The Looming Storm

I want to deviate from my normal sarcastic drivel and be a little serious.

Right now up and down the eastern seaboard untold thousands of people are in a state of panic. Some are evacuating, others are digging in. Most are scared out of their wits wondering what is in store for them.

I want to encourage all of you to not lose hope. These are not just idle sentiments I am tossing out there.  I can speak from experience on this, as I have lived through a few major storms. Not the hurricanes per se, but the mental and spiritual storms. I am just going to use the hurricane as a metaphor.

First I want to give you a little glimpse into my past. Most of you have no idea about some of it and I apologize if it is unsettling to any of you.

I have battled extreme chronic depression since I was about 17. For many years it seemed that I was largely happy but I would have short periods of sadness or disillusionment. By the time I was 30 the periods of depression had elongated to the point that the feeling of happiness was more of an oasis in the vast desert of my despair.  It was not very long until I was looking for an escape. As it happens with so many of us, be it obvious or hidden, I had lost all hope and was trying to find a reason to continue onward. By spring of 1992, I had lost site of the oasis and no longer had the will to trudge on.

I had the means at hand. I was well armed and my thoughts were racing. I sat on my back porch and watched as the sun started to set. My mood was tranquil and I thought to myself that this was the best I had felt in years, why not go out on a happier note? I deliberated on how to execute the task, and decided that if cut my wrists, I could peacefully succumb while the sun set at the same moment that the life drained out of me. As I got up to go get a tool worthy of such a task, I had a vision. I saw my future, There walking up to a house were 2 small children and my future wife. The wife turned to me and beckoned as if to say, "Will you be coming with us? Or will you take a different course now?" It shook me to the core.

I sought help immediately. I ended up in a locked ward on suicide watch for a while. I spent a couple of years in therapy trying to find clarity. I still have to fight the urges to give in at times.

BUT....

I have learned that there is hope. Real, tangible, measurable, reach out and grab it HOPE.  And you know what? Hope is not just wishing that there will be change. It is a promise that it will change. I have found that what is improbable in most of our lives is that the problems surrounding us will actually kill us. So far in my life, despite my fears and lack of trust, everything has worked out for the good. I am not saying I am complete or even content with my life. It is not bad, but I am certainly not dancing on top of the hill like some scene from the Sound of Music.

What I can tell you is that even the most difficult of situations, the ones that I had initially thought were without hope actually have never been as horrid as I had imagined. I have been destitute. I have been homeless. Believe it or not I spent a year and a half in the back of my Trooper in the  mid 1990's. During that time I managed to stay in college, not fail out of school, did not freeze or starve to death and maintained my current circle of friends. Some of you had no idea I was living like that. It was not the end of the world.

So back to the metaphor. What happens in a storm like a hurricane? For the vast majority of us it creates disarray. We emerge from our refuge to see the mess. We pick up the debris and toss it out. We smell the fresh scent of the freshly washed earth and of the new opportunity. Sometimes we look around and we are standing in utter destruction. But we are STANDING! We may lose our keepsakes, but we still have the memories. We start anew. History tells us that even being lost in the desert for 40 years did not mean the end. We rebuild, we improve, and we find strength we did not know we had. We discover that others watch over us and help fill in the gaps where we are helpless.

For me, I rely heavily on my friends and faith to keep me afloat. In the worst times of my life I was always rewarded by seeing the Light that was there to illuminate the path. No matter how dark it gets either spiritually, mentally or otherwise, I know in my heart that there is One who is keeping me in His care. My life has changed. I still have fears, but I look at what God has done for me and marvel. I have the family for which I had hoped and prayed. I have survived layoffs, furloughs,  and have not lost our house, The kids are healthy. We are fortunate and blessed.

There is no other way for me to attribute that. God has not failed me and I know this adventure is not over.
One passage from the bible comes to mind for me. This is a paraphrase, if you will pardon me on that.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them (various enemies or problems), for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

If any of you need an ear, a prayer or just a good word, let me know. It is my hope that I can help you to be free from  the feeling of despair.

The Parents And The Play Date

My little boy is starting to grow up a bit. He has been aware that he wants a friend for a few months now. I have been a little saddened by his unfulfilled need.

