Living Around Disability

I carry a rather long list of diagnoses, several of which alone would qualify my permanent, total disability status. Most of the time, I try to ignore my disabilities. I am not embarrassed by my condition, nor am I apologetic. Thinking about them makes me feel sorry for me, which isn't productive or healthy.

However, I do write articles that I think will promote understanding or protection of people with disabilities without addressing my particular diagnoses or complaints*. Writing from this once-removed point of view serves two purposes. It protects me from pity which, despite, or maybe because of, the good intentions of the person delivering it usually leaves me feeling undeserving, because I am okay. Politically and financially, circumstances are not okay for most people living on disability incomes, so writing general essays, stories, and poems allows me an opportunity to use my experience and understanding of difficult political and financial circumstances to help others. Once in awhile, I write articles that include a universal glimpse from the inside.**

In this article, I want to share my guide to living around disability - a positive note, because singing the blues, especially with my vocal talent, doesn't get me far. Being born with optimism, a helpful measure of self-importance, and rose-colored glasses probably gave me a giant head start, but I believe with determination those who want can catch up.

Knowing and appreciating my self and my body are the most important steps I can take to ensure I live a happy, productive life. When I am aware of and loyal to my strengths, weaknesses, limits, and dreams, I function with confidence and I leave no questions for the other people in my life.

I live on a schedule and activity level that works for my body, with my conditions. I don't expect to be like anyone else or for anyone else to be like me, and I demand the same in return. I would not be ashamed if I were diabetic and required a strict dietary regime, insulin injections, and protective footwear. If I were a cardiac patient, I would insist my family and friends understand my need for frequent walks and my refusal to shovel snow. Likewise, I expect the people around me to understand that I will eat, sleep, exercise, and entertain around my conditions. I would not apologize to anyone if I had been born with no legs or a big nose, and I will not apologize for having no energy or walking funny.

My energy is precious to me. I will leave the dishes on the drain rather than spare the energy it takes to open and close the cabinets and drawers, and the toilet paper on the counter instead of putting in on the roll. I clean house and do laundry when I am able, which is not usually as often as others do. The only people I give permission to comment on those activities are those who say, "Move over so I can do that for you," and people under the age of three.

I make sure what I will do is nothing more than what I can do, comfortably. I don't over commit, and I don't apologize for not being able. To some, this may sound selfish. I believe just the opposite. When I take care of me, everyone around me knows exactly what to expect. The ones who truly care about me are happier because I haven't sacrificed my pride, my energy, or my mental health in apologies and regret.

Ignorance is Bliss

Her friends all went to Dr. Weiss, so Cindy made an appointment to see him after missing her second period. She thought he was a total jerk, but how could she say that about the most popular obstetrician?

Everyone else she knew breast-fed, used disposable diapers, delivered at Methodist Hospital with an epidural, after having had an ultrasound to determine the gender so they could choose names, clothes, and nursery decors accordingly. She would do the same, even though she preferred formula, cloth diapers, natural childbirth, and surprises. She didn't want her child to start life as an outcast.

Cindy wanted an unusual name, something fun to say and hear, Eli, with a long 'e' for a boy and short 'e' for a girl. Robert, never original, wanted a boy named Robert. His mother put in a request for Sarah, which meant she would criticize anything else and make life miserable for everyone concerned unless she got her way.

Sarah Elizabeth was born at Methodist Hospital, assisted by Dr. Weiss, an epidural, and a lactation specialist. She went home to a pink nursery and Dora the Explorer accessories, almost identical to a dozen other nurseries in the neighborhood.

At three months, Sarah had her picture made at Wal-Mart, dressed head-to-toe in Baby Phat, immortalized in the same poses, using the same props every other child in town used. The photographer worked with her until she flashed the traditional grin.

Over the years, Cindy took Sarah to the same movies her friends saw, bought her the same toys her friends played with, and cloned her in the latest child-fashions. She repeated the worn out clichés the other mothers spewed, because those were the same lessons their mothers had taught them.

"Don't ask him why his eyes are slanted or tell her she has spinach between her teeth. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all. Pretend you don't notice the wheelchair or color of her skin." The subliminal messages bled from one generation to the next. Slanted eyes, wheelchairs, skin color, and accidents must be bad if they aren't good enough to talk about.

