The meds are on

Anthony went to the psychiatrist with Jesse today and walked out with a prescription for Citalopram, one of those SSRIs (Selective Seretonin Reuptake Inhibitor, and yes, I have no idea what that means). It’s an anti-depressant, also used to treat anxiety and other behavior and mood disorders with kids. As far as I can tell, the research is still out. Giving kids meds like this is a bit like throwing shit at the wall. At least, that’s what I’ve decided today.

I am profoundly resistant to medications of this sort. I use the word “resistant” purposefully, in lieu of “opposed.” There is a small rational part of me that understands that, for some kids, meds like this are part of a healthy journey. I would never judge another parent for turning to meds. But my instincts are so vested in not doing this. It feels like the ultimate statement in parenting failure — because if only I were a better mother, then Jesse wouldn’t need drugs.

Jesse is also resistant to the meds. She thinks they’ll make her drool. I suggested that drooling might be an improvement over her crazy yawping and penis talk, and more important, maybe it would be good if the meds help her stop hating herself so much.

I asked Anthony to do some more research, and some more research, and then some more research before we start dosing her. I said SSRIs come with a lot of risks, and if it doesn’t go well then weaning Jesse will be hard too. I reminded him that, although I talked about meds as an option a couple weeks ago, I quickly backtracked and changed my mind. My man nodded and looked at me thoughtfully, and mostly said nothing. But then tonight at dinner time he quietly cut one of the pills in half and handed it to Jesse with a glass of water.

An old friend of mine whose opinion I respect suggested that I trust Anthony on this. It’s wise advice, since I can’t see very clearly right now. Jesse feels lost to me, and I’m in this sad, broken place where I assume ordinary parents like me go to when our children fall apart. I can’t think straight. I can’t parse through the data. I can’t make good decisions. I just feel emotionally flayed.

I’ve gone to therapy with Jesse almost every week for nearly five years now. I’ve done my best; but it hasn’t amounted to much. I’ve failed too often, broken promises to myself and my children, yelled too much, found patience and insight too infrequently. It must be my fault that we’re reduced to purchasing a medication — mass-produced by some indifferent pharmaceutical giant and hawked to our health insurer so effectively that we only pay 28 cents a month for it — to try to fill the gap left by my horrific parenting.

28 cents for a month. That’s all it takes.

Anthony argued gently with me this morning. “You’ve tried everything already, Carla.”

I answered in earnest. “Then I have to try harder.”

Anthony just looked at me sadly. I didn’t rightly know what he was thinking.

But he gave Jesse her first dose of Citalopram tonight. 5 milligrams, half of the recommended minimum dose. Just a baby step on the road to… Drug dependency? Emotional wellness?

I looked away, fussed about the room, disappeared myself as this abomination of a moment passed.

And then I wept. Several times. I’m still weeping, right now.

After the kids were asleep I asked Anthony for more details about their visit to the shrink. “Did you tell her how I’ve messed things up?” I asked.

“No. But I did tell her that you’re way too hard on yourself.” Or maybe he said too self-critical. i don’t remember exactly, because it broke me.

I buried my face on Anthony’s shoulder and wept. It’s all my fault, I told him.

“No. It’s not,” he answered gently as we held each other. I wept and wept and wept.

But it is all my fault. I’m too weak to even give Jesse the meds she probably needs to get her through this. I’m too weak and scared to support this decision.

Good thing Anthony’s on it. I think I’ll trust him on this one, for now.

I’d like my Jesse back, please.

A day (of almost grace) in a life

7:00 am. I wake to the sound of something beating on the wall. I assume it’s Jesse kicking the wall viciously, which I’m used to, but I look over and she’s still sound asleep. Ah. It’s the construction crew getting to work. A few minutes later everyone wakes up and Jesse starts hollering about the noise. I dress and head out the door. 10 feet away, Erick-the-Carpenter is getting things going with his crew. I shuffle in with my morning breath, bed head, and crusty eyes to chat with him about a cubbie that’s going in the master bedroom they’re working on. I try not to scratch in ignominious spots as my body slowly wakes up. I’m vaguely humiliated but the conversation has to happen. Erick manages not to snicker openly at my appearance, for which I’m deeply grateful.

I’ve made a commitment to myself to engage in maximum helicopter parenting for a while. Jesse needs help identifying and foreseeing her flash points, and then managing her reactions. I’m on it today.

8:35 am. We head out the door for summer camp at the Audubon nature center. It’s been a pretty smooth morning. We’re all permanently on edge because of Jesse’s behaviors, but she’s only had one break-on-the-stairs so far, and she and Nick have played well together in our efficiency-apartment basement. I’m all over them, helping them iron out problems with sharing and personal space.

The car ride goes surprisingly well. Jesse doesn’t do anything too awful and Nick isn’t too annoying.

Yesterday before we got in the car, I asked Jesse to first take deep breaths and think about how she would go about not attacking Nick in the car. I saw her standing next to the car door, breathing and thinking peacefully. As I walked over I noticed Nick. He was already in the car. He was pressing his face up against the closed car window beside Jesse and and slapping his palms on the glass, yelling “TAKE DEEP BREATH-ESS! TAKE DEEP BREATH-ESS!”

Today goes better than that.

9:30: I’ve dropped the kids off. They seem to be enjoying my extreme hands-on parenting. They can’t get enough of it. Jesse went into her camp classroom and seemed happy to be there. In fact, she seemed glad to see me go, thus displaying the independence one associates with beautifully parented, self-confident children. Nick refused to let me enter his classroom. He kissed me in the hallway and said firmly, “mommy, you stop right there. Don’t come in!”

During the next two hours, I buy and deliver some donuts for the work crew at the house; hit Home Depot to pick up door handles and start spying out tile tools and toilets; stop by Trader Joes for some basic eats; run by the house to drop cold groceries off and get the dog outside to pee; and do some quick searches about tile on the computer. La la la.

11:45 am: I pick Nick up from his camp class and we head downstairs to find Jesse. She’s peaceful enough that we’re able to stay for half an hour after camp in one of the outdoor preschool classrooms (a play area, really). Other kids are there, including a little five-year-old named Charlie who’s wearing the same taekwondo “board break-a-thon” t-shirt as me. “Heeey!” he exclaims in delight, because we all train at the same academy. We bow to each other. “Pilsung!” He shows us his kicks. Jesse is a perfect senior taekwondo student: she praises him without exaggerating and encourages him with a big smile.

