Tale of a Tennis Ball

I was walking down the street after a weekly trip to the post office. It’s part of my Monday ritual, mailing bills and then seeing what else I owe. After being greeted by an empty PO Box I agreed no news was good news. As I made my way down the street, I passed a high rise building. It’s a place where the waiting list is years long, and a great many actors live there. As well, families who have been in the neighborhood forever also reside there. When I pass this establishment, I usually get a pang of envy because they all pay next to nothing in rent. However, the pang usually leaves the second I realize I have another errand to complete.

When I was almost past the building, I heard a chorus of small voices calling. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. When I looked up, I saw they were coming from the roof top. Just then, I remembered they had a playground next to the health club in the building. The voices, while loud, were also extremely high pitched so the words coming out of their mouths were next to inaudible. Actually, I would have had better luck translating a dog whistle. After about a minute I realized they were speaking to me. “Hey, you! The bushes!” They screamed.

Confused, I looked around. What on Earth was in the bushes? “WHAT’S IN THE BUSHES!!!” I called.

“Our ball is in the bushes!” They informed me, a mix of shriek and panic. That is when I finally realized their crisis. Their tiny worlds had tumbled when they accidentally and errantly tossed their ball off the roof. What were they doing playing with a ball on a roof top playground anyway? Were they aware someone could get hurt? Either way, the universe had anointed me to somehow save the day.

So to the transplanted Manhattan shrubbery I went. From the roof, they gave me the best direction they could in their tiny, high pitched voices. I scanned the greenery, no luck. I searched for about two minutes until I came across a bright, lime green tennis ball. “This it!” I shouted to the roof.

 “YES!” They screamed with glee. I had rescued their ball. As I held it in my hand, I realized how jaded adulthood makes a person. At this moment, the bright, lime green tennis ball was the most important thing in their lives. Sure, they could have probably been prepping for school to start by doing summer reading, or helping a parent with a chore or two. But this ball was crucial, and if they didn’t get it back it would be devastating. For better or worse, I held the key to their happiness.

“THROW IT UP!” They commanded, excited that their ball had not only been rescued from the evil, adult world below, but that they might get the coveted possession back. Yes, the bouncy thing that brought them much joy but brought any adult that encountered it much grief.

With all the strength in me, I tossed the ball to the roof. It bounced off the building and returned. The children let out a painful gasp. Perhaps they were not going to get their ball back after all. Undaunted and not ready to be defeated, they commanded me to try again. I tried and failed I did. If anyone knows me, they know my ball throwing skills suck. Kickball was my thing, and I was mediocre at best when it came to that.

So I came up with a solution, “Maybe one of you could come down and get it from me.” I suggested. It would be better than me tossing the ball, which I had done pitifully.

“We can’t.” The children said. Then it clicked. They were probably allowed to play on the roof as long as they were in calling distance, and if they left the roof they would get in trouble with whatever caretaker they had. This is why they couldn’t retrieve the ball in the first place. While that caretaker should have gotten them a better, safer toy, we were back to square one.

“Get that guy to do it!” The kids instructed as a random man walked by. Decked out in a suit, tie, and designer shades, he was now their savior. I had dropped the ball so to speak. Perhaps feminism lied. Men were still better at some things, and now their happiness rested on his shoulders.

“Excuse me, random dude. These children lost their tennis ball and I have tried to throw it up and failed. Could you perhaps help me?” I asked, feeling odd that I was now passing the mission given to me onto a complete stranger minding his own business.

To my pleasant surprise, the man in the suit took the ball from my hand. Without attitude or a bad word, he tried to toss the ball up to the roof. He too failed. Again, the children wailed miserably. Without their ball, life could simply not go on. Sure, there would be other balls, but in their small and developing world, this game they were playing was what their time and energy revolved around. For a minute, it looked as if all was lost.

Just then, two men sporting Roca Wear walked up. They were the last hope. It was all on them to save the ball for the children. Would they help? Could they do it? Walking up to these two random persons I pleaded, “The kids lost their ball. I have failed to toss it up. Could you please help?” I begged. The young humanoids atop the roof had desperate looks in their teeny eyes. Time was running out.

Like the man in the suit, the men in the Roca Wear didn’t protest. Rather, the one with the afro and comb stuck in his hair took the ball from me. With the tossing power of Mark McGuire minus the steroids he successfully tossed the tennis ball to the roof. The children cheered. This was a victory for all involved.

They had their tennis ball back. “YOU RULE!” They shouted. Within seconds they shook off the misadventure they had, and back to their game they went.

As I went back on my way, I said to the tosser in the Roca Wear, “Thank you, you were a life saver. You have no idea how desperate these kids were. I tried and failed. I cannot toss a ball.”

