Invisible

pic found here

Last Sunday was the day we took our new little one to church for the first time so that he could be blessed and properly shown off to the members of our congregation. It was also my debut appearance at church since breaking my leg and dislocating my ankle - and I am embarrassed to admit that I was nervous about it. Why? Because I walk funny. I ultimately decided to show up with both crutches rather than let others see my limpy gait.

It really bothers me that this bothers me, but it is what it is. I do not want others to feel sorry for me. I do not want my friends to avert their eyes when they see me coming because they feel uncomfortable or do not know what to say. It seems ridiculous, I know. But these feelings of insecurity started when I went grocery shopping a couple of weeks ago.

Because I am still unable to drive myself anywhere I asked my eldest man-child to chauffeur me that day. We got into the store and I crutched my way over to the motorized shopping carts, knowing this would be the only way I could complete my shopping trip. I could see that Coolister was a little... I'm not sure what. Uncomfortable? Embarrassed? I'm not talking about your typical that-is-not-my-mother look. He generally revels in my zaniness. This was something different. It immediately disheartened me.

Throughout our shopping trip I noticed how people would look away when my eyes met theirs. I tried to remember if it had always been that way before, but no - I distinctly recall making eye contact with strangers and smiling or nodding or saying excuse me when I squeeze my cart past theirs. I'm not saying that I've always recognized each and every person I encounter while grocery shopping but there is usually a general rapport among the shoppers in the aisles. Nothing earth-shattering, just a basic acknowledgment of each other in the frozen foods section. People were not doing this today. Somehow my wheelchair/shopping cart had made me invisible.

It made me wonder if I have acted this same way? When I see someone who is different in some way do I recognize their existence with a nod or a smile? Or do I look away, feigning sudden interest in the price of canned pineapple to hide my discomfort? I don't think I do, but I don't know. I've never really thought about it before.

I think that what I am really trying to say here is that I am not my handicap. I am not Gerb the Gimp. Well, I am, but I am also still me, Gerb, mother and wife, bargain shopper, people watcher, experimental chef and quirky writer, roller skater, book addict, aficionado of baked goods and lover of music and happiness.

And I am not invisible.

You Choose

This whole week (tomorrow's the last day) you can leave me a comment on this post and you're guaranteed an answer! Some answers will be left in the comments, some will be answered as a post. What are you waiting for? Go ask me a question!

photo found here

This post is in response to some questions from 'anonymous':

Are you really so happy all the time? Do you ever have a bum day? Have you had any experiences that made you the way you are?

Well, Anon, your first question is one that I actually get asked a lot. And yes, I am a pretty happy person. You know why? Because I choose to be. Do I have bad days? Of course. Everyone does. In fact, my foot frustrates me to no end right now. It drives me nuts to sit around all day long and to have to depend on others to do a lot of things for me. I can't drive. I can't run my own errands. I can't do a whole number of things right now. I could easily choose to feel sorry for myself (and yes, sometimes I do) but it makes life a whole lot better if I choose instead to be thankful for the things I CAN do rather than focusing on the ones I can't.

Have you ever heard the saying, "I had no shoes and complained until I met a man with no feet"?

I think life is always better than we think if we are willing to look for the blessings.

Here's a kid who is a great example of this...



As for your last question, Have you had any experiences that made you the way you are? my answer is yes. I think everyone is who they are because of the things they have experienced. I could list a whole number of things that have influenced the person that I am today, but the thing that stands out the most to me is that I was bullied as a child. I would never, ever in any circumstance wish these sort of experiences upon anyone. However, they have shaped me into the person that I am. Again, it is a matter of choice. I could continue to see myself as a victim or learn something from the experience and try to make a difference for others who are enduring similar circumstances.

What it all comes down to is this quote that I love from the movie The Iron Giant:

You are who you choose to be.

I choose to be happy.

Kindness

photo from lexington.ma.us

My typically sweet Sunday School class full of five and six-year-olds were not being their usual selves today.

It started in the first hour, when we meet with all of the other kids aged 8 and under.

One had to go to the bathroom about every 7 minutes.
One could not keep her hands to herself.
One continuously turned to glare at me.
One would not stop eating her strawberry-flavored chapstick.
One could not refrain from busting out some crazy dance moves every time we sang a song.
Two would not stop kissing each other on the mouth.
The rest were simply restless.

By the time we finally made it to our classroom for our second hour together it was obvious that not much listening would be happening today. I mentally made a change of plans on how to present my lesson - incorporating plenty of role playing, action songs and class participation.

By the time I got the 3 boys from behind the door and the 2 kids who were hiding beneath a chair and table to their seats, my Hubba started kicking the air vent on the door. I nicely asked him to take a seat and he answered my request by kicking the vent again. I sat him in the hallway and again tried to begin class.

