Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…Five…Six…Five…Six

I lay in bed, snuggling you close.  Close like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

“You are my everything,” I whisper.

“I know,” you reply.

Do you?  Do you really know that you are my raison d’etre?

Do you know that it is possible to love beyond infinity?  Do you know that I didn’t know that until six years ago?

Tick…Tock…Five…Six…

Peter, you just can’t possibly be almost six years old!  The tears flow as I conjure these words.  Full of pride, full of marvel, and full of…loss?

Is it loss to fear you’re growing up?

“I will still love you when I am big, Mommy, ” you say.

My eyes well.

“It’s okay, Mommy.  You are my very best friend.”

I choke back tears and steal your nose and pretend that I am snacking on it.

“Spit it out!”you scream indignantly.  Giggling because it’s our game.

“Will you still play the nose game when you are six?”, I ask.

“I was born when Power Rangers Mystic Force was on.”, you respond –  and our moment of connection slips away for now.

The next half hour are lost in a flurry of complex scenarios encompassing Power Rangers and Super Mario Bros…

You are content.

You aren’t really “with” me during this time.  But you are beaming as you line up your plush toys in the bed, humming the theme song to Super Mario Sunshine and embellishing the story line with pitch perfect sound effects.

I don’t care though.  You work hard to engage with us all day.  You should get to be  yourself sometimes too.

Because you are absolutely marvelous.

I know that soon you will hold the remote with fervor as you wait for Sid the Science Kid to end.  You are meticulous to turn off the television just after the last line, but always before the credits.

I giggle because it’s kind of like how I cannot pull out of the petrol station without resetting my odometer.

We crave routine, you and me.

And we have one of our very own.

At 8:56 p.m. we are the only two people in the world.

You will say “Okay, goodnight Mommy.” and I will say “Goodnight Peter” and I will say “I love you” and you will say “I know.”

Then you’ll pull my head down to rest on your chest and you will drift off to sleep.

I don’t dare move.  These moments are what I’ve dreamed of for a lifetime.

These moments revive me.  They remind me that the love between a mother and a child is bigger than Autism.   They negate the pain and exasperation that can come with the day.

I lie there with my head on your chest, listening to your heart beat…

Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…Five…Six…Five…Six

I know in those moments that you really will love me even when you are big.