A few months back Josh asked if we could go to the store and buy potato chips. I asked him why and he replied " If I had some chips maybe I could have a friend over to share them with me." I was heartbroken to say the least. Soon Josh was making up imaginary friends. I would hear him playing with them in his room, carrying on long conversations. At this point my sympathy began to give way to concern. Two days ago, he took the imagination to a whole new level. He began to speak in a higher voice and insisted that he was not Josh, but rather Suzanne. At this point I was just getting creeped out. I was convinced that this was not an exercise in gender confusion. This was more like a version of Sybil, the story of the woman with 30 personalities. Not being sure what to do about all this, because admittedly I may have failed the semester of childhood behavior and development while getting my psychology degree. I was not remembering much of what I should do on a cognitive level to properly nurture the boy, so  I tried some old school remedies. First I tried ice baths, and when that did not shake him out of his funk, I sprinkled holy water on him and yelled what little Latin I remembered from being an altar boy. Nothing. Not even a head spin or projectile vomiting. Next I tried the home made electro-shock therapy, by building up static electricity on my rug and then going and touching him on the nose. This actually elicited somewhat of a bad response, his voice went two octaves lower and he told me I was bule gila, which is an Indonesian term roughly translating to "crazy honky". At this point my wife intervened and banished me back to my room, which is really where I wanted to be in the first place. It gave me time to think of an action plan for the boy.

It turns out, He had his own ideas. For the last six months he has been pointing at the house across the street and telling me that he wants to go play with Justin Beeber. I don't know why he thinks that the singer lives there, but I do know that Justin Beebers mom looks pretty pissed off when she is mowing the lawn while Justin Beebers dad hangs out in the garage drinking beer. Sunday afternoon I told Josh to get in the car and he went out to the garage. I come out a minute later and he is at the end of the driveway talking to two kids over twice his age. I broke character for once and asked Josh if he was making new friends. (Normally I would be yelling to get the bikes off my lawn) Later that evening the two boys showed up on the step asking if Josh could come out and play. It was like a dream come true for Josh, and I could not have been prouder and happier for him.

To prove this we totally ruined it for him by standing out on the front porch making the kids pose for home movies and pictures. As I stood there taking snapshots, I had an revelation. I had become the persona that I hated as a kid. The doting parent with a camera. I was now that parent who insisted on taking the picture of me and my date before the big dance. I remember well. I just wanted to pick up the girl and get to dancin’. Nope. Boy, get in here and meet the father. Stand up against the fireplace and take a picture with our daughter. Keep your damned hands to yourself. Don't stand so far away from her, I cannot get you in the picture. Are you afraid of our beautiful girl? What is wrong with her? What, don't you don't want to be with our daughter? Wait, what, You DO? What do you mean by that??!!

Sorry, had a momentary flashback there. (Don't worry Kayla, this is not about you, your dad only threatened to tear my head off.)

The sorry thing about all these pictures is that Josh will NEVER care about having the memory. He will come to loathe it when we show him these pictures at family reunions 20 years from now. I know I hate those pictures about me, especially since I am married. My wife has found some of those pictures. It brings up questions I do not like to answer. Like what happened to that girl? "Well after I took her to prom, a few weeks later she went into intensive psychotherapy and last I heard she married Chaz Bono." No one wants to ask any more questions after that response, so I am off the hook.  Unlike my poor kids who will have to face the same torture that the rest of us did.

Does It Mean What I think it does?

The first thing this morning I hopped into the shower and grabbed the shampoo.As I dispensed a bit, I read the label which included the word "Professional". It got me wondering "What is even remotely professional about that?" It seems that everyday I am being offered a product that is 'Pro' this or 'Pro' that. I started wondering if I had the wrong idea about the meaning of the word. So I looked it up. (Yes, I walked right out of the shower, went straight to the living room and stood there buck naked, dripping wet, pulled the Websters dictionary off the shelf and read it.) The definition was "Professional: Following an occupation as a means of livelihood or for gain: a professional builder." Well,OK.then.

It seems me that any item that I can buy at WalMart should not really be considered a Professional grade product. I go back to the still running shower and rinse out my hair. I put on some shaving cream, also a 'Pro-Series' then grabbed my new Pro-Glide razor. My mind starts to race. As I began to shave it occured to me that if this is truly a product for professionals why am I using it? Never once in my life has anyone offered to pay me for shaving my face. I can imagine it though. The paparazzi all clamoring around me flashbulbs a poppin' and microphones being thrust in my face. "Mr. LeClere, Mr. LeClere, to what do you attribute your great fame and wealth?" "Well, I was kind to animals, I ate all the veggies on my plate and every day I SHAVED MY FACE!!!" All this is followed by a hushed silence as everyone silently nods in agreement.If only it worked that way.