"Stay away from controversial topics like politics, religion, racism, ignorance, and poverty. You want people to think you're nice, don't you? Don't rock the boat. Never mind why they're different; what you don't know can't hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. You will never be given more than you can handle, so this too shall pass, without your voice or investigation. Ask not want not.
Use your manners, respect your elders, get along with everyone, and you will be fine."

Sarah made it through high school without rocking any boats. She wore the right clothes, joined the popular clubs, used her manners, avoided tough topics, and respected her elders. She never questioned the passes her history teacher made at her, or told anyone what she had witnessed in the stairwell at ten thirty-seven on the last day of her sophomore year. She did not question the 'D' Miss Sands gave Lori Meeks, even though she had seen Lori turn in the term paper Miss Sands said she never received, and heard Miss Sands call Lori a lesbian. She didn't tell anyone about the gun Jason White kept in his locker. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them and she was not one to rock boats or take risks. She said no sir and yes maam, please and thank you, and not much else.

The big wedding wasn't Sarah's idea, and she hated the Evangelical Church. However, who was she to argue with him, or his parents. Everyone in their family had a big wedding at the Evangelical Church and expected him to do the same.

Everyone in his family used drugs, cheated on their taxes, and voted Republican. Yes maam, she would do the same. Who was she to question tradition, rock the boat, or bring up difficult topics?
Sarah had no trouble hiding her husband's affair from herself, or her drug addiction from him and the kids. Their kids were too polite to ask questions or bring up the wrong topics. Ignorance was bliss.

How Your Job Affects My Life

I purposely broke the law. That's how far down my life had gone. Things that had once been important to me no longer mattered. With little shame and much defiance, I armed myself and hobbled out the door, making a conscious, premeditated decision to do wrong.

It was a big move for a person whose friends had mocked her for refusing to walk through a door with Employees Only posted on it.

"Anything goes, when everything's gone." Even before I lived it, the words of this song had tugged at my heart every time I heard them. Now that my understanding had gone from sympathetic to personal point of view, the chorus embraced me as validation for my deed.
"When you lose all hope, there ain't no right or wrong." Melodramatic? Maybe. Indefensible? Probably, but the sentiment expressed the defeat I felt at the time.

I reached my destination without incident, waited for my daughter to join me in the car and thank me for picking her up, and retraced my three-mile, back-street route. As I drove, she delivered every detail of the workshop. The instructor was from Spain and had brought a guitarist with him. The dancer's technique was worth every dollar the workshop cost and she couldn't wait to get home and practice what she had learned.

She raved on as I drove past the park, but stopped when flashing blue lights caught up with us on the other side of the overpass. My heart pounded as the police car pulled in behind mine instead of speeding around me.

I reached for my purse, and the protection I had remembered to bring. There were no red lights or stop signs. I had not exceeded the speed limit, or hit anyone or anything, so this had to be about my willful crime.

"Your license plate has expired," the officer announced.

"I know. Thirty-six days ago." My shaking hand closed around the defense in my purse, knowing he wouldn't stop with the expired tag. I pulled it out and left it in my lap while I showed him my driver's license and registration, and waited for the dreaded words.

"I need to see proof of insurance," he said, keeping my documents.

"That's the reason for my expired tag." I presented the envelope from my lap. "I recently renewed my policy and the insurance company failed to send my updated proof of insurance cards. I have a letter from my agent."

He refused the envelope I extended, so I removed the letter and opened it. Without looking, he informed me he could not accept my letter.

Remembering the time a police officer had removed my intoxicated husband from his car and delivered him home instead of taking him to jail, I felt sure, since I had endangered no one, this man would apply the same discretion with me. Unsound optimism drove my plea.

"I had to pick up my daughter, and the insurance company assures me the updated cards are in the mail. Please don't do this." I stopped short of telling him how many phone calls it had taken to resolve this situation, what a toll every simple problem took on my energy level, or how weary I was from being out of bed the last two hours.

He scribbled on a form. "It's only a citation. No problem. Get your paperwork in order, take it to the courthouse and show it to the clerks at the windows, and it'll be over."