Even when you are six.

~~~~~~~~~

Peter Alexander
Everybody’s Boy
May 10, 2006

I took Everybody’s Boy to the polls with me to vote and he was a rock star.  He told the volunteer that handed him the ballot that we were ”here to vote against the “robbers”. which made my liberal heart go all topsy turvy.

We went to baseball afterwards.  It’s a great thing, a team for children of all ages with developmental disabilities.  Yet even there sometimes I feel like a misfit.  Today another child approached me in tears because EB was screaming that everyone was a bully at baseball.  I had to explain-defend-apologize-make better the situation, leaving me feeling sick because this child was in pain because my child was in pain and the whole thing was just…sucky.

With lots of tears and laying on the ground rolling in the dirt (him, not me, but I feel it’s prudent to clarify) we made it through the tough spot and I was so proud…proud that we hung in there….even though it was really really hard.

Daddy was at school today.  His very last day of classes.  He’s now a bona-fide EMT (or ambulance medic in EB speak).   I’m really proud and really scared and really confounded.  I’m so grateful he’s found a career that he excels at and that suits him.  But I have no idea how we will do this with he and I both working full-time.  We have a wonderful support system in Gus’ parents and EB’s developmental therapist, Cassandra…but a long summer awaits light on  services and support, little money for therapy/camps/anything and what happens when we are both gone 40 hours a week?

Also, I really really just want a week…or a few days…in a hotel room with my boys.  Just us.  I don’t care where it is.  I just want to get away from here.  I want to sleep and play and not have therapy, or work, or school, or bills or anything to think about.  It’s not a possibility.  So instead, I took time to dance in the rain today…just like I would’ve at home.

Home will always be Florida.  It’s been over four years we’ve been away.   We left to come to NC and we never went back.  It’s been the best decision we could have ever made to move our lives here.  I would not change it for the world – but I never thought there wouldn’t be room for even a visit in all these years.  It’s too hard to fly with EB. it’s too expensive, we don’t have the time, there are numerous excuses…but sometimes, when it storms like it does today and I find myself running outside barefooted and fully clothed to allow the water to pour down my hair, my back, my face – washing the tears and renewing my soul…I just for a minute forget that I’m not in Florida….that I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be in Florida for one of those thunderstorms I yearn for again.

We went to free comic book day and scored some goodies before the live band spooked the boy and then came home to incessantly google Super Mario Bros characters and create a book.  While making the Mario book with EB  this afternoon I felt a wholeness that had been missing for so long that it actually stuck me with a flood of emotion.  My child and I bonded and played and I didn’t think about Autism or money or what the future has in store.  I was present.

I forgot to remember.

I forgot to remember that today is the four year anniversary of EB’s diagnosis.

I didn’t realize it until after Gus got home, as we were talking about the merits of ordering takeout Mexican food in honor? of Cinco de Mayo.   I remembered that Cinco de Mayo was our diagnosis day.  A day that I typically dread upon it’s approach – a day that I analyze the progress of the past year – a day that I allow myself to feel whatever I want to/need to feel to make it through the rest of the year.

And I forgot!

That’s pretty awesome I think.  I lost myself in my child so much so that I forgot to remember his Autism.

Have I reached some new level of existential nirvana?  Or is it possible that it really is just another day?

Shortly after I posted on the EB Facebook page how excited I was that I “forgot” and how amazing everything was…reality hit.  There was a meltdown, it involved a box of Cocoa Puffs being strewn around the kitchen, and a bite to my head resulting in a mouthful of hair, and while I regrouped and kicked myself for not “knocking wood” the popcorn ceiling in the bathroom (and everything else) being soaked with the handheld shower head.

By the time Gus got home with the Mexican food I had barely pulled myself together enough to get EB diapered and dressed and in bed.

I laughed sardonically at how I had forgotten to remember the autism.

He’s asleep now.  It was a hard day.  In fact it was probably more “hard” than “fun” but somehow the fact that there was cause to forget gives me hope that I might be able to remember to forget more often.

Happy “Cinco de Mayo”.  I think I’m going to see how that two-hour old Mexican food tastes and watch a movie with my husband.  Maybe I’ll even celebrate my amnesia just a little bit.

Love is a fundamental player in every single facet of life.

Love or – at times – the void of love is always present.

Sometimes I worry that my child won’t experience the full spectrum of love, due to his Autism or perhaps due to the choices society makes in embracing him and his Autism.

I fear others who will not love him, who may treat him as if he is less, because he is different.  I want to protect him from this but I know that it impossible that I could intercept all things hurtful on his behalf.  So I rely heavily on his community to aid me in protecting him through love.

I rely on his teachers, his peers, his neighbors, his legislators and complete strangers to do the right thing – to protect my son’s civil rights.  To facilitate inclusion for him  in his community, to offer support to him towards that end, and to protect him from “bullies” of all kinds,  so that he may live the life he chooses in the community he wishes.

