Jonah

It’s humbling, the ease at which a child with a disability enjoys the simple pleasures. The way Jonah does things at his speed, not only because to go much faster is physically straining for him, but also because he doesn’t want to miss any of the fleeting joys life brings. The way he does things when he wants to, because life’s to short to always be going, the fact that there’s not enough time to always be pleasing others. The ability Jonah has to grasp that concept utterly amazes me. He knows there are times when he has to listen, and to do as he is told. But other times, he knows Jonah-time has arrived. May that be walking down the sidewalk in 20 degree weather, and stopping to watch the wind blow the trees (with one of us waiting beside him, itching to reach the warmth of the van). Or obtaining your attention, and then taking 5 years to tell you what he needed in the first place. Or when he’s playing the play station running his car into things, simply for the sound the crash makes, and giggling hysterically every single time.
Watching a child with special needs playing a same or with a toy, without a properly trained eye, is seemingly fruitless. To them, it’s a child sitting there quietly, running a car back and forth, or giggling as he throws a ball in the air. But to someone who spends time around one, Jonah in this instance, who watches them play and grow, endless amounts of joy are around the corner when they pick up a car, or an action figure, or a stuffed animal. Children with special needs in my experience (which is pretty limited outside of Jonah) don’t need to make sounds, or play with others. The need a toy, preferably with moving parts, and the rest is imagination. No motor sounds, or animal sounds, or shooting sounds (depending on the toy, of course) are needed, only that the toy is not, in fact, incredibly boring. And other children aren’t usually high up on the list either, as Jonah has a hard time expressing himself. So he sits, and plays, and imagines.
Jonahs favorite toys are stuffed animals. But they must have floppy legs, or they are absolutely no good. Simply shaking them back and forth enough to imitate walking is enough to keep him entranced for hours. Watching him play, I’m often awed at the looks of wonder and amazement that radiate from his face when he realizes something. As he can’t tell me what new snippet of information he has obtained, I am left to ponder what thought just races across his mind as he flopped Bullseye around, or what new realization came to him as he opened the tiny car door, and stuck the toy man in. Jonah is creative in his own way, with a love to draw, and write, and imagine. I see whole other worlds, written on his face. I want to dive in, to reside in the world of simplicity that Jonah currently dwells in. Perhaps that is part of my fascination with him. Part of the reason that he’s the only thing often keeping me running.
As Americans we often miss the simplicity to life. The way the wind blows our hair, or the way the sun feels on our face, or the sand between our toes. It’s a blessing to live with a child that has special needs, because he can take us back to the simple joys. He reminds life isn’t all there is, and while other things are important, so is taking a minute here and there for us. A walk in the park, reading a book, something as nothing as sitting outside and enjoying a glass of iced tea. No, he may not portray what he wants to say in words, but we can see it in every move he makes.


I wrote this last year, and thought you all might like to read it. I thought it was rather swell. :]

Uhm.

I want to express something openly, bu I'm not exactly sure how to.
Let's start from the beginning.

I read. A lot. I'm always reading a book when there is nothing else to occupy my mind. The stories of fictional characters, the way they act, intrigues me. Holds my interest. Makes me want more. And thus, I read. And read. And read. I think you get the idea.
Every so often, I find A Book. Not just any book, but A BOOK. One that captivates me to the point that I cannot put it down. I can't think about anything but that book, until the time it is finished. And after it is finished, I am different. I want nothing to do with anyone for a while. Time to mull over what happened. Usually, there is a common theme to these books. One I can't quite explain. It's how the characters think. How they make their decisions, say their words, live their lives. It makes me think. And I become confused, and I hate it. It really makes me hate reading.
And this book was no different. Correction. These books were no different. In the past week I have read all 3 books in the twilight trilogy, and they are having The Effect on me. But this time... It's worse. I feel it worse then ever before. I don't know if it's sleep deprivation, or the fact that things aren't exactly where I want them to be right now. I don't know what brought this on. All I know is that I want it gone.

And I want another good book.

100 Years.

A century.
100 years.
10 decades.
1,200 months.
5,200 weeks.
36,253 days.
52,594,876 minutes.
All in all, a very very long time.
This is also the amount of time my great great grandmother was alive.

This morning, right around noon our time, she passed on. Sometime Friday her body started to shut down, first with her kidneys, and slowly progressing. By Friday evening she was comatose, never to wake again. Her blood pressure and heart rate slowly fell until it stopped all together this morning.
The last memories I have of this wonderful woman are two weekends ago, sitting at the table in my aunt and uncles house. She no longer had any memory, but she was up and about, eating and drinking on her own. The only medicine Lottie Morris needed in her age was something to keep her blood pressure normal. She was one lucky woman, for more reasons than that.
Her family stuck by her up until she was gone. Perpetually surrounded by people who loved her, a smile always played on her lips. Some of them she knew, some of them she didn't. It didn't matter. She knew they were family, and that they all loved her as much as she loved them.
I was never around enough to remember her when she still had her mind, though I've heard wonderful stories. Mostly about the kitchen. Any of the memories I do posses are all of her, standing in the kitchen, smiling down at me.
I've also heard of her faith. She taught Sunday School and attended church until she could no longer get up and prepare herself. Mami Jack, as I know her, loved God with all her heart, and served Him just as much as she could. She raised many children, all of them in church always, and still living off the faith of their mother.
As we grieve the loss of the sweetest woman any of us have ever met, there is some comfort to be found.. She is now Home, the only place she ever really wanted to be.