The lesson was about being kind. As I began to ask different kids to help me act out the parable of the Good Samaritan I noticed that one of my little six-year-olds was plugging her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. I tried to ignore her antics... until she began softly humming. When she refused to stop I took her to one of the adult leaders over the primary classes and had them take her to her mother. I hate resorting to this tactic but some days it is the only thing I can do to remain sane.

Three girls would not stop chatting. Two others would not stop kicking each others' chairs. My quietest class member looked as if she might start to cry. I was at the end of my rope. Nothing was working!! I had the thought that maybe if I tried to be kind instead of acting frustrated they would get the message. I started to whisper a story which came to mind. The class eventually became silent in order to hear my words.

I told them of a time when I was just older than their age, a time when I was very self-conscious and unsure of myself. There were many reasons for this, but the most obvious was my teeth. I explained to them that my teeth sort of made me look like a beaver and that one particular boy at church would always tease me about my teeth and make me want to cry. Then I asked them, "Was that a kind thing for him to do?" "NO!" they all shouted in unison.

And before I could finish my story, they all took turns defending my past buck-toothed self.

"That kid was NOT NICE to you!"

"What a big meanie boy!"

"If I was a kid way back in time when you were a kid I would've been your friend and told that kid to KNOCK IT OFF, MISTER!!"

I thanked them all for their kindness and just then the girl who was taken to her mom returned. She handed me a note and sat down in her seat. The note read:

Deir techor,

I em sorwee
that I was
anoring you
You are the Best
techor

As I was handing out a coloring page my little Hubba re-joined us as well. Apparently he had gotten bored with sitting in the hallway and made his way to the library where he asked someone to help him write a note for me which simply said:

I Love You!

Hubba

Well, since the lesson was on kindness (and because I am easily manipulated) I let him come sit with the class for the last few minutes.

After the closing prayer was said each class member gave me the customary high-five or hug along with their own added words which varied from thank you to I love you, teach-o to sorry we were kind of bad.

Here was my sweet class. I knew they would show up eventually.

No Picnic For You

I have come to the decision that I will not be attending my 20 year class reunion this summer. There were many factors involved, including the distance and cost, but the deciding factor for me was in reading the Facebook page that was created for the planning of the reunion.

It was decided that a family picnic before the reunion would be a good way to socialize and meet each others' families. The location was debatable, but one great suggestion was to actually have it on the grounds of our high school. I loved this idea. I was excited to be able to walk my kids around campus and share some of my great - and even some not-so-great - high school memories with them. However, when it was asked if we could use the school's fields, the inquiry was met with this reply:

The above letter was posted on the Facebook page and everyone who read and commented on it found it to be funny. They were all quite proud of the reputation which the class of 1990 had apparently created for itself back in the day. They also mentioned that they were definitely planning on having alcohol at the picnic, so they were happy to find another location.

Seriously? With everyone's kids there and an open bar at the formal reunion later that night, is alcohol at a FAMILY picnic really necessary? Apparently I am in the minority with this opinion.

I was never really a big part of the whole high school hype, anyhow. Unless my classmates were in choir or drama or (ahem) lower level classes (I'm not proud of my lack of enthusiasm for learning at the time, but it was what it was) then I probably didn't even really know them, anyhow.

I think I'll be planning my own kind of reunion at some point because there are some people that I would really enjoy catching up with. I'll plan a day when my family is going to be in California anyway and call up a few friends that I'd enjoy seeing again. People who know how to have fun and be crazy without a drink in hand. Maybe we'll meet up for lunch or dinner and just catch up on old times.

Now, THAT will be a reunion I can look forward to.

It's Not You, It's Me

I have made a decision.

After today's post, I am going to turn off my comments.

I have decided as of late that blogging is consuming way too much of my time. However, I can not give it up entirely. I love having a place to express myself, record my family's happenings and share my thoughts with others. Honestly, your comments are a large part of what makes my blog so awesome. But here is what happens. I read your comments. If you are someone new, I click over to your blog and read to get to know who you are. I sometimes leave comments on your posts. Once I have done this, I have made it known that I am a reader on your blog and I feel like I am now obligated to continue commenting.

But wait, there's more...

I also notice other commenters on your blogs. They capture my interest and I then click over to their blogs to read. I see catchy blog titles on your blog rolls and read more blogs. I comment and read and subscribe to my favorites. And then I start to wonder... why doesn't so-and-so read my blog or comment? I've read theirs and commented many times. Maybe I'm not cool enough for their blog presence. Maybe they read my comments on their blog and wonder who the heck I am and why I bother to keep coming back?