Am I wrong to expect this of our community?

Would you argue that because he is different he is less?

I doubt anyone would argue that he is less.  After all, our nation is founded on the principle that “all men are create equal” and afforded the inalienable rights of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Even if our community did fail my son, there are lots and lots of laws that specifically protect him and others with disabilities from discrimination.  They took a long time in coming, true, and they probably do not reach as far as they could in some areas – but they exist to protect my child.

All of this happened because love won out over hate and fear.

Because of the love of those who went before us, no one has the legal right to discriminate against my child because of who he is.

No one can tell him he can’t…

Unless, he was gay.

Because somehow being gay here in North Carolina is okay, as long as you don’t want a side of “liberty” with it.

There are some people who want to take away the most basic of rights from same-sex couples.  They want to tear down families and set the civil rights movement back decades…because they believe that their god instilled in them a divine providence to enact bigotry in his name.

It’s called “Amendment One” and would actually change the NC State Constitution to state that defines marriage as only between one man and one woman.  Right now in NC?  Marriage is defined as only between “one man and one woman”.

Why the rush to pass this legislation?  I don’t know honestly. I’m not sure even the proponents are sure why.  Here’s a website with a very nice looking white family that seeks to explain it.   Honestly, I think it’s just a big cluster-eff  fueled by right-wing extremist fear mongers and allowed to grow into a movement largely in part due to complacency and indifference on our part.

Somehow god got thrown in there and urgency and fervor gave birth to this emotionally charged blurring of the line between church and state – a line created to protect the very religious freedom which seeks to oppress.

Somehow love got lost.

You see, I don’t know this god of hate and fear.  And neither do the hundreds of churches that have bravely come out “Against the Amendment” in North Carolina.

I know I’m more liberal than most of my peers but this isn’t about liberal or conservative.  It’s about protecting the rights of families, of children, of the sanctity of same-sex and straight relationships.  It’s about protecting the rights of all (married or not) who are victim to domestic violence.  It’s about allowing people who are in domestic partnerships to pay for and be part of their loved one’s health care plan .

It’s about letting love prevail.

If none of those things resonate with you, think about the business that will be lost in North Carolina should this law pass.  Now is not a time for NC to take a gamble at becoming more economically depressed.

If you disagree with gay marriage, please allow me to clarify that gay marriage is already illegal in North Carolina so this law is unnecessary at its very best.

I beg you to think about this issue in the broader sense.  Our children, our precious children with disabilities, those who went before us fought long and hard to secure their rights.  They still fight today to maintain them, to enhance them, yes – but someone paved the way to make our work easier.

Won’t you be part of that movement for our friends who are in the LGBT community?  Won’t you stand up for equality for them?  For basic human rights?  For respect?  For dignity?

For love?

Please Vote Against Amendment One on May 8th in North Carolina.

Because Love is Love.  Because we have an obligation to our neighbors, to our community and to our children to fight for what’s right, to protect their rights.  Because it is the right thing to do.  Because they did it for us.

Because we in the disability community were once, are now, and will always be one step away from being the targets of Amendment One.

I changed it today, minutes ago, actually.  A commitment to solidarity and the greater good won out against my cynical apathy.

I know you can’t be cynical and apathetic at the same time.  Yet somehow that’s the most accurate descriptor I have.

“Happy Autism Awareness Day”, I read. ” That’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”, I think.  One friend pointed out that phrase was reminiscent of the “Happy Hunger Games” cries of those in the Capitol. I imagined me as the catatonic Katniss, staring with awe and horror at the blue tinged masses.

See, I’m happy for awareness. I don’t think we’re done with that fight either. I think that just because people know about Autism, doesn’t mean they understand it, that they accept the amazing uniquities of those with Autism, or that they make the efforts to include them.

But it’s a great start. People are so much more aware now than they were 5, 10, 20 years ago.

And while we can definitely thank Autism Speaks and the UN for promoting awareness.  This kind of awareness is driven by something much more sinister.

Quite simply, more people are aware because more people are being personally touched by Autism.

The CDC released updated statistics on prevalence of Autism Spectrum Disorders in America last week. It is now estimated that 1 in 88 US children will have some form of Autism. That’s more than 1 percent of the population. What’s more? The statistics quoted in this report are based on children who were eight years old (12 now) in 2008. School rosters and early intervention programs are seeing many more children with Autism in their offices now than ever before and this data doesn’t even capture Everybody’s Boy and his peers, he wasn’t diagnosed until 2008 (days before his second birthday).

