Parents: Own Your Children’s Behaviour

I always say how bullied I am, but no one listens, what do I have to do so people will listen to me?

– Jamey Rodemeyer’s final post to Tumblr

July 19, 2018

Jamey Rodemeyer, aged 14, killed himself this weekend.  At 14, Jamey was just a boy.  He had endured years of bullying, at school and online.

We, as parents, are responsible for our children.  We are responsible for feeding them and sending them to school and making sure they’re healthy and clean.  We are responsible for loving them and teaching them how to love others.  We must treat them with respect and teach them to treat others with respect.  We can not control their behaviour, but we can, must, teach them what is right and what is absolutely unacceptable.  We must own this responsibility.

Sleep and suffocate

It’s so much easier to just stay inside. It’s warm in here and the air is still. Outside the wind is cold and it’s too much. Too much muchness. I like the walls. I like how they shelter and protect and keep the muchness away from me. I can sleep inside.

But then, I think, maybe it’s too still. Maybe it’s too warm. The walls feel smothering and overbearing and I can’t breathe. The air is outside and I’m in here and here is crushing me.

Pedestrian rage

I’ve been over this so many times. Not sure if just in my head, or if I’ve actually written about it, but it FEELS like I’ve said this A MEEEELLION TIMES. And here I go again:

A little driving lesson for those who use the four-way stop outside my work – if I am crossing, you wait AAAAAALL the way over on your side of the stop until I have completed my cross and am safely on the sidewalk. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. I cross, you wait. While I am doing the crossing, you are doing the waiting.

Weak From The Fight

PMS is loud with fury and rage and frustration. We suffer, but not in silence. It screams inside our head and pounds its fists on our skull until we let it out. It grabs hold of the reigns and makes us do things and behave in ways that we wish we wouldn’t, and then whispers in our ears, telling us we’re terrible, worthless people. That lump in your throat, the burning behind your eyes, the ache in your head – that’s PMS, taking up space, uninvited, ungrateful. Bastard. Your temper is quick, emotions are sensitive and raw, your patience is run dry. You are anyone but you. And yet you are.

So Unnatural

“Look. Behind you. No, don’t look. They’ll see you. Just turn your head in a minute and you’ll see. But don’t let them see that you’re looking.”

Carol’s eyes sparkled. She delighted in scandal and gossip and lunch with Sandra was filled with heated whispers and darting, mischeivous eyes. They did their best work when they were together.

“What?! Ok, I’ll pretend I’m getting something out of my purse.” She’d perfected this technique after a lifetime of practice. “Oh. My. God. Can you believe they’re here? It’s disgusting! How can she be with him? It’s so unnatural. Imagine what her mother must think.”

Day Seven Of Shamelessness

Share your efforts at something you don’t think you do well.

There is no debate here. I won’t try to defend myself, I won’t argue, I won’t come up with excuses. I not only don’t think I do this well, I whole-heartedly admit that I am absolutely terrible. Given my lineage, I should be practically prodigal, it should be in my blood, coursing through my veins, sweating out of my pores. And yet, there is no denying that I am simply horrible.

Look up. Waaaaay up.

See something new? Now, press refresh. Press it again. And again. I made five new headers that are supposed to load randomly. If I did it right. Did I do it right?

I get a little squirrelly when this place looks the same for too long and so I tend to mess with stuff when I get bored with it. I used to do that with my hair when I didn’t have a blog. I’ve had mid-waist long blond hair, dark brown bobs, boy-short bright red, a thousand perms, and everything in between. Right now my hair is longish because I haven’t cut it in over a year, it’s my natural colour because I haven’t dyed it in about five, and the texture resembles that of a bird’s nest because I care far too little to either nurture the natural curl or straighten it with a flat iron. And that’s because I have a blog to change when I get squirrelly instead of that which resides on my head.

I bet you’re glad you took the time out of your busy schedule to read about my stupid blog and my ugly hair. I’m nothing if not a waste of time.

Carry on about your business.

The Screen Is A Shield

Using the screen as a shield and the keyboard as a dagger, written words have the power to pierce the flesh and bleed a person dry. They can also lift spirits and elicit joy, elation, and a warm sense of home. But some words, words written with the bitter spit of bile, they can cut the flesh and tear at the heart, scratch at the mind, make a nest and live there, itching away at the surrounding gray matter, never letting a person forget.

My Soul Speaks

She sobbed uncontrollably, her entire body racked with grief. Her sixteen year old daughter tried to comfort her by rubbing her back and whispering in her ear. I can’t even imagine how you begin to comfort someone who has just lost her soul for no good reason.

Tearing my eyes away from the sight so as to quell my own sadness, I looked across the room. The funeral had just begun, the casket lovingly carried down the aisle by his closest friends, and the family had been seated. As I wiped the tears off my wet cheeks, I had to look again. I’m not sure why I felt the urge to watch the mother and daughter like that.

Buried alive…nearly

I’m pretty good at a lot of things, none of which I can think of right now. But I’m almost sure that a person doesn’t get to be 30 and three quarters without learning some skills and practicing them until they’re mastered. Like, I’m sure there’s something I can do that some people can’t, or some type of party trick that would impress a crowd, or maybe I’m the best at doing one thing even if it’s menial and insignificant. There’s got to be something.