“No hand eye coordination.” The other dude in Roca Wear said. He had a hat on, opting for the lazy, no comb look.

“None.” We all laughed.

Just then I looked over at his buddy. I noticed that his hand was in a cast. The man who had tossed the ball onto the roof had only one arm technically!!! Both the suit and I had been out tossed by a dude with a handicap!!!!!!

I said, “You were the one to get the ball on the roof and you have one arm.” The two men laughed. What were we to do?

“That’s messed up but it’s true.” The tosser said. We all laughed again and on our ways we went.

The beautiful thing about this story, is that children remind us what is really important. In a crisis adults are so quick to meltdown, but the problem solving skills on the part of these youngsters was amazing. They lost their ball, they didn’t meltdown, and they asked for help until they got what they needed. Also, sometimes life is as simple as tossing a ball and having fun with your friends, it’s people who complicate it. Yes, there are people who will do the right thing for the right reason, even in New York. Of course, when things are busy and one is feeling overwhelmed, they should also take time to help someone else out, especially if they person can’t help themselves.

Sure, these whipper snappers could have invested in a better toy. However, the Tale of the Tennis Ball is a gentle little stick it note from the universe to keep it green. 

www.aprilbrucker.com

Birth Control

When I was fourteen, my sister Skipper and I had a babysitting job. Our next door neighbors were going out, and our job was to babysit their newborn baby, Talia. Anyway, basically, the kid was easy. We changed her and put her to bed, right? She was a baby.

Well everything went well. Skipper and I changed her. We put her to bed and she started crying. The kid needed changed again. Who would have thunk it, right? Well we put her down again. Talia started wailing. We held her, we sung to her. Nothing was working. Our mother was next door, Thank God. She came over, picked Talia up, and gently rocked the child. She put her hand on Talia's head and said, "This is a sick baby." From there, my mother took over. She knew just what to do and successfully calmed the kid down. As the baby was able to finally sleep, I was like wowsa, having a kid takes work.

Shortly thereafter, a childhood friend of mine named Keyona fabricated a story that she was expecting a child. This turned out to be a pitiful cry for attention as well as a complete lie. The following year, a girl in my freshmen class got pregnant. Like many a desperate teenage girl in trouble, she tried to hide it all under baggy clothes. When someone asked her what she was going to do she responded, "I am never going to tell my parents, EVER!"

My hometown of course was ruled by iron fisted Fundamentalist Christians. Through protesting, they got the school to have abstinence speakers instead of Sex Ed. As a result, our pregnancy rate rose. We didn't know about condoms or birth control. Instead, it was just say no. Of course there were the girls who wore the promise rings. One such alumna of this trend was a cheerleader type who got knocked up by a football player. He was a troll looking dude and he got her pregnant with twins. They had to admit this in front of their youth group, their sin. And then he had the nerve to ask if the kids were his. Ouch.

Before I went away to college, my mother sat me down. She said she wanted to talk about sex. Some of my friends had parents who were progressive enough to put them on the pill. I thought perhaps my mom was doing the same. Instead, my mom sat me down and said, "If some boy wants to have sex with you, and you are in the moment. Think of all you worked for. Think of how getting pregnant will ruin your life. Think of how getting pregnant will make you fat. See my face over his shoulder."

When I was nineteen in my first semester of college some idiot boy invited me to his room to watch television. I was so naive I really did think we were watching a movie. Next thing I know we are sitting on his bed and he is putting the moves on. That is when I saw my mother's face. Not only was it scary, but it ruined the whole experience. I don't know what was worse, disobeying my mother or the thought of her watching me get it on with some zit faced dork. Either way, I pushed him off of me and ran like I saw Godzilla. I will never forget the stunned look on his face. After that he told everyone I was crazy. Even now, when former classmates of mine trash me online they say I am crazy. I have a feeling he helped sprout the genus of that rumor.

The older I have gotten, the more I realize men are driven like slaves by sex. I used to blame them for it, but now I blame biology. Whenever I think of screwing up my life with the wrong person who might feel good for a minute, I see my mother over my shoulder. I also think of the girl from my freshmen class who went into labor and had her parents find out at that moment. I also remember the baby daddy, who went to jail and is not a part of his kid's life. In there I also hear the faint cry of our next door neighbor baby, and my sister and I not knowing how to take care of her. I still can feel the relief of my mother next door knowing what to do.

So when it comes to kids I like them. But ah, not sure I am ready to have one just yet.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Chicken and The Kids

Yesterday I was delivering a singing chicken in NJ. When I got to the station I was to have a car pick me up that was preordered by the client. Couldn't find the car. Called the car service. The guy was the new night dispatcher and didnt know what the hell was going on. The client then called my boss because the car was at the station a town over and then the car scooped me up. The driver was a nice guy named Sumit who apparently was an Aquarius. I always ask. A sign says everything including stop in this world.