The kids get along really well. Superficially, Jesse and Nick are ideal children. They play cooperatively and without bossing; they watch out for the littlest ones and make sure they’re included; if a big kid takes something from a little kid, they go retrieve it and give it back; when someone’s hurt, they’re attentive and caring. But I have to watch Jesse like a hawk. She veers towards hostile with Nick a few times. I call her over each time I see her swerve and remind her to back off, make distance from Nick, and calm herself. Remarkably, she does it.

12:30 pm: carpenters and plumbers are busy at the house today, so I don’t want to take the kids home just yet. We head over to Qdoba and Noodles & Company. Jesse gets her new favorite lunch, a not-much-cheese chicken quesadilla, and we carry it next door to Noodles. After we order Nick’s lunch, we settle at a table outside. When the food comes, the kids are sweet and well-mannered, and Jesse remembers to say “thank you!” A few minutes later the server comes back with two giant chocolate chip cookies for the kids. “You are such well-mannered children and so sweet! So I thought you deserved a treat and wanted to give you these!”

Jesse’s face lights up — no, her whole body lights up with a brief, radiant moment of pride. She and Nick stare at the cookies greedily.

“Thank you so much!” I tell server lady. “You are so kind!”

And then I have to do the nasty deed. “But we can’t have the cookies because Jesse has a severe egg allergy.”

The kids’ faces collapse. I want to cry. I guess I could just say thank you and let server lady walk away, but it seems wrong to accept her generosity superficially and then throw out the cookies.

Server lady keeps a smile on her face, but the collective disappointment is palpable. Server lady doesn’t give up. “Oh I’m sorry. I wish there were some other treat we had that I could give you!”

I speak up, against my nature. I don’t like handouts and I don’t like asking for free things and it’s hard, but I do it. “Well… They can have your rice krispy treats, and I’m sure they would love it if they don’t have to share this one rice krispy treat that I bought.”

Server lady is on it. She’s back a moment later with a second rice krispy treat the size of a burrito. Jesse fondles it and declares that it is covered in love. It is the most delicious rice krispy treat ever. Jesse can’t wipe the smile off her face for a good five minutes.

1:30: We stop by home ever so briefly to pick up the kids’ iPads so they have something to do in the doctor’s office. Anything to  keep them from playing with the toys in the waiting area. I will never understand toys in a pediatric waiting area. Germs. Why.

1:45: Jesse has two plantar warts that won’t go away, one on the ball of her foot and the other on the bottom of her big toe. Pediatrician Dr. Linsmeier gives those warts a hard burn with liquid nitrogen. Jesse has an extreme tolerance for pain and doesn’t shed a tear. The only evidence of pain is a single twitch and an almost inaudible mutter. “That hurts.”

Dr. Linsmeier shows the kids what’s inside the bottle she was shooting ice from. It looks like water. She does her magic trick and flings the contents across the floor! Most of the nitrogen disappears in an instant and a ghostly fog forms across the exam room floor. A few drops of nitrogen stay liquid and bounce around on the floor. Dr. Linsmeier is the most awesome doctor ever.

2:30: We head home. The construction crew is winding down and the house is a mess. Everyone is a bit tired, and I have to focus on cleaning up. Jesse struggles to keep it together. She spends some quality time outside by herself, and then she requests Alvin and the Chipmunks. Because she knows quality Hollywood when she sees it.

4:00: Daddy’s home!! Anthony has come home early because it’s school registration day. But first he and I discuss the eating bar that’s going in our future kitchen. There’s turmoil over its shape and depth, because the wall its abutting isn’t going to be as wide as originally planned and yadda yadda. I want Anthony to decide, since the bar is his thing, but he’s being weirdly fussy about it. This annoys me no end, and I think he’s feeling cornered somehow. I just want him to make all the decisions, and I want them to be good ones. Is that too much to ask?

4:30: Although Alvin is COMPELLING viewing, we pause the movie and drive over to the middle school where registration is going on. I have remembered that taking school photos at registration is a flashpoint for Jesse. She hates being directed to sit in awkward positions and being told to smile over and over. It makes her all crazy inside. Last year I ignored everything to do with school photos.

This year, I plan ahead. We talk about the hurdle. We see the hurdle, we decide to jump it, and we come up with ideas for how best to jump. No cows are involved.

Nick tries to help Jesse by demonstrating how to smile for the camera. It looks something like this.


Jesse practices.


Does she seem stressed out in this photo?

When it’s time to take the photo at registration, Jesse shows masterful emotional control. She grins, she smiles, she laughs, she goes along with the directions to tilt this way and that and turn this way and that. It goes super smoothly. I could not be more proud of her. Baby steps.

Nick also handles his photos well. He puts on his rictus grin and wiggles. Anthony tries to make him smile more naturally by being silly behind the photographer, and Nick responds in kind. He poses with his mouth wide open. He juts his hip and throws his hands up in mock surprise. The photographers are patient. “Let’s try again. Ok. Try again. Yup. Let’s try that again.” Nick is upbeat the whole time. Unlike Jesse, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the photos or the photo shoot. He truly, completely does not care. He doesn’t care that anyone else cares. He doesn’t care how the photo turns out. He’s just going along because he’s having fun watching all the adults try to make him do something he’s not doing. He’s a school photo sociopath.

5:30: We’re back home and it’s time for dinner. I have some aging thick-cut bacon in the fridge, along with chicken I took out of the freezer two days ago. It must be cooked. I fire up the grill and get the bacon on there on a cast iron pan. Quick marinade for the chicken, camping style: ketchup, soy sauce, vinegar, pepper, lemon juice, paprika. Done. I chop farmshare beets, potatoes and carrots to roast. I’ve also got a big cabbage from last week’s farmshare box, and I have to do something with it. So I make a cole slaw, with some onion, garlic, and grated carrot thrown in. The farmshare box also contained something that looks like dill gone to seed. I pull the seeds off and grind them up with a mortar and pestle. I don’t think it’s dill after tasting it, but I throw it in the slaw anyway.

While all this fantastic cooking is happening, random shit is going on around me. I lose track of interruptions. But overall, Jesse is doing really well. I’m still helicoptering and helping Nick and her manage things. It’s been Jesse’s best day in probably a full month, even though Nick is being more annoying than usual, and I’d like to bring it in strong. But something happens; I don’t remember what. Something Anthony says irritates me beyond reason. I step outside and spend 15 minutes or more wandering around the yard and pulling a weed here and there. Also collecting Japanese beetles in a little bucket of soapy water. When I come back in the house, no one seems to have noticed my absence. Excellent.