So this awareness, it must’ve played into the increase in diagnosis, right?  More people are aware of the symptoms of Autism and they are getting their children services.  That’s what this is about.

I don’t think so.  Not for a minute.

I think that there is more awareness amongst the general public, and physicians that lead to more accurate and earlier diagnosis.  I am certain of that.

But I cannot in good conscience say that is the entire story.

I am not one to jump on conspiracy theories and I’m not going to do that now.  I have many times stated my “we have no idea what this is all about” stand on this very blog.

Just because I don’t know what it’s all about, however, doesn’t mean that there’s not something seriously wrong.

We need to find out why this is happening to our children.  1 in 88 children.  1 in  70 in my state of North Carolina.  1 in 54 boys.

Two percent of the little boys in the USA have Autism.

Everybody’s Boy was never meant to be that kind of euphemism.

Our kids need more than awareness.

They need action.

So I put out my blue light.  I put it out in solidarity as a cry for action, from our researchers, our government, and our community.

I ask you to stand with us.   Don’t just be aware.  Don’t just be accepting.

That’s a great start, but please take action.  Because at the rate we’re going - the odds are “ever in your favor” that you might have your own reason to turn your porch light blue someday soon.

Before I get on my soapbox and preach awareness, and acceptance and action.

Before April comes and Autism is everywhere…

I needed a day without.

So today, I aimed to live as Autism free as possible.

Today just was.  There were no schedules.  No expectations.

Just Mommy and Son.

We went to a local children’s museum.  One that historically has been hit or miss.  On a whim, we saw an IMAX film in 3D about the ocean.  EB loves 3D movies.  I, on the other hand, typically fight nausea as my eyes try to adjust to items jumping off the screen at me, and the loud noises are anxiety producing.  It didn’t help that there were eels in this film.  Eels that I will dream about eating my nose off forever thank-you-very-much.

EB held my hand and fed me popcorn and dictated loudly the whole movie.  Which I don’t think anyone minded because it wasn’t The Hunger Games or anything.  I mean, there are no spoilers in the electric eel movie, unless you are me and didn’t realize that there were eels in it.

After the movie we went to the museum and played.  I do mean played.  I played like I haven’t in a long time.  I didn’t hover over him.  I didn’t try to protect him from embarrassing himself , or tripping over other children or walking into walls.  I just let him be…himself.

And he was so happy.

And so was I.

We were happy.  We were Mommy and Son.

Oh, we had our moments that were clearly spectrum based.  But I winced a bit, swallowed, and moved forward.

Because it’s March 31.  It’s anti-Autism awareness day.

We finished and we went to Pizza Hut to eat.   Do you remember last time we went to Pizza Hut?   But we did it and it was really good.

On the way home, the day disintegrated rapidly.  I expected this, really I did.  We held it together so well all day.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to fit in all day?

Take it from us.  It’s really really hard.

Yet, I still count today as a glowing success.

Tomorrow will come.  April will illuminate the blueness of Autism.  I’ll turn on my light.  Because that’s what we do.

And I’ll write about all the things we need to fight for.  Because “awareness” should really be the least of our concerns at this point.

I digress, it’s not April yet.  So allow me, if you will, the opportunity to relish in the opportunity to snuggle with my little boy…

Just a Mommy and her Son.

I want to know when it gets better?  Or if it gets better.

In the grand scheme of things we’re still rookies in this game.  I feel like Autism has been my life forever, but Everybody’s Boy isn’t even six year’s old yet.

I have friends who have traveled further on their journey.   Five years our senior, ten, even fifteen.

I ask them,  ”Does it get better?”

They tell me, “It gets different.”

Different doesn’t give me much solace.  Different isn’t exactly something to look forward to.

This weekend EB ran from us multiple times, screamed and cried endlessly, painted  his plush toys with shaving cream at 4 a.m., pounded his fists into his head, pounded his fists into my head, destroyed dozens of potted seedling at Home Depot, spit Sprite all over Gus, bit, kicked, threw…

I don’t think it’s necessary to go on.

We are all absolutely at wit’s end.  Nothing is helping.  His impulsivity and irrational thought process is impenetrable.

He is almost 70 lbs and over four feet tall.  I physically cannot handle him.

I try, I do, but it only makes things worse.  He opens his mouth and horrible strings of words he can’t possibly mean or comprehend come out.  He strikes out.  He destroys things.  He hurts himself and others.

So then I don’t try.  I just stand there in some kind of paralyzed awe.  I stare, I cry, I sigh and sit on the floor with my fingers tightly gripped around the ever-graying roots of my hair.

This is not effective either.

Consequences are not effective.  He doesn’t understand cause and effect and I can’t truly say that he is aware that his actions have meaning.  In fact, it’s almost like he’s not there when these meltdowns happen.  How do you punish a disability?  Isn’t his having to feel unglued for a good part of his life punishment enough?

When he’s “here” (as I call it), he is loving and rational and rarely able  process those episodes.  

I just keep thinking that it has to get easier at some point.  For him, but also for us.  Because how can we support him when we are so emotionally depleted?