Later in the day I decided it was time to get my hair cut. Where else to go, but the local "Pro Cuts" at the mall. I have no idea why they call it that,no self respecting professional would let these people touch their hair.  In fact I did not see one person there who really qualified as a 'Pro" Just a lot of kids and the occasional once upon a time athlete. You know the kind I mean? Six foot five, tribal tattoo on the bicep, wearing sunglasses backwards, mouth breather with a buzz cut, and about 60 pounds overweight. Also notable is that the guy is wearing the baggy multi-colored M.C. Hammer style pants with a pattern that is best described as "Puking kaleidoscope", and a black sleeveless tee shirt with the W.W.F. logo and a picture of the Undertaker. I bet I see this guy at the Walmart in about half an hour.

I sit down in the salon chair, tell the stylist what I would like to see, and she proceeds to give me a haircut that will be an embarrassment to me for the next 6 weeks. As she is cutting my hair, she mentions that I should not worry about the way things look now, it will grow back in.
This is of little reassurance to me. I reminded her that the rest of the hair keeps growing too, so pretty much my hair will look this bad for the duration. It turns out that this is the equivalent of sending your steak back at the restaurant, because it is undercooked. You get the steak back cooked properly, but you don't dare eat it because someone spit in it. In this case, when she went to trim the hair off my neck with the electric clippers, she spent what seemed to be an eternity and I asked if everything was alright? "Oh yes it is fine" she said. " I am just being careful to make it straight." and she shot me a smile that reminded me of Satan welcoming me to hell.

After the haircut I made my way over to the Walmart to look for a more items that had "Pro" but could not possibly be used in any professional capacity. I was reading the label of a can of baby formula, "Enfamil Pro-Sobee" to see what made this suitable for professional babies, when I heard "Hey Putz!"
I turned around to see my mouth breathing friend in the technicolor pants from the salon. I asked him what possessed him to call me that? He pointed to the back of my head. I went to the nearest mirror and saw that etched onto the back of my skull, the stylist had buzzed in the offending word. It is embarrassing.

But it will grow back in.

My crappy life

Some people have a bad life, Some have a an average experience and some have a great life. No matter where people fit in this, they will still complain. Which is why I am here.

I have been noticing how much of my life is immersed in literal crap. It fills my home, my thoughts and my daily life.

You ask; "How can that be, when you have a nice wife and beautiful children?" Kids are where it starts! I have a 9 month old who may as well be a fertilizer factory. This kid can load a diaper in record time. He even has different settings for firmness and quantity.

The 3 year old is no better. He is nearly potty trained, except for the number 2 part. On the plus side, he is advanced in his training so he comes and asks for a diaper so he can go do his job. Which by the way, he is quick to let you know, that once you have supervised the application of the diaper, your presence is no longer required, as he "wants his privacy." A few days ago, just around bedtime, I hear the shower turn on and much arguing between Josh and his mommy. Apparently he had taken it upon himself to remove his own diaper once it was at capacity and in doing so managed to soil the throw rug in his bedroom. I was already asleep when the circus started and groggily waddled into the bathroom to see this huge brown stain on the rug, and then was accosted by a smell that would put a stockyard to shame.

Which brings up another issue. I live on the edge of the city, where 100 yards away we have the border to open country. Less than a 3 minute drive from us there are bovines. Lots of them. Depending on the time of year the feedlots near us can have thousands of them. If the wind is in just the right direction you can experience the invigorating aroma of fermenting fertilizer and ammonia in the evening air. Sometimes I like to sleep with my window open and the fan on and get the benefit of the pleasant smell of fresh air and the clover in the fields. Once in a while the wind shifts and the fan turns into the equivalent of a turbocharger for flatulent cows. There is no better way to get me out of the bed than to blow Angus methane up my nose. 2 days ago Josh walked into my room and asked if I would read him a story then his nose wrinkled up. "Daddy, what is that smell?" I replied, "That my son, is the smell of the country." He looked at me funny and then decided he did not really need a story all that bad after all and went to his own room.

Last night I was asleep when I the familiar fragrance drifted in. I sleepily closed the window and remembered that I had forgotten to take a pill. I went to the kitchen, pulled the basket of medicine off the fridge and dispensed myself some blood pressure medicine. Downed a big glass of water and went back to sleep. About 3 hours later I had a sharp pain and made a beeline for the bathroom. Dessy heard the commotion and calmly walked in the room with the bottle of medicine I had taken. She said "Hon, did you take you blood pressure medicine?" "YES, for crying out loud, can't you see I am busy here?"
She lovingly smiled and showed me the bottle. "Did you mix up your bottle with this bottle of laxatives?" She then got this evil smile,like she could not have planned that one out better herself and she returned to bed.

I read the bottle and realized my mistake.

Well crap.