One Plus One = Window

(Photo by Couleur on Pexels.com poem by Mehrnaz Sokhansanj
(or listen here)
SonHerisme circa First Grade:
He - Momma, do you know what one plus one equals?
Me - I think so baby bear. But just in case I've forgotten, will you please remind me?
He - Momma, one plus one equals window
Me - Tell me more about how you solved that one
He - Look at my picture, Momma 1+1 and then put the equals on the top and bottom to make a window 
Me - And what do you see through that magic window, baby puffin bear?
He - I see us having fun, Momma and I love you
Me - One plus one does equal window and I love you too

300 +1… 301

I have sent MrexH 301 weekly progress reports about SonHerisme (per court order).

The first weekly progress report was sent on January 28, 2016. This was the same week as our first meeting with our attorneys and a mediator.

At that point I had been working with my attorney since April 2014. SonHerisme’s court appointed attorney had been working on our case since July 2014. MrexH had been working with the attorney present since December 2015 after having burned through 4 or 5 previous attorneys.

We were not at all in a good place then.

MrexH was confined to a state facility. SonHerisme was still seriously struggling with adjusting to school. I planned everyday as if we were going to be murdered.

Today MrexH is living with his parents in a place not accessible by car. SonHerisme is thriving in school. I continue to feel that given an opportunity, if MrexH returns to this area, I will most likely be murdered. However, since he is not here, cannot easily get here, and is unlikely to be able to travel at all, I no longer live in complete fear every single day. I open my windows. I go places and tell people where I am going. I drive the same routes day after day. I grocery shop for more than 1-2 days at a time. You know, like people do.

GAH – enough about that

2016 was a long time ago. Now I am facing a different transition as sweet SonHerisme begins preparations for going into High School next fall. He has been my plus-one on life adventuring, life surviving, going to this place and that place, for all of his memory times. I have been mommy-ing it up fiercely, full of protection, comfort, and love for all of his memory time, and all on my own.

I’m not a complete helicopter lunatic – he has his own experiences and continues to stretch his now teenagering wings.

This next year will be something on a different scale as he eases further into becoming a man. He will be working at proper paid jobs. He will get a driver’s license. He will shift into places where my only presence and knowledge of them will be in his heart. He will find his own plus-one(s). I love him with the everything of the infinities. I want him to feel the fullness of being himself in all of this life, and to find satisfaction with that. I wish I could peek through some kind of magic window to see that he is okay.

For now, I will get into my car – the same car he came home from the hospital in – drive to his school, wait in carline for him to come bounding out, and hand him a lunchbox full of teenager boy fuel snacks as he animatedly tells me all about whatever has happened in his little Montessori world where he feels heard and seen. His final year as one of the top-banana Montessori Mafia kings.

Love, Ms Herisme xoxo

I continue to find it entirely jarring when someone pointedly looks through my window and sees me, other than SonHerisme and two friends. A friend’s spouse honked at me and waved through their car window at the stoplight. MotherHerisme’s cardiologist asked me if everything was okay because he hadn’t heard me speak during MotherHerisme’s appointment. Which, now that I am saying these things out loud, sounds like I am crazy for these things to be jarring me – but they do. I am used to being invisible. Despite the deep aching desire to be truly seen along with possibly how unhealthy it is to not be seen, when someone unexpectedly peeks through the window and see sees me, I am… I am perplexed and, I suppose, well, jarred. I wish I had a funny trauma tune to dance off with… stage right, fading single spotlight, acoustic tapping exit, aaaaaaaaand scene

Blah Blah Hands

(my pic, classical quote- also yes, my thumb is oddly long, and yes my nails are not well attended to bc I am a mommy, also yes, my office area is full of the things – no judgementors here!)
(or listen here)

A dear FriendHerisme has two lovely children. Her son is SonHerisme’s best friend, the other is a first-grade daughter. FriendHerisme and her husband are professional musicians – they are a super fun family and good friends to us.

Let’s call first grade daughter FriendEHerisme! FriendEHerisme sat with me at the boys’ soccer game, asking if she could draw Blah Blah’s on my hands.

The Blah Blah’s come alive when you make your hand into a fist with a straight thumb, wiggling your thumb up and down to make the Blah Blahs talk. We like to draw side knuckle eyes, nose, and a great gloppy tongue hanging out of their mouth. Occasionally the tongue gets so big that all they can say is, “blah, blah, blah.” Hence the name, the Blah Blahs. FriendEHerisme has been talking to, playing with, and feeding the Blah Blah’s (they eat the pens that drew them! How nervy!) since she was a teeny tiny human (as has SonHerisme, NiecesHerisme… and others).

At the soccer game, FriendEHerisme wanted both of my hands to bring the Blah Blahs alive and she wanted to draw them, so I allowed it. This is the way. FriendEHerisme has spoken.

My right hand was the boy Blah Blah, the left hand the girl Blah Blah (you could tell the differences because of the hairbow, says FriendEHerisme). Naturally, as soon as they were alive, they greeted each other, blah blahed at each other, and then they spent a lot of time kissing. Her parents are happily married as you can infer from the role play.

FriendEHerisme then decided the Blah Blahs needed something else (aka she was bored with the usual blah blahnesses). She drew a sunshine on the back of each of my hands, coloring them in with squashed up dandelions. Followed up with polka-dotted moons on my palms.

“Now what happens?” FriendEHerisme asked. I shined girl Blah’s sun down onto boy Blah and sang, “Mr Sun, sun, Mr golden sun, please shine down on me…” She opened up boy Blah’s hand and asked the moon to sing to girl Blah. So I sang, “The man in the moon is smiling ’cause he’s in love…” Then both suns staring at each other, “I’m burnin’ I’m burnin’ I’m burnin’ for you…” Then both moons staring at each other, “Moon, moon, moon shining bright…” And that was enough for FriendEHerisme to declare that the Blah Blah’s were done. She had them kiss once more, and that was that.

The Blah Blahs have seen SonHerisme through lengthy travels, emergency room broken bones, surgeries, general doctor visits, waiting for adult things everywhere to be over so that children things can rule activity levels again. Thank you sweet Blah Blahs.

Everyone is growing up.

The Blah Blahs are almost all gone.

*sigh* Bittersweet times.

I’m scheduled for my COVID vaccine. The world seems to be turning again. Today is SisterHerisme’s birthday (celebrated virtually, again).

Still feeling as though I am suspended in time over here, floating in some clear gel filled bottle- stopped, but not stopped, in time, watching everything out there moving onward and wondering how to be. Like time saved in a bottle. That’s an old timey Jim Croce song! If I could save time in a bottle the first thing that I’d like to do is to save every day ’til eternity passes away just to spend them with you (or something like that). Which I think is a love song (? bwahahahaha yeah blah blah blah). For me, I’d grab it for the sweet Blah Blah moments with SonHerisme, FriendEHerisme, NiecesHerisme and all of the sweet babes.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. I know Time in a Bottle is a love song and I know it isn’t for me, but also the phrase on its own seems like suspended time in loneliness or grief, which IS what I mean

Currently lost the bandwidth to find a therapist/counselor. It seems very daunting and expensive. Carrying on with the things…

blah blah ciao

extreme side note: I really really REALLY wanted to title this, “blah blah hand job,” but just could not do it because of the childrens. If you find it as HILFREAKINGlarious as I do, feel free to mentally adjust the title to suit your humors. (ridiculous plurals on purposes) loves to yous