Seriously, it's like high school all over again.

So I stop commenting. Then I start again, but only sometimes. Throughout the process I find more new blogs to peruse... etcetera, etcetera. If I wrote a blog post that day, I have to keep checking throughout the day to see if I have received any new comments, making the time to respond to everyone who stops by so they will not feel the way I do when I leave comments that end up feeling all lonely and ignored.

The next thing I know it is 2 hours past time to make dinner, the laundry is undone, my stairs are littered with Legos and my smallest children have somehow managed to decorate the white wainscot in our front room with 6 colors of Sharpie while feeding themselves leftover oatmeal.

Honestly? I am embarrassed to even admit to all of this, but it is what it is. My name is Gerb, and I have a blogging addiction. (Here is where you say, "Hello, Gerb!")

I do not want to care about how many people are following my blog or how many people are leaving comments. I can not make myself worry over why I feel inferior to certain other bloggers. I do not have time for all of this silly drama I am creating for myself.

So please understand - it's not you. It's me. I hope this isn't a break-up, but an opportunity for growth. I will continue to write and I hope you will continue to enjoy what I post.

For the sake of my own sanity, this is what I need to do.

Can we still be friends?

Unexpected

Last Sunday was a little worse than what is typical. Allen had some meetings that prevented him from attending our meetings with us so I was left alone to wrangle the youngest kids.

About 10 minutes into the meeting Little O started his squirming which then became whining which developed into full-fledged You-Better-Get-Me-Out-Of-Here-NOW-Or-The-Whole-Congregation's-Gonna-Be-Sorry.

I grabbed Little O in one arm, the diaper bag and bottle in the other, and headed for the foyer. When I got there I realized that Hubba and Curly had followed me out as well. Curly wanted me to help her color a picture. Hubba wanted to pretend he was a train headed into a volcano that was ready to shoot hot lava UP TO THE SKY! Little O wanted to run. I wanted to die.

I looked back into the chapel to get some reinforcements (aka The Teenagers) but realized that they were all heading up to the front to participate in a Christmas musical number. All-a-Boy sat on the edge of the bench, reading something, while Princess and Cowgirl tried desperately to annoy each other. I let out an exasperated sigh. What could I do from the foyer with a wiggly, screaming little boy?

I was lucky to have a friend who was happy to have Curly sit with her. This left me with the two rowdy boys and a whole hour yet to keep them un-rowdy. Hubba kept trying to jerk away from my grip and get closer to the gym where he wanted to run for the remainder of the meeting while Little O bashed his head back against my face and chest hoping I would let him down. I was trying not to cry as I stood there feeling helpless and I offered a silent prayer in my head.

Please, Heavenly Father, I pleaded, I am trying to do what's right. I want my kids to know that church is the right place to be today. I don't want to let them run around but I don't know what to do. Please, help me to make it through this meeting without breaking down. Help me to do what is right. Help me not to cry in front of people.

I stood for a few moments longer, wrestling with my boys, and just when I was nearing a point beyond frustration, help came.

I like to think that my Heavenly Father has a sense of humor, because the help I sought came in the most unexpected and unlikely way...

It was a cat.

She came out of nowhere and started pawing at the doors to the church, meowing and jumping about. Hubba noticed her first and dragged me to the doors. "Awww, mom, that cay-at is so cold outside and it is so warm in he-yer. She just wants to come get warm for a minute. Can't we let her in? She just wants to he-yer the people singing..." After I explained that cats do not come inside churches he and Little O were content to stand near the door and just watch her.

She would strut from one end of the doors to the other, occasionally stopping to stretch or roll or pounce at a stray leaf and they were mesmerized.


That cat silently entertained my boys for the rest of the meeting. Then just as the congregation began to sing the closing song, she turned and left.

Some may say it is a coincidence that the cat showed up when she did, but I see things differently. Coincidence or not, that cat was an answer to my prayer. It was evidence to me that my prayers are heard and that my Heavenly Father will not leave me alone when I am frustrated and upset and at my wit's end.

Yes, a cat, of all things, was evidence of my Savior's love for and understanding of me.

And I was so very thankful.

Recall

Hubba in his truest form.

Today I inadvertently published an entry written for my personal blog here on this blog. For those of you who are wondering, it was a detailed description of my less-than-perfect day at church relating to the challenges I am facing with my 4-year-old, Hubba.

And here's the thing.

Initially, I was mortified when I realized my mistake - 3 hours after the fact. It was when I received notice that I had comments on the post that I realized what I had done. I immediately moved the post to the place it was meant to be and then read the comments that were left for me.

All I really wanted to say was thank you. Thank you to those who left me words of encouragement and kindness and advice. Every comment that was left was exactly what I needed to hear and greatly appreciated.