8:00 p.m. Watermelon. Everyone wants watermelon.

8:10 p.m. Jesse comes up behind me. I think she’s going to hug me. Instead, she screams as loud as she can directly into my ear. It’s excruciating and vicious. I refuse to accept her apology.

Everything unravels for the next half hour as Jesse refuses to follow directions, refuses to stay away from us, and does a lot of mean things — more screaming in ears, hitting and kicking, and a full-on tantrum that results in me putting her on the front porch. Eventually, she settles onto the sofa in the living room to read some of her book. Nick settles into bed in our one bedroom and watches an episode of Dinosaur Train while Anthony and I clean floors and get water and fold laundry. On one trip past Jesse, I ask her if I can give her a kiss goodnight. She shakes her head no. I’m filled with sadness. i try to hide it as I speak. Jesse, I wish you could come upstairs and be with us. If you can just be gentle. We all want you with us. We want you to share quiet evenings with us at bedtime.

9:00: Jesse comes upstairs. Not exactly meek, but she’s trying as hard as she can. It’s been a long day with a lot of little challenges, and she’s emotionally exhausted. I realize that I am too. She crawls under the covers and watches the end of Dinosaur Train. I sneak into bed next to her and spoon up behind her for a bit. I bury my nose in her beautiful brown hair, close my eyes, and whisper, “I love you, Jesse.” I don’t know if she hears me. I don’t know if she believes me.

There are a few yawps and threats, but Jesse hangs on by a thread and falls asleep in our bedroom with us. It’s the first time in a long time, and I’m grateful.

Baby steps.

grumpy about positivity – 99 problems

I’m working on being more positive.

Jesse’s workbook on grumbling too much says some people are more positive and some people are more negative. Some people are more pessimistic, some are more optimistic. Some people are flexible, some people are inflexible. Some people are pains in the ass (pain in the asses?), some smell like mangos and buttermilk.

“Who do you know who tends to be negative? Draw a picture of that person.” Said the workbook page. Jesse drew herself and me.


Before you think weird things, I can explain the body drawings. Those aren’t my ovaries dropping into my groin, nor is Jesse portraying us wearing either hoochie-mama outfits or BDSM gear. Jesse has been working with one of those 3D wood body forms to figure out body dimensions and movement points. She draws bodies with ball joints now, and proportions have been out of whack for a while. And now that I look more closely, she does appear to have given me a cleavage. Huh.

Oh. On the “who’s positive” side of the workbook, Jesse drew a picture of Nick with the caption, “most positive thinker ever.”


I think she’s right. You remember that Sesame Street ditty, “One of these things is not like the other”? That’s Nick, trapped in a house with three pessimistic, pretty inflexible people. Poor little awesome guy.

The workbook says you can exercise being more positive and flexible. You have to learn to jump hurdles. See the hurdle. Decide to jump it. Figure out how to do it. Jump.


Four easy steps. Jesse read it a few times and pondered as we sat together. She wanted to know why the pictures showed a cow jumping hurdles. She looked at me curiously, expectantly, but then before I could say “It’s a metaphor,” she wandered off into her own mind and I left her alone.

A while later she came back to me with a sheet of paper. “Look Mom, I took each of the four steps and I wrote them like what they actually mean.”


Not bad. I guess she doesn’t need cows. But her approach is a little abstract. We worked on it for a while and we’ll continue to do a bit of learning every day on this.

Anyway, I decided to work on being more positive today because, you know, I’ve got to be a better role model. Jesse and I spent much of the day together, because Anthony took Nick on a solo adventure. They took the dog to the beach and went out for food and lots of fun stuff. Jesse sat in the house while I painted wood siding. It was a just punishment for when she bit Nick on the face last night.

Oh no I didn’t! That wasn’t a nice thing to out Jesse on – I’m getting negative already!

Come on, girl. I’m trying to be positive here. Reboot.

After I cleaned up from the painting, Jesse and I went to lunch. I realized I’ve been forming a positivity mantra lately without even knowing it. Every now and then I’ll announce to Anthony, “I got 99 problems but [insert whatever I’m thinking about] ain’t one!”

It’s very upbeat, yeah? I decided to use it with Jesse today.

Jesse and I went to Qdoba. On the drive there she started in on her strange penis chatter.

“I got 99 problems but a penis ain’t one!”

That stopped her. “Mom.”

Jesse wanted to eat a not-much-cheese chicken quesadilla, with pico de gallo and corn salsa, dipped into tortilla soup. We picked up our food. “I got 99 problems but my lunch ain’t one!”

“Mommy, that’s weird.”

“I got 99 problems but being weird ain’t one!”

“Mom. Stop.”

“I got 99 problems but stopping ain’t one!”

“Mommy! You’re embarraassing me!”

I don’t think it worked with her. But bellowing it at her cheered me up for sure.

After lunch, we went to the bike shop and spied out bikes with 24-inch wheels. Jesse found a Trek she love-love-loved, jet black with a matte finish. Soooo emo and soooo expensive. I offered Jesse a bribe, part of my stealth plan to sidestep the meds. “You work hard for the next month on two things: following directions, and improving your mood, you know, like feeling better about yourself and being happier so you stop being so hostile to us. You don’t have to be perfect, but you have to try really hard. Do that for a month, and then if you chip in a hundred bucks from your savings, we’ll get you the Ninja bike.”

Jesse’s eyes opened wide with optimism and a dream of awesome bike rides to come.

We’ll see what she can muster. I’m not optimistic.

No wait. I AM optimistic, really I am!


I found myself thinking about 99 problems all day long after that. I tried to apply it positively as I bent over to paint board after endless board in the back yard, my back and thighs aching from the uncomfortable position, the thumb tendon of my painting hand throbbing in pain.

I got 99 problems, but rain ain’t one! (Damn. Looks like I’ve got no excuse to quit painting.)

(Ah. That’s negative. Try again.)

I got 99 problems, but making dinner ain’t one! (Because I’m spending the entire f*&^ing day painting these damn boards and I don’t have a kitchen to cook in anyway.)

(Shit. Still negative. Try again.)

I got 99 problems, but Jesse screaming at me ain’t one!