When we got to the house the family had a yappy dog that was off the leash. For those that know me, they know that barking dogs scare me. I have gotten better over the years but an incident with a family member's pet as a child scared me forever in some ways. The driver distracted the dog and off I went to do my telegram. I knocked on the door hoping the dog didnt attack me in my chicken outfit cause that would have totally sucked.

Knocking on the door, the wife of the birthday boy answered. With her were their two kids, little girls. Right away the kids were into this. I did my routine and this family was wonderful, I mean WONDERFUL. I usually deliver to people who are good but these folks were exceptional. I mean uber exceptional. These kids were wonderful too.

Then the kids ran out the door and got their friends telling them that there was a life sized chicken in their house. And of course these were all the little girls in the neighborhood ready to go bike riding. So the neighborhood kids came in. The thing about the situation is that obviously I am not a real chicken, even Ray Charles can see that. However with kids they know and unlike adults they will present the evidence to prove their point. Mind you they are at the stage where they have recently discovered the truth about the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus therefore they are the ultimate myth busters. And of course I have to mess with them a bit.

This is how the exchange went:

Birthday Boy: Look, it's a life sized chicken.

Me: I flew in and am now the new bird in the neighborhood.

Kid 1: No it's not. She is too big to be a chicken. Chicken's arent that big.

Me: Well it's the new food they are feeding us. We get big that day.

Kid 2: You have hands. Chickens don't have hands.

Me: Yes we do. I told you it was the food.

Then a little boy wanders in. He is probably someone's little brother, and the sister is forced to bring him on this bike trip. Immediately, he is not going to let a life sized chicken get the best of the women of the group. So now he takes over the interrogation.

Kid 3:Well you have a necklace. Chickens don't wear necklaces.

Me: I have to look pretty. Chickens have their needs too.

Kid 3: And you have feet and running shoes. Chickens can't walk.

Me: Sometimes chickens like to run and play games just like you do.

Kid 3: Oh yeah, well why doesn't your mouth move when you talk?

Me: You see, with our new diet and stuff there are still some things they haven't worked out. This is one.

Birthday Boy: Alright, time to go bike riding. Thank you. Let's let the chicken go

Kid 4: It's a woman not a chicken.

Birthday Boy: And it is time to go bike riding. Remember to stay off the sidewalk.

These young scientists have proven themselves. I will reveal their findings are correct. I take my mask off.

Me: Guys, you were right. I am a woman.

Kids together: We knew it!

End Scene
Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
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www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Husband, Babies, and a Fireplace

I am a career woman. To someone like myself Hillary Clinton is a hero. While she is in the Oval Office and I am trying to break into entertainment, we both basically put our professional lives first and personal-what is that? Husband, well hers was fooling around and she was too busy running the country to notice. And then she probably stood by her man because she was too busy to leave. Where was she going to go? Divorce takes time and she had a health care system to clean up. I digress.

Anyway, I haven’t had a guy in sometime. Between writing and publishing a book, promoting that book, recording the audio version of that book and writing the musical version of the book I really haven’t given a guy a second thought. That is, until I was interviewed by a local magazine in my hometown where the guy asked, “Do you want a husband or kids in the future?”

The question threw me for a loop. The answer is I really don’t know.

Honest to God I didn’t know. In middle school I wasn’t allowed to date. My parents emphasized academics, goals, and achievement. My father was the first to get not only a college degree but an MBA and a law degree in a working class family, and both my mom’s parents were educated. My dad was a professor and my mom was a teacher. Television was not allowed until Friday so boys were out of the question completely. As a matter of fact some folks even thought I was gay because the story that April couldn’t date boys turned into April couldn’t talk to boys. But I had my puppets and my tablet with my thoughts. Better than any of the zit faced guys in my junior high class. Sure I had crushes, who didn’t. Still, they were a world away.

High school was more chasing my goals. When I wasn’t busting my behind in school I was taping shows at the cable access station, performing ventriloquism somewhere, writing a column for the local paper, going to a play practice, attending an acting or voice class, and then to support it all I bagged groceries at the local supermarket on the weekends. My dream schools were Smith College, Mount Holyoke, Brown University, New York University, Emerson College, and Carnegie Mellon University and perhaps Julliard. There was no time for a guy in my star chasing.  There was no time for anything that wasn’t getting me ahead. And the three guys I did like in high school all made it clear they didn’t return the favor. But the help with analyzing the Emily Dickinson, oh they gladly took that.