No problem? Even for a healthy person, a trip to the courthouse was a problem. Time out of any day, driving downtown, finding a parking place, standing in line, dealing with overworked clerks, were all problems. For me, that entailed at least a week's worth of energy and endangered my life. I didn't have the oomph to explain, even if I had thought it would matter to this man. I put the citation and letter in my purse and hoped I had the resilience to make it home.

I switched insurance companies the next day and called the old one to tell them what had happened because of their mistake and cancel. This time, they immediately sent the card with a request to reconsider my decision. I didn't.

Insurance card in hand, I returned to the County Clerk's office to secure my updated license plate. After telling me about the late fee, this clerk said the one who had previously refused my letter should have called the insurance company for verification and saved me the fee and the citation.

I drove downtown, gave up hope of finding a meter space after three trips around the block, wound my way to the roof of a parking garage, waited for a smelly elevator, walked two blocks to the building, waited in line to be scanned for weapons, found 'the windows', and waited in a second line. My head swam as my blood pressure dropped and my temperature rose. When my turn came, I ditched my instinctive skirting of public surfaces and grabbed the counter for support before presenting my paperwork.

Relieved to have this experience behind me, I left the building and leaned against an outside wall to gather strength for my return to the car. I couldn't have identified the clerk inside if my life depended on it, but I did remember her words. "That's all we need. Everything's taken care of."

A short time later, I received a court notice for failing to resolve the citation. I called the clerk at 'the window'. After several transfers and a long wait, someone assured me the notice was a mistake; their records documented my 'taken care of' status.

I lost faith in 'the windows' crew when the second court notice arrived. This time, I called the court clerk, explained that I was on an anti-rejection drugs, had no immune system or energy, and that sitting in a crowded courtroom during flu season could have serious consequences for me. I requested permission to wait outside the courtroom in a safe place, or to go first. She told me the court does not make special allowances for disabilities.

On my second court date, my temperature was 104, every bone, muscle, and nerve in my body reminded me it wasn't happy with our connection, and I would have welcomed the flu if it promised to kill me and end the pain. Unfortunately, I did not have the strength to dress and leave the house to contract a new germ. I called the court clerk, who informed me I could not call in sick to court.

I tried 'the window' clerk again. She still insisted everything 'was taken care of' and the court notice was an error. She said not to worry, stay in bed, and she hoped I would feel better soon.
Four years later, I went to renew my driver's license and discovered that my failure to appear in court had resulted in a suspension of my license and a bench warrant. In no condition to deal with it then, I parked my car for months. My daughters drove me the only places I went - to the grocery, and the fourteen doctors offices and hospitals my most recent diagnoses and a surgery made necessary.

When ready to drive again, I returned to 'the windows' to see what I needed to do to get my driver's license back. The clerk looked me up in her computer, put me back on the docket, and handed me directions to a location across town. I was to go there, pay forty dollars, and have my license reinstated, before my court date.

Finally, something had gone my way. Actually, the before my court date information led me to believe more than one thing had gone my way. Why would I be eligible for reinstatement if they didn't know I brought in proof of insurance and updated tags? Before I left, the clerk told me I needed to take a money order because the office she was sending me to did not accept credit cards or cash.

My daughter drove me to the bank for the money order. I didn't have forty dollars cash, so I wrote a check to the bank – my bank, my branch. The teller asked for identification and I handed her my driver's license.

"I can't accept an expired ID," she told me. Fine. I pulled out my birth certificate, my Medicare card, and my social security card. None of them had a picture, so she would not accept them. I argued that the picture on my driver's license proved my identity, and the others were all valid. She wasn't going for any of it.

My daughter drove me to an ATM for cash, we went down the street to purchase a money order, and then to the off-site building listed on the paper 'the window' clerk had given me. A sign on the door said, Now Accepting Debit and Credit Cards. If only 'the window' clerk had known, I would not have wasted the last two stops.

I signed in, waited my turn, and found out they only renew licenses within one year of suspension, but I was eligible to get my license, I just had to start over with a learner's permit. I would have to test for the permit at another location. If only 'the window' clerk had known this, we wouldn't have wasted the last three stops and I wouldn't be holding an unnecessary money order.

"We're already out," my daughter said. "Let's go ahead and drive over there." I let her convince me I could pass the written test in my frazzled state.