(Because she’s inside playing with her iPad, so I’m just delaying the inevitable. Gawd, I’m such a bad mommy.)


I got 99 problems, but going with Jesse to the new psychiatrist this week ain’t one! (I’m refusing to go. Anthony has to do it. I can’t believe we’re going to be reduced to meds. Shaking my head.)

I just can’t do it. I’m born and bred to pessimism.

I got 99 problems, but a functioning kitchen ain’t one!

I got 99 problems, but a functional toilet on the same floor as our bedroom ain’t one!

I got 99 problems, but being underweight ain’t one!

I got 99 problems, but time to exercise ain’t one!

I got 99 problems, but being positive ain’t one!

grumpy about parenting (how to fail 101)

After a horrendous spring and summer, during which I’ve lost my voice several times from screaming so much at Jesse, and gained 10 stress pounds and 200 linear feet of stress wrinkles on my face, I have had an epiphany.

I know I know, I have a lot of stupid epiphanies. But this one is less stupid than usual.

I had been thinking that I’ve been on the edge of a parental nervous breakdown for several months. But I realized some time in the last 48 hours that I’m in the midst of a nervous breakdown. In fact, I’m thinking I achieved full breakdown some months ago. Instead of being on the edge of a nervous breakdown, I’ve been on the edge of reason.

The threat of putting Jesse on meds has moved me past insanity to reason. Anthony is taking her to see a psychiatrist next week. I’m not going. I realized after we started considering meds that I really, really, really don’t want Jesse on them, especially in these critical years when she heads into puberty and massive body and brain changes.  I understand the argument that anxiety-style meds may be positive – they may bring her down to a place where she can more effectively participate in behavior modification strategies and cognitive behavior therapy. But the same anxiety that makes her crazy also heightens her perceptiveness and imagination, and it lays some of the groundwork for her beautiful poetry, her insight into people, and her quirky humor. What would I feel like if meds take that away from her?

So the threat of it has made me come to my senses. I got down to practical business a couple days ago, which is to say I googled shit and bought some books. On the parenting front, I got “the opposite of worry,” by Lawrence J. Cohen, Ph.D. It’s “The Playful Parenting Approach to Childhood Anxieties and Fears.”

I don’t know why the title uses no caps, but the sub-caption uses initial caps. Why? WHY?? You’d think that with a doctorate, Dr. Cohen could do something about that. Or at least afford a better editor. Who decided it would be cute to mix up upper and lower case like this? What, this guy is the ee cummings of child psychology?

What? Oh. It’s an okay book. I started reading it and it’s mostly about normal anxiety and fear, but stuff like this can be a refresher to help get my own parenting ideas flowing anew for Jesse’s more extreme needs.

I also ordered “The Explosive Child” by Ross Greene. No, rude reader, it’s not about poop and gas. It is, rather, “A New Approach for Understanding and Parenting Easily Frustrated, Chronically Inflexible Children.” Right up my need alley. I’m sure I’ll read several chapters.

I have a theory about how books like this work, at least for me. The fact that they’re in major paperback publication, and sold on Amazon, tells me that there are a significant number of people who believe they have kids just like mine. That’s what these books actually do for me — their mere existence is much more important than their content. No one wants to be alone; solidarity engenders relief. I’m relieved I’m not the only parent with a jackass child. In fact, the Explosive book’s cover declares that it is “The Classic Parenting Guide–More Than 500,000 Copies Sold.”

In the 21st century does “than” get capitalized in that phrase? What the fuck is happening to my world?

Shit shit shit. I’m engaging in classic avoidance, and my long-beaten inner grammar nazi is raising its ugly head from the P-trap of my brain’s toilet. Wait a second while I flush it back down.

Right, I’m back. So I’m going to read The Explosive Child, because I need something out of the norm. And also, Jesse is explosive. From both ends, frankly, especially since we allowed her to be poisoned by a giant chewy egg-bearing Sweet Tart on our drive home last week. Two weeks’ of safe vacation, and on the very last day she gets exposed to eggs. How did I let that happen?

Speaking of eggs, I had to go to Home Depot tonight. I still hate Home Depot. 40 Home Depot employees wandering around the aisles like lobotomized cast members in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and only ONE — EXACTLY ONE — checkout stand is open, with 12 people lined up and waiting to get out of that shit hole.

Hold on. I need to flush again.

I bought Jesse some books too. Best to flood her as much as me with too much information and no innate ability to organize it. I discovered a “What to Do When…” series, written for kids (but not by kids). Pictures, simple talk, ideas for practicing and helping your grown-ups do a better job of parenting you. These books do a better job with capitalization, sort of. I got Jesse What to Do When…

-Good Enough Isn’t Good Enough. The Real Deal on Perfectionism.
-Your Temper Flares. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Problems with Anger.
-You Worry Too Much. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Anxiety.
-You Grumble too Much. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Negativity.
-Bad Habits Take Hold. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Nail Biting and More.
-Your Brain Gets Stuck. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming OCD.

Do you think it’s too much?

I encouraged her to start with Grumbling. It’s actually really well done. It talks about being naturally pessimistic versus optimistic, and flexible versus inflexible. It describes pessimism as having a magnifying glass that makes bad things seem bigger, but a kid doesn’t know it’s the magnifying glass. The kid thinks it’s how the world actually is. And so on. There are exercises to help you be more flexible and optimistic. All good.

Jesse got through the first two chapters and started screaming.

Jesse is more interested in the OCD book. I don’t think she’s severely OCD, but she’s attracted to this book because the first exercise in it asks her to look in the garbage can and draw three things she sees in there. What kid could walk away from that? i may have to hide it. Avoidance seems to be a thing with Jesse too.

Anyway, bottom line, bottom line, here’s the thing. I’m fucking this parenting thing up big time. Right now, I’m getting the sense that this is the lineup of my major problems:

One. I have been yelling at Jesse too much when she’s really naughty, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Two. I have been shame-talking Jesse too much when she does really mean things, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Three. I have been nattering at and arguing with Jesse too much about stuff, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Four. I have been showing too much emotion, instead of properly separating and ignoring Jesse.

Five, I have been making idle threats. A lot of them. Instead of… you know.

ALTERNATIVELY, replace “properly… etc.” with “expressing understanding and compassion for Jesse’s feelings” in all of the above. But we’ve tried this model for many years, and it’s all used up.