Maybe that’s why it get’s different?  Maybe we don’t have the fortitude to continue with things like they are right now long-term.  So maybe it will change.  This will get “better” but something new will emerge?

So along with everything else, Autism is also this impervious chameleon of gigantic proportion that we cannot even begin to understand.

It’s hard to see my son suffer.  It’s hard to be of no comfort to him.

But it’s also really hard to navigate this as a parent.  I’ve tried so hard not to make this about me at all – because this is his story – but it’s about me too.  It’s about him and me, and Gus and our families and our friends.

I wonder what’s next?

We’re all familiar with this scenario.  The well-meaning acquaintance says:  ”I don’t know how you do it!”   ”I don’t think I could!”

Sometimes they “pat” you on the arm as further condolence.  Sometimes you just stand there, mouth agape, waiting for an exit strategy to come to mind.

Or, if you are me, you end up consoling the concerned acquaintance, with some platitude like “Oh, it’s not a big deal.  We’re fine.  No, actually we’re great!”

People mean well.   I tell myself this 20 times a day.

They just don’t understand.  I tell myself this 30 times a day.

It really is okay.  I tell myself this 75 times a day.

In the end, I spend a great deal of time talking to myself.

When I’m not consoling everyone else about my child’s Autism, that is.

Did I ever say those words to someone?  Is this some kind of karma thing?  Like some existential lesson I failed to learn years ago?

If it is, haven’t I endured enough?

Being strong is really hard.  Caring for everyone but yourself takes a toll.

At some point you realize that sadness and anger are indistinguishable from each other.

They both feel the same.
They feel like pain and loss.
And that feels like weakness.
And you are not weak.

I mean, isn’t that what everyone is telling you?  They don’t know how you do it.  Because they see that you are strong, that you are doing it, and they don’t believe they would have the fortitude to persevere.

The truth is, of course, that they would.

You didn’t think you could, but you are.  Is there ever a nanosecond that you question that you would?  Never.  That you could?  Probably.

But these are our children and we are not programmed to fail them.

It’s not an option.

So we fail ourselves, and our friends, and our family and our work instead.

But we do not fail our children.

How do we do it?

The same way our heart beats.  The same way our lungs fill.

Without pause.  An act of survival.

A merit of nothing but conquering the very basics of life.

We don’t pause.  Because pausing gives us the opportunity to feel….question…doubt.  There isn’t time for that.

It’s amazing that in this self-imposed numbness, this self-defensive model in which we exist, the ability to feel is ultimately what keeps us going.

How do you do it?  How do I do it?

The same way you would if it were your child.

How do you tell his story?

I asked this of myself hundreds of times over the past month.

I finally accepted that I could never tell the story adequately.  That if I was going to do it, I just had to reconcile that within myself.

It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be his.

Even now as I sit at my computer ten years later I find myself emotionally defunct and just as aware of the enormity of grief as I was that day.  A grief so all-consuming that no one person can process it.  The only thing that can be done is to allow yourself to feel a little bit at a time, on a schedule, while forcing yourself towards resilience otherwise.

On February 24, 2002 my son died.

Before Everybody’s Boy.

Before my life changed forever for the second time.

There was another boy.

A boy I didn’t expect. A boy I wasn’t sure I was ready for.  A boy that tested my faith, my strength and my resolve to live.

I was young.

I was pregnant.

He was sick.

His diagnosis was “Incompatible with Life”.

Even so, I had faith back then.  I prayed and willed all the doctors to be wrong.  I begged God to heal him.  I begged for a miracle.

When that failed, I prayed to God to take me instead.

He lived in my womb for 25 weeks and then he died.

I held his tiny and still  body. One pound and eleven ounces.

Perfectly shaped long fingers, just like mine, otherwise remarkably primed for the concert piano.

There was a hint of my smile on his lifeless mouth.

It was the worst day of my life.

When you are 23, you can’t imagine that these things happen.

Babies don’t die.

But he did.

He did die.

But he also taught me how to live.

Because there is something about losing a child that puts everything else into perspective.

Because Autism is really hard, and  heartbreaking, and scary.

But it is not “Incompatible with Life”.

So for that, and so much more, I will always be indebted to my first-born son.

In memory of ~Bradley~

2.24.02

I don’t think she’s mind my sharing her photo.  Although, I didn’t ask her.

You see, I couldn’t ask her.

Because she’s dead.

I know, I can’t believe it either.  How can someone so effervescent with life be gone?

My coworker Krysta was picking up frames at a local thrift shop to hang photos in our new office when she met Nancy.

It seems that at some point Nancy’s photo and the frame that held it were donated.

Krysta couldn’t bring herself to leave her behind.  She brought Nancy “home” to our cozy little office where we eat-sleep-and-breathe inclusion.

It might’ve been a few days before I notice Nancy’s presence.  I’m not terribly observant.

I remember walking around the office to stretch my legs and noticing the beautiful frames Krysta had thoughtfully acquired.  I remember being drawn to Nancy’s photo.  I asked Krysta who she was.  We work with a lot of people each year, but I had seen most of the photos we planned on framing before, and I knew that I would’ve remembered that face.