She drove me to the next location. I waited in line. The clerk took my information, confiscated my expired driver's license that had been useful as identification everywhere except the bank, handed me a form, and instructed me to go around the corner to the testing room.

I smiled when I saw the giant stop sign outside the open door. I figured it was the first part of the test, and stopped. The clerk inside the room looked up and huffed. "You can come inside," she said. Her tone indicated I might be the stupidest person ever to come through the door.
I smiled again and handed her my paperwork. Without returning my smile, she pointed to a machine with goggles on the front. "Step up there for your vision test," she ordered.

My forehead pressed the lever on top and illuminated a screen. Through the goggles, I read the top line as instructed.

"Read the third column," she said.

There were no letters in my third column. All I saw was a blank rectangle. I told her this.

"You're blind," she said. "You fail and you should see a doctor."

I laughed. No one would tell another she was blind, in a flippant tone, unless kidding. Almost no one, this one did not laugh with me.

"There must be something wrong with this machine," I said. "There are no letters in the third column."

"Yes there are. You need to see a doctor."

I stepped away from the machine. "I see my ophthalmologist more often than most people see their spouse. I promise you I am not blind."

The next clerk correctly detected my loss of patience and invited me to try her machine. I stepped over, activated the lever on her machine with my forehead, and read off the letters in the first two columns. Her third column was also empty. I knew I wasn't blind, but panicked all the same. Obviously, something was wrong with my vision.

This woman smiled and turned to retrieve forms from a folder on the desk behind her. "You must have mono-vision," she guessed. I confirmed. "Our machines can't test mono-vision, so you will have to have your doctor fill out these forms." If the first girl had known this, she might not have been so rude.

I returned to the waiting room, told my daughter the outcome, and decided I might not want my driver's license after all. "You aren't blind, Mother. We probably have time to go to the doctor's office and get back here before they close. Let's go."

In the car, I looked at the forms and decided it would be inconsiderate to the doctor and the patients who had scheduled this time if I walked in and asked him to complete two pages of questions on my forms. I had my daughter take me home, where I faxed the forms to the office and asked the doctor to return them at his convenience.

Obviously, I did not get my driver's license before my court date. My other daughter drove me to court. As usual, the docket was long and the attorney cases went first. An hour is about how long I can sit on a hard surface, or speak without a drink. Two hours into the session, I considered taking the pain pills in my purse, but knew I'd choke if I tried to swallow them, and didn't want to risk compromising mental clarity. I changed positions often, unable to find one that relieved the pain in my hip although the movement secured my ability to walk when I did finally get to stand again.

"I'm going to ask the sheriff if they can call you soon," my daughter whispered. I reminded her that the court does not make special allowances for disabilities. The sheriff noticed my distress, or our whispering, and came to see if I was okay. I explained my situation and asked if he could permit me to leave the courtroom to walk and get a drink of water, and explain my absence if they called my name while I was out. He granted permission.

When I returned, the sheriff said he had pulled my case, explained the situation, and asked the judge to call me soon. I thanked him. An hour later, he shook his head when I pulled out a tissue to dry my eyes.

My hip was out of socket when I walked to the front of the room, but I made it there without limping or falling. I leaned on the podium for support. No one read my charges so I didn't know they had dropped my real crime - driving with an expired license plate. I might have suggested that was proof I had satisfied someone at the windows' at some point.

The judge asked if I had documentation to prove I had insurance on that date five years earlier. I said I had given my documentation to the clerk at 'the windows', and could not reproduce it because I didn't remember the name of the insurance company. She gave me another court date and said to return with the documentation. Assuming she either hadn't heard or didn't understand, I explained that I could not produce the document on any court date, since I had left my proof at 'the windows' and could not remember the name of the insurance company to ask for a duplicate.

She sneered, chuckled, rolled her eyes at the snickering bitch beside her, and finally asked, "Do you expect me to believe you don't remember who you had insurance with?"

I said yes, I did ask her to believe that because it was the truth. I had cancelled the policy five years before and had no reason to maintain that information since I had delivered it to the court and been assured my citation was 'taken care of'. She told me to either bring the documentation on the next court date or go to jail. Again, she said she could not believe anyone would forget who they had insurance with five years before.

