this attitude really caused some issues with my own enjoyment of reading, and my own knowledge, and I wish I could go back and erase that part of my history. I fell out of reading for personal enjoyment for a long while, and have really only recently begun to find that joy again (well, recently as in the past ten years).

My favorite genre as a child was science fiction. I craved the feeling of freedom that a lot of sci-fi provided. To this day, my favorite book, and the book I’ve read the most times in my life (not including reading and rereading books to my children) is The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells. Wells continues to be my favorite author, even if I am not as much into sci-fi these days.

What I like more now is travelogues, “slice of life” nonfiction, and memoirs. I like learning about the ways that other people have lived, and it has finally, at 32, given me some much needed insight into processing my own childhood, and my own life.

 Other than that, I actually really do enjoy children’s books, and have tried my hand at writing my own over the years, but then I read something by say Sandra Boynton (probably my favorite children’s book author), with perfectly realized words and art, and I realize that my stuff is awful in comparison. Of course, rationally I realize that that is because of my own self esteem issues stemming from my childhood, but sometimes the rationality is hard to escape.

 A lot of what Galda, Sipe, Liang, and Cullinan (2010) wrote about regarding the power of literature I believe rings true in my experiences. Their statement that avid reading leads to a better understanding of the world is something that I have really come to appreciate more and more over my lifetime, and something I hope to make use of in my own parenting (pp. 6-7).

For this course, I hope to learn more about what makes a good children’s book, and how to encourage my own children (currently six and four) to get interested, and stay interested, in reading.

Paying attention

This is actually part of a message board homework assignment I wrote for a class I'm in, but I wanted to post it here.

I wanted to point out what I feel is one of the most important things mentioned in the chapter. Johnson (2012) states "kids get hooked because big people take the time to really look at the work they have done and comment on it" (p. 121). I think this is something that many of us (myself included) can be guilty of when it comes to working with children. I was thinking back to an experience here at home earlier today, when my son wanted to show me a project he was working on, and I kind of shooed him away because I was busy doing something of my own. I luckily noticed his expression and his look of sadness that I didn't give him the attention he needed, so I stopped what I was doing and made it a point to talk to him and see what it was he wanted to show me. In the future, I need to be more cognizant of his needs and at least acknowledge his interest, if I want him to remain creative and inquisitive. It left me wondering, how many times have I done this where I didn't notice the effect it was having on him?
Children crave attention, acceptance, understanding, and the feeling of accomplishment. We need to make sure that we don't let their desires and needs fade away like many of our own probably have over the years.

Painting the walls with crazy

Or maybe not crazy. Maybe food coloring. And an attempt with butter. That was Ian today.

When I was making breakfast for the boys, Ian came up and grabbed a butterknife full of butter, and tried to paint it on the livingroom wall. Luckily I caught him with that. I wasn't so lucky with the food coloring, though, which he attacked the downstairs bathroom wall with when I was dumb enough to think I could get a shower in uneventfully.

If you're wondering why the food coloring was within his reach, well, that's because of the potty training attempts we are still working on. Because apparently a kid who is going to be four in just over a week still can't use the potty on his own. OK granted, he has sensory processing issues and he has his speech delay and everything, but come on, kid, I don't want to change diapers anymore.

Or find pee-filled pull-ups in the middle of the floor while he runs around naked.

Sigh.

Maybe I should figure out how to take care of this potty avoidance before worrying about starting a podcast, heh.