Krysta told me that she had picked up the frame at a thrift shop and that the owner had told her that the name of the woman in the picture was “Joan” and that she had died and somehow the photo ended up there in an estate sale.

We both agreed that it must be terribly sad to be “forgotten” like that.

As tears began to brim, I made my coworkers promise that they would never ever donate me.

We just kind of kept “Joan” around.  Until one day the frames began to fill up with faces that we knew and we needed “Joan’s” frame.

It was then that Krysta discovered, on the back of the photo the words “Nancy, 1990″ and tucked her away, presumably, in the safety of her office.

A few weeks later I found myself a complete and disheveled mess.  Things with EB were not going well.

I was struggling.

One morning I stumbled in to the office after a night of little sleep, not at all optimistic about my ability to put a dent in my to-do list.

As I off-loaded my laptop bag and flipped on the light I was greeted by the most ethereal smile and the following words:

It’s true that I have never seen the kind of happiness that Nancy displayed.  She genuinely looks as if she smiled all the time.  It’s as if joy came as naturally to her as breathing.

Where does that joy come from?  

Sure, I feel joy.  I feel joy daily.  But I don’t exude joy.  I am not, by default, a joyful person.

I am an optimistic person, a resilient person, a thoughtful person – but I am not a joyful person.

Nancy’s home remains in my office.  Though, I might consider sharing her around the when my colleagues need that extra boost.

I want to be the kind of woman that Nancy was.  I want someone to look at my photo 22 years from now and see unabashed joy.  Joy that is contagious.  Joy that is inherent.

I find myself looking to Nancy in everything I do in life these days.

“What would Nancy do?”

Would Nancy eat that second cupcake?

Would Nancy use the Oxford comma?

Would Nancy wear yoga pants on casual Friday?

The truth is, I don’t know what Nancy would do any better that you do.  But I like that her presence gives me pause.

I have to wonder if perhaps Nancy came to me on purpose.  Maybe she knew that her portrait would shape my life in some small (or big) way.

And maybe that’s why she’s smiling.

It’s true.  I have the best job ever.

I couldn’t be happier in my career.

It’s really a funny story, though, how it all evolved.

I bet you wonder what I do all day.   Or maybe you don’t and that’s okay too.

Um…if you are the latter of the two you should probably stop reading now.

Also, it’s not really okay if you don’t wonder.  I actually am pretty offended.

When I decided to start working in non-profit in 2005 more than a few people thought I was crazy.  You don’t work in non-profit to make money.  I mean, it’s  ”non-profit”.  It’s right there in the title.

You certainly don’t go into non-profit if you are a Public Relations professional.  Unless you’re totally cool with defaulting on your student loans.

Plus, the thing is, there aren’t really Public Relations professionals in non-profit.

There are Development people though.  Lots and lots of Development people.  All who probably studied Public Relations or Journalism or Marketing or Advertising or maybe even Quantum Physics.

All who woke up one morning and thought.  ”I’m going to change the world!  I’m going to work in non-profit.”  Partly because of blind idealism and partly because that’s what 20 something hipsters do.

I know this because I was one.

Ah yes, we idealist hipsters who spend our days writing grants, making presentations to rotary clubs and asking our weary friends and family for the millionth time if they “want to buy a raffle ticket?”.  Well, do you?  Go on now, I’ll wait.  

Sometimes we get to do Outreach (that’s non-profit speak for “Marketing”) which is fun…and kind of a teensy bit like Public Relations (or so we tell ourselves).  We get to think up and plan fun events and make brochures in Word with clip art.  Or order 10,000 mini-frisbees printed with our organization’s name and website to hand out at community fairs.

Oh but the events.  Those are so much fun.  It’s when you can really let your creativity shine.  Like that one time (hypothetically speaking of course) that there was a county-wide air potato collection fundraiser and “you” thought it would be really cool to take part in to raise money for “the kids”.  You thought you were so clever  calling it “Taters for Tots” until you learned that your Executive Director did not share the same enthusiasm…as evidenced by the look of utter disgust that cut right through your soul as you cheerfully passed out fliers at the Board of Directors meeting.

You know, I wasn’t quite honest.  There is some Public Relations work involved.  About two or three times a year you get to write a press release and send it to an outdated media list and have about 77% of the emails bounce back.

…and maybe you will be interviewed on an AM Talk Radio program that will broadcast at 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday and you will consider waking up the whole family to gather around and listen to it but will sleep through the alarm because sleep is way better than hearing yourself on the radio talking about how you gave a bunch of backpacks full of school supplies to inner city kids to help them get “ready for school and ready for life”.

But you will totally put that shit on your résumé anyway.  You’ll also Google to see if it qualifies you for membership in SAG.

Anyway, this is not at all what I planned on writing about tonight.  I have a really great story that I just can’t seem to make segue, so it seems I’ll be posting again within the next few days.

While you wait, feel free to buy a raffle ticket.