My daughter came forward and explained that she had been with me the night the officer pulled me over. "I'm a witness. My mother had the insurance information in her purse that night, but the police officer wouldn't look at it." The judge told her to sit down.

I wanted to explain that I live on disability income, drive junker cars, and go with whichever insurance company offers me the lowest rate, but the judge refused to listen to another word from me.

"Who do you have insurance with now," she asked.

"I don't have insurance now," I answered. "I don't have a driver's license and my car has been parked for months."

"For months?" She feigned horror. "But you haven't had a license for years."

"No one told me I didn't have a license," I explained. "I only found out when I tried to renew my driver's license."

"I simply don't believe you," she said. "And I've done everything I can to help you."

"No, you haven't," I countered, because she had not allowed me to present my entire defense, or called the clerk from 'the window' to testify that the court notice was a mistake.

She slammed her hand on the desk and ordered me to sit in a chair in the front of the courtroom, until I was ready to apologize or she decided to send me to jail, whichever came first.
I went to my time-out chair, more humiliated and angrier than I had ever been in my life. Someone at the insurance company had made a mistake. Someone in the County Clerk's office had been too lazy to call my insurance company and renew my registration. While twenty thousand unserved warrants sat in a pile somewhere in this city, a police officer pulled me over for driving with a license plate that was thirty-six days expired and couldn't give me the time it took to read the two-paragraph letter I presented in my defense. My crime was paying my taxes late, and the system's built-in late fee would compensate.

Somewhere between the clerks at 'the window' and the person who sends out court notices, someone missed the fact that I had 'taken care of' my citations. Later, someone(s) behind 'the windows' lost my paperwork, and someone in the system forgot to inform the clerks at 'the windows' about the policies in that the office across town. Now, I was stuck with a judge who rolled her eyes, called me a liar, and denied me the opportunity to present my case.

On a scale of one to ten, my physical pain was at least a ten. Emotionally, I probably registered somewhere around fifteen. Something about being treated like a two-year-old made me behave the same. I sobbed. I wiped my nose on my sleeve because my purse was unattended in the back of the courtroom and the judge wouldn't allow anyone to come near me. The judge asked the giggling fat bitch beside her what my problem was, and together they laughed at me. The sheriff looked at me like his heart might break.

One brave man defied the judge's warning glare and brought my purse to me so I could blow my nose. Others ventured forward. An attorney pled with me to apologize, because she would put me in jail for contempt. My daughter, who had left the courtroom to call her sister and plan for my bail, came back and asked if there was something she should do. I asked her to contact the media if I went to jail.

I ended up apologizing, and I'm sorry I did because it was not sincere. The courthouse doesn't have my records from five years ago. Our system purges DUIs at five years, even if fatality cases, but not my citation. The County Clerk's office keeps records four years.

That judge's last words to me were, "I advise you to get a good attorney."

I told her I was on disability and could not afford an attorney. She refused to order a public defender for me.

It is now five years and four months since I made that decision to break the law. My next court date is at the end of June.

The lovely judge in this case has been the lowest rated judge in this county for several years.
She is on the ballot for re-election in November.

Considering the circus of errors in this situation, and the fact that none of the people involved knew how sick I was or how much their actions affected me, I wrestled with my willingness to dump my resentment on this judge. In the end, I believe this is where it belongs. The buck stops with her, and she decided to call me a liar when there were people in the building who could have proven I brought my documentation to 'the windows' in 2001. She also refused to allow me to defend myself, or use a public defender, although I qualify for the service.

My campaign has just begun.

Update: This judge was not re-elected in November.

John Wayne and Elvis Were Full of Shit and You Probably Are Too

:According to Christian Evangelist, Daniel Viera, who has scoured the bible for shit related issues and come up with the Almighty Cleanse, on autopsy, John Wayne's body contained forty pounds of feces. Elvis Presley's body carried sixty pounds, and the rest of us are probably packing at least ten pounds of contaminated, smelly, disgusting feces. Mr. Viera (I find no evidence the Mr. should be Dr. but will change this if any one else finds documentation of a degree) says if you are not producing well-formed stools after each meal, you are most likely a walking vessel of fecal toxicity.