So today I implemented drastic measures involving ignoring Jesse. A lot. I figure she got about two-plus hours of exclusion time today, based on 10-minutes-per-kick-or-hit and 5-minutes-per-threat and also 5-minutes-for-too-much-penis-talk. She had to sit on the stairs or go somewhere by herself, and she had to sit out a playground for 25 minutes while Nick and I played contentedly. Then she joined us and we had a great time.

It was exhausting and I felt awful. The hardest moment was when Jesse interrupted her “IGNORE JESSE” time by saying to me sweetly, “I love you, mommy.” And I had to wait 1 minutes 40 seconds before I could answer her. That sucked so bad.

But overall, at the end of the day Jesse and I agreed: today didn’t suck as bad as yesterday. So we may have to continue on this path for a while.

Until I discover that, instead of doing the right thing as a parent, I’ve been ignoring Jesse too much.


Now that we’re home, I feel clarity moving into my mind again, at least a little more than I’ve had for the past month. It’s time to start debriefing and detoxing from the vacation. The inevitable result of this process will be some guilty feelings and fresh grumpiness, but I’m okay with that.

After a mostly delightful week at the beach with a gaggle of friends (four other breeding families and a single male), we headed north to New Jersey for a few days at my in-laws’ home. The kids call them Big GrandMa and Big GrandPa. Contact with them is always extremely stressful for me.

Some years ago when I was pregnant with Nick, there was a big blow-up at the home of the BGs, mostly relating to Jesse’s behavior and their inability to cope with a challenging and free-spirited child. BGP blew a gasket and made all sorts of inappropriate comments at dinner one night about our parenting, and both BGs made a painful stink about accommodating Jesse’s egg allergy, and they were generally nasty. It was just another blow-up in a long string of blow-ups over the years, but this time it was about my child. That was truly intolerable. I swore I would never, ever, everrrrr return to their home.

But the kids always want to see the BGs, and I love Anthony, and life is short and full of regrets, so fuck me and my promises to myself. I voluntarily visited the BGs last year, and again this year. I’m a willing participant, but still it gets me all anxious and angry. With last week’s encounter behind me now, I’m realizing that for the past few weeks I’ve been doing exactly what any infantile, poorly-socialized parent would do in my shoes: taking my stress out on my kids.

* * * * * *

The BGs don’t like me. Anthony would beg to differ, but I don’t think this is an issue we’ll ever agree on. They undoubtedly “love” me — because what choice do any of us have after all these years? — but at best they tolerate my presence. Also Anthony’s brother appears to hate me; he behaves in a way that suggests utter disdain for me.

I’m sure the culture gap has something to do with it. When I was getting to know Anthony’s family in my 20’s, I had no conception that “English” is an actual ethnicity. They just looked like white people to me. But they’re definitively not white Americans, and I had no idea of the unspoken, essential strictures that apply to girlfriends and daughters-in-law, or of the bold emotional repression that appears to define the boundaries of relationships in an English household.

Some many years ago, before Jesse was born, the in-laws found the opportunity to tell Anthony (and then eventually me) that  I’m an awful person who has hurt their feelings and offended their sensibilities repeatedly. One important example BGM shared with me fits in the story like this (and I swear I’m being totally objective in the telling here):

Years before Anthony and I were married, while I was still in law school, BGM started talking about children. She wanted grandkids so she could be a better grandma than her own mother had been to Anthony and his brother. She would love to be a grandma. Soon. Before she’s too old to be a good grandma. Like, now. She would like to be a grandma now. Which means her sons need to have children. Soon. Now. ASAP.

After a while it got to be pretty offensive to me, especially since I had already told BGM I wasn’t planning to have kids. But what could I do? I tolerated it.

One Mother’s Day weekend we visited the in-laws. As we were heading back home on Sunday afternoon, BGM hugged me at the car door. I said “Happy Mother’s Day!” one last time.

She answered, “Happy Mother’s Day to you too!” Then she pulled back and chuckled, “OH I suppose I can’t say that yet, can I!”

I took a deep breath inside and answered with my own chuckle, “You better get used to it.”

And that was my great offense. Those six words apparently ripped a hole in BGM’s heart and stewed silently inside her for years and years, until they exploded all over Anthony and me.

Well never mind. I finally gave her grandchildren. My purpose in her life is complete.

* * * * * *

Last week’s visit went surprisingly well, at least if you’re evaluating the BGs’ behaviors.

There was only one classic moment, when Anthony showed BGM a photo of us from about 10 years ago. BGM examined it and declared cheerfully, “Oh what a lovely photo! Look how lovely you were, Cahla, back when you were so young and slim.”

And there you have it. BGM in a nutshell. Lovely, lovely. After 30 years of cheap shots at me, I guess I can’t blame her for slipping just one in.

One day we went to a lake in the New Jersey Pine Barrens to frolic in canoes. Anthony’s brother met us there. He behaved exactly as I anticipated, disdaining to engage in conversation with me, barely saying hello or goodbye to me, and largely ignoring Jesse and Nick and Anthony. He is entirely self-absorbed. But I think I was polite. If I wasn’t, I’ll probably hear about it in ten years, after it has plenty of time to fester.

We had to sideline Jesse for a lot of our time at the BGs’ home, because she was so out of control. I had prepared myself for the worst — grumpy BGs being grumpy about kids doing exactly what kids do, getting nasty about potential harm to all their precious household goods, and being weird tight-asses about eating schedules and tea. But instead the BGs were pretty delightful with the kids, and they were earnestly sad about how discombobulated Jesse is right now.

One day, Anthony and BGM took the kids to the active-adult-community pool down the block. I stayed in the bedroom sulking and being depressed about Jesse. I heard BGP’s quiet voice from outside the door. “Cahla? Ah you theh?” (You get the idea — do the English accent thing.)

I gritted my teeth, opened the door, and stepped out sheepishly, mumbling about having some down time. BGP fell to tears as he spoke. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about how hard things have been with Jesse. I had no idea, and I am so, so very sorry. We’re so worried about you, Carla.”

I nodded through my own tears as my father-in-law, who I believe has held me in contempt for all these years, took pity on me. “Carla, can I just give you a hug? I want to give you a hug.”

I could hardly bear it. Why does humanity always surprise us with cruelty and kindness at all the oddest moments? An emotional dissonance brayed short and loud in my heart, and then my own contempt for the man — masked for so long by my belief in his contempt for me — took a step back. I accepted his hug and his love, and something long broken was mended a little.