You are some amazing people out there. Whether or not we have ever met, I am thankful to have you as friends.

Really...thank you.

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday my two oldest girls were telling me about an incident at their middle school. Apparently a group of kids decided to bully one of the school janitors who has some disabilities. There was a schoolwide announcement made that the bullies could turn themselves in and receive a lesser punishment or wait to be discovered by the school and be dealt with more severely.

I hate hearing stories like this. I much prefer living in my little bubble where I believe that the world is good and people with disabilities are treated with love and respect.

Part of my anger upon hearing of the school incident stems from the fact that I have a tender spot for those with disabilities. You probably don't know that if I had graduated from college my degree would have enabled me to be a teacher in a special needs classroom.

But the deepest, darkest part of that anger is derived from my own days at school where I was the target of bullies. These are times I still prefer not to speak of - the feelings and emotions they dredge up are still tender and difficult. Because of this I do not and will not tolerate bullies.

You know the old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me"? Rubbish.

I prefer physical pain. Physical pain is tangible. Physical pain can be soothed or fixed. Throw a stone at me. Hit me with a stick. It will hurt for a while but the pain will eventually go away.

Not so with the emotional heartache and pain that come from name-calling and teasing. This is intimidation and endless torment. This is anguish in its purest form. This is the power of words.

Because of what I was forced to endure throughout elementary and middle school I have developed what I call 'super empathy'. I can not see or hear of an injustice such as the incident at my girls' school and not want to do something about it, yet I often feel powerless to do so. Which brings about this question: what can I do, really?

I can persuade. I can educate. As difficult as it may be, I can share my own stories and hope they make a positive impact. I can raise my own children to seek out those who could use a friend- to understand that those who are labeled as 'different' are really very much the same as anyone else and deserve to be treated as such.

As the saying goes, I can be the change I wish to see in the world.

And I can work on that every day... and hope it makes a difference.

Share Your Two Cents (Please)

I am going to diverge from my usual blog content today, I hope you don't mind.

I'm going to be a little... disconcerted.

You see, we got a letter saying we were being audited by the State Tax Commission. It said that they thought it would be fun, after 3 years, to compare our State Tax return with our Federal Tax return. Their comparison indicated a discrepancy and possible corrections.

We dusted off our copies of the 2006 returns and could not see the discrepancy. In fact, it appeared that all things were in order.

We had two options.

1. Agree with the discrepancy and pay additional taxes.

2. Disagree and send in complete copies of both tax returns from 2006 including all schedules and forms, copies of any letters from the IRS regarding our 2006 taxes, a copy of the letter I am summarizing here, our daytime phone number, one package of press-on nails, a gift card to WalMart, and our 3 favorite children. A pay-your-own-postage envelope was enclosed, for our convenience.

We decided to create another option.

3. Call the Auditing Division and figure out exactly what they were looking at since everything looked hunky-dory on our end.

The auditor was very nice. He pointed out that we had entered a big, fat ZERO on line 5 when we should have entered a big, fat $2009. I looked at the copy of our return. No ZERO. It said $2009. Every i... dotted. Every t... crossed. I told him as much.

I heard frantic typing through the silence from his end of the phone as he pulled up a copy of our actual return.

Okay, now they had it. It seemed that, back in 2006, someone on their end had entered our return in their system incorrectly. One of their State Tax Commission employees had looked at our nicely filed return, saw $2009, but entered a big, fat ZERO.

Their mistake. End of story, right?

Oh, no. It was just the beginning.

Because we were refunded $141 more than we should have been (due to their mistake) they would bill us for it. Plus interest, please. (I told you, Mr. Auditor was very nice.) I asked why we would have to pay interest on their mistake. Mr. Auditor informed me that the interest could likely be waived if we appealed it.

"Wait. Let me be sure I understand before I go crazy on you," I said to Mr. Auditor.

"Certainly!" he replied.

"We filed our taxes correctly. Everything was written in the exact amounts, on the right lines. And then someone in your office, whose job it is to enter information from our forms into your system, made a mistake. And now we have to pay for that mistake as well as going through the trouble of appealing the interest we are being charged on your mistake?"

"Exactly!" Mr. Auditor responded happily.

I passed the phone over to Allen as he is much better at confrontation and not crying when he is frustrated than myself.

They had a conversation where Mr. Auditor maintained his smiling voice and used lots of phrases like "not necessarily" (as in, it was not necessarily their mistake) and "I can understand your frustration".

End result? The State Tax Commission is not in the wrong. We are.

I would really, really love to hear your opinions on this.

Please. (See, I can be very nice, too.)

Are we crazy here? What would you do?