I have to admire a man whose conviction to shit allows him a jovial, hopeful tone while discussing this subject in all its gory detail.

After watching the Almighty Cleanse infomercial, the fact that his eighteen-year-old son has never seen a physician or dentist or taken any medication was the only credential I remember hearing Mr. Viera present. However, I admit my gagging and giggling distracted me from factual matter of the discussion at times. I hope someone does produce documentation of Mr. Viera's connection to the medical profession; otherwise, his claim of having removed ungodly (pun intended) amounts of black, truck-tire-consistency fecal matter from colons gives me the creeps.

Per Mr. Viera (and possibly the bible), the common, pencil-thin stool indicates a coating of toxic stool in the colon prohibiting passage of well-formed stool, and fewer than three bowel movements a day is dangerous. Mr. Viera frowns on laxatives that produce watery bowel movements, and has developed the Almighty Cleanse to promote his favored process of cleansing – frequent, well-formed, thick stools.

I believe there is validity to Mr. Viera's claim that most Americans do not move their bowels often enough. Now that I have poked fun at his Almighty Cleanse, I will try to be fair by posting a phone number should anyone want to order his product (1-800-884-4166). Please do not accept this as my endorsement of this product. My suggestion to anyone who feels full of shit is to conduct a thorough study of many sources, and seek the assistance of a medical professional before using any infomercial (biblical endorsement or not) health care products.

Simon or Paula - Value of Critique

Modesty is one of the things I admired most in the musician I married. I said he never took the credit he deserved. He said, "When you're good, you don't have to tell people. They tell you."

He died thirteen years ago. Recently, our daughter met a disk jockey and some fans who were still talking about how great a musician her father was.

Another good lesson I learned from this man was to value fans and people with more experience. He grew from listening to the advice and criticism he received from others.

On the flip side of this story, I watched a decent performer waste his potential by surrounding himself only with people who said what he wanted to hear. With a bit of coaching, or a few words of criticism taken to heart, he might have become great.

At the age of eight, my daughter took first place in a regional singing competition. As a result, the producer of a local television program she had previously only danced on invited her to sing on a few episodes. When a stranger recognized her in public, and I noticed her little head swell, I remembered her father's words. When she slacked off on her practices, I knew she could use his lessons.

"Everyone in the competition was good," I reminded her. "Your trophy only means that on one day, a set of judges enjoyed your performance more than the others. On another day, or with a different group of judges, the outcome might be different. Your work is not done."

For the next ten years, I tried to make sure she received a healthy balance of praise and criticism. I could honestly commend her effort and dedication because she was always a hard worker. However, her performances were not always perfect, and I let her know where I thought she needed improvement. When she outgrew me, I paid a small fortune for a voice coach who might have been Simon Cowell's mentor.

Which brings me to the title of this article. Simon has taken quite a beating in the media over what some perceive as cruel and inhumane treatment of the American Idol contestants. I'm here to vouch for his authenticity, commend his honesty, and vote him my pick for American Judge.

All contestants go into this competition knowing Simon Cowell will critique their performance in stage presence, vocals, marketability, personality, and song choice. Right or wrong, each of these categories matter in the business and he says nothing these performers won't hear from industry executives should they be lucky enough to get in the door for an audition.

Simon delivers a slice of reality, without the usual fee or likely bribe most pay. Thick skin is a requirement in the business, and anyone who hasn't developed this required hide is probably not ready for the big time.

Paula Abdul, who won't allow Simon to deliver a critique without interrupting and physically abusing him, is portrayed as the nicer person. Randy Jackson's comments are often inaccurate and his advice far less useful, but he evades public criticism. Without Simon's input, I fear many of these contestants would walk away with nothing, straight into the wasted potential trap.

Our society seems incapable of dealing with honesty. I believe we have forfeited educational components of communication in the name of nice, or in search of a misconstrued version of self-esteem. I wonder what will happen to a generation of people raised on inflated egos and hollow pedestals.

A no-holds-barred, potentially excruciating, honest critique by Simon is at the top of my daughter's wish list. I salute her courage.

Roly-poly Slobber

My granddaughters, ages three and four, spot and pluck insects and worms from the grass with the precision of a starving-bird. My neighbor with the Venus Flytrap encourages them. I usually do my best to look away since I'm not a fan of slimy, crawly creatures.