Teenager

When I was younger, I always wanted to be a teenager so bad. I would watch these shows on TV and think “Man. I am SO ready for this.” I would see the kids on the shows and wish beyond wish that could be me, living life carefree and loving it. To be a teenager.
To a kid being a teenager is a time for relationships, boyfriends or girlfriends, a time for break ups and make ups. It’s a time to be a kid at heart, and goof off and yell at your parents when they are stupid. It’s a time to play pranks on your annoying little brother, and laugh when he gets angry.
Being a teenager means lazy summers filled with boys, and hopping from pool to pool. Sleeping over at friend’s houses and staying up until 4 o’clock prank calling hot guys and giggling about everything that happened the day before.
Being a teenager means school, and hating chemistry and gym class. It means hating some teachers with a passion, and loving others to death. It means homework and finals, and study sessions with the girls to cram in last minute information, but really sitting and gossiping about what she was wearing, or what he looked like in that shirt.
Being a teenager means having that bubble. The bubble that protects you from the world, and only allows in the nice things, the things everyone likes to think about. It only lets the fun things penetrate its barrier, swimming and friends and youth group and laughing. It keeps the hunger and dehydration and global warming and wars out and away, until a time when we are able to process them.
At least, that’s what it means for most people. For me, it means surgery and sickness and anger and depression. It means bursting the bubble and coming into the real world. It means being that girl. The one all the guys look at as a best friend, but not a possible prospect. The girl everyone comes to with their problems, but no one wants to listen to, as her problems are just far to depressing. That girl that could, and very well may, snap any time now, because her little brother is sick, and no one wants to be around when that happens. The one everyone looks at with pity, and fake understanding in their eyes. The one no one wants to be.



Anyone else noticed that I've been thikning deeply lately?

Used car, anyone?

Finding the right guy is like shopping for a used car. Not like I have personally, but I have been with people who have.

You pull up in the dealership, and they show you the first car on the lot, that somewhat matches what you want. A test drive proves it's not the one you want. The wheel shakes, or the breaks don't work, or you can't get a good radio station. So you move on to the next one.
As you continue this ritual, you eventually glimpse a car, and immediately want that one more then any other car on the lot. So you point it out, and the dealer smiles. As you approach it, bask in its glory of used-dom, you fall in love even more. You reach for the handle, and when you open the door one of two things happen. Either you sit down and it's perfect in every way, not a fault that really matters to be seen. Or, you sit down and it's nothing you thought. The windshield wipers squeak, there is a stain on the carpet, the door only closes all the way sometimes and the radio only works on Wednesdays.
When the former happens, you buy the car on the spot and never have another worry. But when the latter happens, your heart breaks in two, and you crawl out slowly. Riding home afterwards, you tell yourself you're never going to buy another car. But inside, you know you'll be back next weekend.

Belief.

So, I was thinking. (before i go on, i know this is my second post within the hour. but i'm having a smart moment. ;])

And while I was thinking, I realized something. Everything we have, everything around, is based on belief. We believe our system of currency will hold up, and it has. We believe when someone says it's raining that it is. We believe what we think is true.
But nothing we can know, for sure, 100% of the time. I know that I like bananas. But I might eat a banana tomorrow and be completely disgusted. How can I be absolutely sure I like bananas? I believe that when I take a bite, it will taste good.
A woman gets pregnant. Doctor says a baby girl is coming. How can the woman be sure? How does she know what is inside of her? She could be having a goat for all she knows. But she believes she is having a little girl.
It's all based on that simple belief in the unknown.

Am I the only one that makes sense to? I get it, do you all?
Let me know. :]

Ugh.

Trying to get a guy to notice you is like trying to nail jello to a tree. It just can't be done. No matter how much you think the tree wants the jello, needs the jello, should hold the jello and love it, the tree doesn't agree, or takes no notice. So, after begging, pleading, dressing the jello up in really nice clothes, jumping around, screaming and crying, you resort to nailing it to the tree, and the tree STILL wont accept the flipping jello.

And guys are the EXACT same way. The only way to get their attention, other then grabbing their face and screaming "I LOVE YOU", is to wear skirts revealing your underwear and shirts revealing other things. Which is absolutely ridiculous. There should be no need for that sort of thing. Girls should be able to dress modestly and cover themselves and still be found attractive. But do they? No. All guys want to do is look for hot girls and stare at their butts. Or their boobs, if they have nice ones. So girls give them what they want. We dress like hookers so these guys, that we are convinced we need, will notice us and give us the attention that we are also convinced we need.

When will they grow up?

...When will we grow up?






I love high school.