I’m headed for the bottom

We’re on our last day of a two week trip. We have four more hours to drive and then we’ll be home, where construction rages on. Our built-in amenities when we arrive will include a basement bathroom, laundry, hot water, and a single bedroom we’ll all continue to share. Possibly internet access. Our makeshift kitchen will hypothetically still be there, and I’m praying to any Thing any sentient being in any Galaxy has ever believed in, in the entire history of the entire universe, that the construction crew didn’t hit our liquor stash. Because I need some numb time. 

Jesse mostly kept it together in the in-between moments she shared with other people, but whenever we were alone together, Jesse made us miserable. She screamed, whined, tic’ed, and abused Anthony, Nick, and me both verbally and physically. It has been noisy and brutal, especially on the long-drive days when we’re trapped in the car together for hours. Unless you’ve experienced it, there’s no understanding how persistent and relentless Jesse is. There’s no humor to be found in the details, just heartache and a desolate sadness.  

The past few months have been rocky for Jesse, but really all we’ve seen is a continuation of behaviors she’s displayed her whole life, ramping up for one reason or another. This trip took her to a whole new level, and we see no way out of the tunnel anymore. 

From a safe distance, things would no doubt appear clearer. Why are her tics so bad right now, and why is she so abusive? Because of her anxiety. Why is her anxiety so bad right now? Because of the home construction, anticipation of middle school, a noisy brother, vacation stress, food allergies. Maybe she’s pre-pubescent. It’s all so obvious. 

Better parenting would no doubt solve a lot of these issues. Sticker charts! Reward systems! Spanking! Food denial! Firm discipline and clear boundaries! Lock her in her room! Set her free! Exercise! Outdoor time! Give her more love and patience! No electronics!

Blah blah blah. Anthony and I are at the end of all parenting roads that we can travel, and we see no hope. Our only remaining tool is one we’ve hoped to avoid; but I no longer see how Jesse can do anything — like start a new school — without some big changes in her behavior. So the dirty word raises its head: meds. 

I can’t even think about it without falling to weeping. It was one thing I wanted for Jesse so badly: to find a way to avoid dependencies until she was older and her brain and body had more time to develop. Maybe, I fantasized, I could hold her hand and walk with her out of the dark place where her mind resides, and she would never have to rely on meds to get through her life. 

So this moment, when we will almost certainly turn to meds, is the most profound failure for me as a parent. I have failed Jesse in letting her get to this incredibly miserable state. I could do no worse by her. 

I’ve also failed Nick, who watches the melting-down interactions of sister, mother, and father in fear, huddling in distant corners and taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, using tools to calm himself that are well beyond his six years of experience. I haven’t protected him from anything that matters. 

We managed to get Jesse calm enough to drive today. After a hellish beginning, she was actually really good for 2 hours. She only threatened to hit Nick twice, tic words only came out a handful of times, and she didn’t scream or whine at all. So when we stopped for lunch, we let the kids pick some candy in the gas station shop. 

Jesse selected some giant sweet tart thing. Sweet tarts don’t contain eggs, so I said yes without a second thought. As we drove off, she ripped into her treat. A moment later she announced, “this is disgusting!” I resignedly put my hand back and she spit it out, a gooey mess of half-chewed giant sweet tart. 

A few minutes later, Jesse was coughing with a sound I’ve heard before. I looked back and her face was a little splotchy. I quickly checked the label on the sweet tarts, which I hadn’t bothered to read before. Sure enough: EGGS. 

We pulled over at the next exit and gave her a double dose of Zyrtec. Ten minutes later, as we continued down the highway, Jesse emptied her stomach in the back seat. 


Add it to the list of my parenting fails. 

On the up side, we have further corroboration that Jesse’s egg allergy is still serious business. And all that puking and Zyrtec has sapped enough energy to quiet Jesse for a time. Also, a lady cop stopped to help us as we tried to work through the mess. She gave the kids each a stuffed animal for their troubles. How cool is that?

I threatened to take Jesse to a police station yesterday. As we headed down the road after cleaning up all the vomit today, Anthony pointed out cheerfully that Jesse did get to meet a cop after all! Only she was puking, not screaming or beating someone up, when it happened. 

Well that’s something, eh? Maybe things aren’t as bad as I think they are. Especially if I never ever ever have to go on a vacation with Jesse again. Everrrrrr. 


I just spent a week on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. For seven days, I frolicked, waded, wallowed, and boogie-boarded in the Atlantic Ocean. Remarkably, and despite the ultra-hype associated with sharks this year, I WAS NOT EATEN BY A SINGLE SHARK. 

One day something grabbed my foot in the surf and gave me a good little gash. When that happened (it hurt like hell) the thought immediately crossed my mind that it was a shark, so I cried out and punched about in the thigh-deep water. But then I decided it wasn’t a shark, because when I pulled my leg out of the water nothing was attached to me and my foot was still there. Good news. It was probably just a little crab I had stepped on. 

Another day we drove to the Wright Brothers Memorial at Kitty Hawk. Nick and I sat together for the ranger program, along with 70 or 80 people. About 15 minutes in, Nick got bored, so then he sat on my lap while I (hopelessly) asked him to be patient and quiet. After about 5 minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore; Nick’s wiggling, squirming, bony little ass had left my thighs feeling mauled. I dumped him on the chair next to me, hissing at him to be quiet a little longer. 

“OKAY,” he hissed back as he promptly jammed both his hands down his pants. 

He appeared to be manipulating something so I leaned over and whispered, “Do you have to pee? Why are your hands in your pants?”

Nick answered in a bellowing hiss that echoed off the wings of the full-size model of the first airplane to ever take flight. “MY PENIS IS UP, AND I AM TRYING TO MAKE IT GO DOWN, BUT I CANNOT.”

My ears turned beet-red and I slunk loooow in my seat. I avoided all eye contact.

But it could have been worse. Instead of my tiny son giving himself a woody on my thigh, a shark could have eaten a full meal off of it. 

I even let the kids get in the ocean, repeatedly and without me standing hip-to-hip with them. They, too, went uneaten by sharks. Instead they had a lot of fun. 

Here’s Jesse catching a wave.   

And Nick doing the thing little kids do at beaches. I don’t know what to call it. Standing around, I guess.  But they’re happy doing it.   

Lots of beach and ocean happy, no shark bites.    