Today, the girls built their insect castle of stones, sticks, dirt, and grass a few feet from my chair. I couldn't help but get involved.

Fiona stared at her opened palm. Tatum leaned closer to see what her older sister found so interesting.

"Is that my roly-poly's head?" Tatum asked with a hint of sadness.

Fiona squinted, her nose almost touching her hand. "Where?"

"Right there." Tatum pointed to a smudge near her sister's wrist. "By the green chalk."

Fiona twisted her hand to view the speck from different angles. She studied thoroughly before making her announcement. "No, silly. It's a baby caterpillar. Or an ant." She moved Tatum back a step and blew the grass cover off the castle. "There's your roly-poly. I think you stepped on it."

Tatum scooped up the bug. "I'm sorry," she said, hugging him to her chest.

Fiona placed her baby caterpillar or ant on a leaf bed and pulled Tatum's arm down to examine the wounded roly-poly. "I think she's dead," she pronounced. "You should release her so her mom can find her."

It was Tatum's turn to squint. "She's not dead." She studied her palm. "Look. She's slobbering."

Fiona amended her diagnosis. "She's going to die if you don't get her some food."

They admitted the roly-poly to a private room in the castle-turned-
hospital, went inside, and returned with food. Together, they crumbled a soda cracker in what was left of the hospital after they each stepped on it, and left the infirmed to eat while they followed a million-legged, hairy, crawly thing making his escape down the walk.

I looked up from my book a short time later and noticed the cracker crumbs also making their get-away, in a slow convoy across the lawn. The girls spent the next twenty minutes watching ants haul crumbs home to the hill. Meanwhile, Gramma traded out the slobbering roly-poly for a fresh one.

In special circumstances, I can manage a roly-poly or a lightening bug, even if they're drooling.

We Don't Share Crayons

I believe every child deserves a special, never-have-to-share toy. House rule said this toy stayed out of sight when friends come around. Jessica chose crayons as her non-share toy, over Stephanie, the doll who shared her skin color and went everywhere she did.

This might have seemed odd to anyone who didn't know she owned the special one-hundred-twenty pack with the plastic trays and individual holes for each crayon. Or, that her mother hoarded her own box, although she had the measly sixty-four pack with cardboard holders.

Stephanie and the crayons survived college and returned home with Jessica. I discovered this the day I came in with a new stack of coloring books and she, her little sister, and I each ran to our rooms to get our crayons. We laughed as we gathered around the dining room table and they teased me for having my own stash.

"I am not the only adult with crayons," I argued, picking up the phone to prove that was true. I dialed my neighbor, grinning at the girls when Tracey assured me she had her own crayons. "Bring them over," I said. "I bought new coloring books."

Tracey wrestled an eighteen-gallon storage container through the door and placed it on the floor beside her chair. She pulled off the lid off, revealing every crayon, marker, and colored pencil on the market.

My younger daughter giggled as Tracey pulled her favorites from the bin and lined them on the table. "I bet those belong to Dustin and Kristin."

"Hell no," Tracey answered. "They aren't allowed to touch these." While Tracey looked through the new books, my daughters eyed my sixty-four box of crayons and me with new appreciation.

My cousin Dana dropped by a few days later. The girls mentioned our coloring party and she wanted to know why we hadn't called her.

"Do you have your own crayons?" I asked. "We share books, but not crayons."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Of course I have my own crayons."

We scheduled a coloring party with Dana on the following Monday, and invited Tracey. The following week, we put the leaf in the table when one of Jessica's friends joined us, and we spilled over to the kitchen table the week after that when the friend and the cousin brought extras.

For months, we had our adult coloring party every Monday evening. I found out most of my friends had their own crayons, and that one had nearly died of embarrassment when her son told his teacher she wouldn't let him borrow her crayons for his homework.

One Monday night, a friend called and invited me to play Scrabble. Much as I love Scrabble, I told him I was in the middle of my weekly coloring party but he was welcome to join us, if he had his own box of crayons. He didn't have crayons, but drove over anyway. We didn't share.

Maybe it's something only women do? I'm curious now to know if any men have their own crayons.