 I actually don’t have a lot of pics from the beach. I was too busy having fun to take out the camera. 

The sharks I fear are on dry land. They have four wheels and insane minds that make them swerve, race, and behave completely erratically. Large schools of them surrounded us during most of our drive to the Outer Banks.  

These sharks kill more than 30 thousand peeps a year in the USA alone, but we rarely hear about those fatalities in the national news. More than a thousand of those deaths each year are children. I’m more afraid of car sharks than I am of real sharks. 

As we drove away from the ocean and all those water sharks I was warned to avoid, we passed a banged-up car on the grassy center shoulder of our divided highway. Two ambulances, a fire engine, and a couple police SUVs had stopped all traffic on the two lanes going the other direction. Seven firefighters surrounded the car in a bustle of activity. One was leaning into each open door of the sedan, as others hurried about with saws and other gadgets. They were working on someone in the back seat. It looked grim. I wondered who was back there — more likely a child. What story would I hear if Fox national news decided to tell me about this likely fatality? What terrifying images might Fox show me, of massive metal machines hurtling down bumpy roads at insane speeds? 

I kept driving and expressed my gratitude to the universe that my family had not been in a car accident (yet) OR eaten by sharks. 

There will likely be about 40,000 breast cancer deaths in the U.S. in 2015. During the week that I was frolicking blithely in the Atlantic, insolently ignoring warnings about SHARKS and enjoying myself immensely, approximately 770 women died of BREAST CANCER in the U.S.  

I’m grateful that neither breast cancer nor sharks pulled me under this week. 

And on and on. I’m not making light of shark attacks, or minimizing the suffering of those who’ve died from them. I just want to keep my eyes on the right balls when I decide what to be terrified by. 

Life is full of risk, random suffering, and unfairness. It’s also full of fun, beauty, and being-alive-ness. This past week I got to enjoy time and the ocean with loving, playful friends and family who seem to know how to squeeze aliveness out of life.  And also, I wasn’t eaten by a shark. 

Grumpy about the tics

Jesse has had a new word tic for the past 5 or 6 months. We call it Penis. 

Not to be confused with *** Is Fat or I Hate *** (insert any name of someone she loves), Feet on the Table, Kick You, Punch Punch, Lick It, or Touch It Touch It, which are well-established tics that wax and wane. 

It is the nature of Jesse’s tics to seek forbidden terrain. Penis is a new adventure in Jesse’s mental and spiritual journey, and Penis is with us in the car as we make a physical three-day journey from Wisconsin to the Atlantic Ocean. 

Jesse says it at all manner of odd times, a curious expression of her stress. She wakes up and rolls over. “Good morning penis penis penis.” She goes to sleep saying it too, and in the dark she mixes it with loud, reverberating yawps that sound like jungle monkeys heading into territorial battle — or like a miserable child struggling to get a grip on something in her brain that none of us yet understand. 

When times are tough (in her mind), Jesse wanders a room twitching like she’s getting electric shocks. “PP! PPPPHPPHH! PPE PE PE PEE!! PE PENIS!!” She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself, fails and then croons quietly in her sweet, high-pitched little girl voice. “Penis penis. Penis.”

She mutters it sometimes at taekwondo during stretching. Even as it humiliates her, she seems powerless to control the blurts. Everyone ignores her masterfully there, but at home where we endure it on and on, trying and trying to ignore it and not reward it with attention, it drives us mad and shreds away any remaining armor of patience. All that’s left is a collective raw nerve. 

I’ve suggested different words, like “peanuts.” But apparently not even that packs the right punch for her.

We’ve also tried reverse psychology. One morning we woke up to Penis. I said to Nick, let’s just only say penis to Jesse today. He looked at me in concern and then said hesitantly, “mommy… Nooo…”

We were silent a moment and then Nick spoke. “Jesse?”

“What, Nick?”


For a while Penis manifested in phrases. One day as I took a shower, Jesse popped her head into the bathroom and spoke cheerfully. “Hello hairy penis lady!”

On her third visitation, I snarled, “say it to me one more time and I will take your iPad away for the entire summer!”

She didn’t come back. Shit shit shit, I thought, as I pondered the weight of idle threats. I found her in the bedroom. She looked at me and spoke mildly. “Hairy penis lady.”

I had to send Anthony to her to undo my idle threat and impose a more rational consequence.

Penis shows itself in physical behaviors too, which are very disturbing. Jesse puts her hands to her crotch and mimes as though she’s spraying pee everywhere with what appears to be an absolutely enormous penis. Or she tries to punch or kick Anthony’s privates. 

We’re driving to a beach house that we’ll share for a week with a handful of families. Jesse has expressed a lot of concern that Penis tic will rear its ugly head. She knows peeps will think she’s strange. Maybe they’ll get pissed off. Odds are good that if she gets going, kids won’t want to play with her. Worrying about this ramps up her stress, increasing the probability of Penis taking over her mind. 

This morning, the topic of imaginary friends came up. It occurred to me that Penis is much like an imaginary friend, a mysterious presence in Jesse’s mind that follows her everywhere and manifests in our real world. I suggested Jesse say good bye to her imaginary friend, much like Anthony once did long ago (more on that another day). Maybe Penis doesn’t have to come to the beach house with us. 

Jesse didn’t answer but I knew she heard me. I could tell she was thinking. 

We drove three hours and found a DQ for lunch, in the prosperous hills of West Virginia.  We walked in and Penis started right up as we waited for our food. I asked Jesse to go say good bye to Penis, just go open that door and send Penis out. Penis can wait outside, and you can spend time with her later if you have to, when you’re not with us. 

Jesse glared at me and slowly walked to the door. She opened it and, after a long look at me, stepped outside. I waited a few seconds and realized Jesse was staying outside. 

I stuck my head out the door. “Jesse, you’re not Penis. Penis is imaginary. Leave her outside, and you come back in.” 

“Oh!” Said the relieved look on Jesse’s face. She sat down at the table with me and we had a peaceful few minutes. 

Penis did not re-enter the premises, and then I re-learned a lesson I always forget, perhaps as a survival mechanism. Jesse’s tics are tag-teamers. Before we left, Jesse had put her feet on the table repeatedly, started whining, and also she kicked me incessantly until I was livid. I didn’t have any space in me to praise her for letting go of Penis, and I was filled with the rage of impotence and failure, having watched my supposedly brilliant ploy defeated soundly by Jesse’s issues. 

I snapped at her one last time, my shins and knees aching from her kicks, “stop kicking me!!”

“Why?” She sounded insolent to me.

“This is why,” I answered grimly as I shoved a foot up on her thigh under the table and dug my shoe in. 

“Ooow,” she grunted quietly. She kicked me again under the table and I kicked her hard a second time. I was so pissed off I wasn’t even thinking about child protective services. 

She stopped kicking me.

Still full of impotent rage, I yelled and shrieked at her in a full fit of Snarla when we got back in the car. When she threatened to hit Nick, I snarled, “do it! DO IT SO I CAN PUNCH YOU BACK! Let me show you what it feels like to live with you!!”

I said to my ten-year-old daughter. 

I went on, though the words are a blur in my memory. I’ve never in my entire life let anyone treat me like you do! You hurt our bodies every day, and you put Nick down constantly! I don’t care why anymore! It has to stop! I don’t care why you abuse the people who love you most! Whatever you do to us, I’m going to do to you WORSE!!

My child, my love, my little offspring, for whom I would rip off my own arm if I had to, cringed away from me in fear. And I didn’t feel even a little bit bad about it. 

At least, not until I calmed down about ten minutes later. But her behavior has definitely improved in the 5 hours since. Not perfect, but better. Not as many P-bombs. 

And so I’ve learned a bad lesson. There has to be a better path to helping Jesse overcome her challenges — something better than just being more fucking crazy than her. 

grumpy about lady bodies (thank goodness for women’s soccer)

How cool that the US women won the world cup?? Not that I’m super nationalistic, but every time women athletes get a lot of airplay, it’s good for our girls. Athletes don’t have chicken legs. Real women shouldn’t have chicken legs. Our little girls shouldn’t dream of having chicken legs.

Jesse and I recently watched a PBS show on the history of the ABT, the American Ballet Theater. We loved watching the incredible athleticism of classical dancers. They are ridiculously strong and flexible. They do things that are impossible, holding their legs out at angles that would land me in the hospital. The women, who are otherwise tiny, have relatively enormous calves and thighs. They could never be hired by a modern modeling agency. They don’t have chicken legs. Their muscles are real, not ‘scaped. I know the dance world has issues with asking its women to be too skinny, but at least it allows them to have real muscles. 

Watching the show reminded us of Misty Copeland, whose career Jesse and I have followed for a year or two. Now she’s the first black female principal at the ABT. Beautiful athleticism and artistry, sweet intense face, historical significance — what’s not to love?

Some time ago we watched the UnderArmour ad that she starred in.

Jesse was captivated by Misty’s musculature, her strength and balance, her determination, her story. One day recently, Jesse wanted to see that ad again so we went hunting on YouTube. We watched it, and then we looked for some different ads by UnderArmour. We found this one of tough female athletes working hard. They have big thick muscles where they’re needed. There’s nothing delicate about them. 

We continued our browsing and came across an UnderArmour ad with Giselle Bundchen.

Sigh. I know, I know. Don’t hate on models. But let’s face it. Giselle ain’t got the chops.  I mean, I’m sure she works hard, but her motivation is modeling. No matter how much screaming there is about it, modeling. is. not. an. athletic. venture. There is no air-brushing on an athletic field of play. 

The thing about athletes is, they come in all shapes and sizes, even within a particular sport. Think about Venus and Serena Williams – could two world-class athletes in a single sport be any more different physically? Who could ever claim that there’s an optimal body type for tennis after those two?

Models all have to be the same skinny and tall. What matters is appearance, not strength or speed or a particular physical skill or tactical sense. I’m not able to grasp how there’s even a debate about this. 

I tried not to say anything though, as the Giselle ad ran. And I was pleased by Jesse’s reaction. In the ad, Giselle takes some roundhouse kicks at a punching bag, and then she rapid-jabs it. Jesse, who’s actually shown real talent in tae kwon do, offered up a real-time critique as the ad ran. “Those are pretty bad roundhouse kicks, mom. How come she’s only taking one at a time? Why is she waiting so long between kicks? Is she supposed to be good? She doesn’t have good snap. Wow, those are bad punches. She looks weak. Why is she so sweaty?” Jesse was making “WTF?” faces. 

Sorry, Giselle, you’re not motivating my daughter. Women’s World Cup soccer? That’s some serious motivation! Speed, snap, strength, endurance, grit. Congratulations to all the women who played in the World Cup, and an extra congratulations to team USA. 

If you love athleticism and dream of a strong, healthy life for your daughters, and if you dream of a world where your daughters can market their strength instead of their skinny to potential mates (even if they happen to be skinny), check out these awesome photos of World Cup athletes and their muscle-ripped thighs.

Awesome. As for underArmour, well… I’ve been a fan of their products since their beginning, but now I’m going to be looking around for a replacement. I guess they’re looking for another market niche, but I wish they would try to win that niche without turning to a runway model. They have the power to empower (and pay) real athletes in the sale of their athletic gear. I’m disappointed they moved in a different direction. 

grumpy about the construction project: good bye house (an homage to Margaret Wise Brown)

We actually closed on our renovation loan tonight. After months of fretting and planning, it all came down to signing and initialIng 4000 sheets of paper. Totally mind numbing. And now we’re good. The new foundation dig begins Thursday.

I guess it’s time for the photo book to help Jesse make her transition; but first, here’s my own transition aid.

* * * * * *

In the great green house


There was a sunflower height chart


and some weird colored mold


And a picture of —

a rainbow in a pot of gold.


And there were pink coneflowers in a field of more flowers


And carpeted stairs


and some shit piled on chairs


and an old swinging door


And an old floor


and a tree and a fan and a nasty white stove



and a quiet red ladybug whispering “just go.”


Good bye room


Good bye gold


Good bye rainbow in a pot of gold


Good bye ugly counter


and weird color mold


Good bye coneflowers


Good bye field of flowers

IMG_9106 IMG_9107 IMG_9109 IMG_9110IMG_9160

Good bye stairs


Good bye chairs


Good bye broken dishwasher


and good bye galvanized steel water


Good bye floor


and good bye door


Good bye tree


and good bye fan hole


Good bye nobody

Good bye stove


and goodbye to the ladybug whispering “just go.”


Good bye pre-construction peace

IMG_7990 10941878_10203681903554077_2801824450383877166_n

Good bye clean air


Good bye shitty kitchens everywhere.