College was an adventure. My first year I was a miss all around. One guy invited me to his room to watch TV. The next thing I know he was all over me. Apparently watch television is code for lets have sex. I so didn’t know that. We didn’t have sex and he felt bad I was in the dark. Later we became good friends and joked about the incident. Still, that wasn’t a high point in my life.

The few guys I liked seriously rejected me in a pretty low way. One in particular was a favorite at an NYU extension and famous acting studio I was later asked to leave. This young lad was tall, dark, and handsome and slated to have quite the career. I, on the other hand, was being told that I wouldn’t. Well tall, dark, and handsome found out about my puppets and we connected. He assured me he had the same struggles and came out swinging. All the girls liked him. Well he used to seek me out to speak to me and even invited me to some theatre party but I was busy or something. Well one day I was taking a stress walk after writing a paper and saw him when it started to drizzle. I was wondering aimlessly, he was walking home. I ended up walking with him in my meandering. Once we got to his dorm he suddenly turned acting as if I was the unwanted overweight companion-I was in those days-rather than the pleasant surprise in the hood. After crying on the way home, risking pneumonia, and then showering I wrote him off and gave him the cold shoulder everytime I saw him.

The fucker capitalized on his short time with me by twisting the story on Gawker-not bad for someone slated to not have a career- about how I followed him home once and it was the most terrifying thing ever. Sir, you wish I were stalking you. Because unfortunately the bitter teachers who were jealous I had a shot and they didn't were wrong. You never had that acting career and never will. Trashing me on Gawker is the closest you will ever get to that career. Now tell me, how does it feel to know you peaked at twenty?

Sophomore year I had my heart broken by a few guys who were just shallow. But I was in a new studio extension and finding success there. Plus I found standup comedy and that took up most of my nights. There could be no man. There could only be Lee Strasberg. I simply had crushes on set up, premise, and punchline. May Wilson got all the action.

Junior year I found myself engaged to a much older man who was intimidated by the fact I was smarter than him and going places. His friends-stupider than he was-said things. First he told me what I could and couldn’t wear. Then he told me how I could and couldn’t dress. Next it was him or the puppets. I gave up my children for six months. The worst mistake of my life. Next he wanted to kill his mother so he could get the insurance money to be with me.

They left that part of the story out on TV.

 Same with the stalking and threatening. My mom hates when I talk about it, but I need to so women in the same situation can know that it will be fine. Plus I was lucky. He only talked about killing me. Yeardley Love probably wishes she could take my place. She probably wishes a separate mailing address was the least of her problems. This Sir Lancelot pops up to “make amends” everytime things go well in my life. Meanwhile he and whatever piece of trash with low self esteem he is stringing on goes on some message board to talk trash. Who would have known with all of his sleazing and sleeping with his stripper ex for money, I would be the ex his new girlfriends would all be jealous of? My ex also took credit for writing my act and my jokes. Watch him take credit for my book next, assweed. 

After that I dated a string of forgettables, one being a lawyer who couldn’t stop lying. Many being ex-cons who could at least tell the truth about the crimes they were committing. Some were nice, but my love of my career and my busy schedule always made things fizzle out. All were fun runs in the sun but nothing more.

Then my friend Chacho passed and I wanted to do everything I could do to make my life and career complete. I thought of all the things Chacho would want for me. Chacho wouldn’t want me to date losers, he had done that and it is what put him in an early grave. He would want me to pour that energy into being a superstar and hanging out with the most fancy people in the world. Chacho would want me to put that energy into nice clothes. Chacho would want me to live big. Well I did. I cut men out entirely, especially when the television time started rolling in. Needless to say, after a bunch of events the schedule became very full. I had no time for a man but ironically had a lot of male admirers. Male admirers who loved me and my puppet children. Maybe a guy could like me for being me.

And there was one who did. Yes, he did. I have blogged about him and gave him a fake name to protect him because I know he was in trouble somewhere. The truth is, he liked me for being me. No guy ever did. Unfortunately he was sick-bipolar he was not taking his meds for and abusing drugs instead. I had to let him go. Not because I wanted to, I had to. He didn’t want to take his meds and he didn’t want to get help. Sometimes I think that if he were to show up at my door clean, sober, and appropriately medicated I would take him back. But that probably won’t happen. Maybe that says a lot about the God I believe in. But unfortunately it’s reality.

I dated a former reality star and washed up comedian who I thought liked me but was just using my visibility to revive his dead career.

There is a part of me that knows I am damaged. I know I am scarred and have a hard time trusting guys. Actually, most of the time they are guilty in April’s Court ruled by the iron fist of Roman Law. I always assume they are cheating and sleazing around-in my mind. Not to mention I never tell them about my career because I am scared they will make me give it up and have their children. I am scared I will have to give up my whole life I worked for. And wait until they see some of the photos I take and the letters male fans write me. Then I know it’s over. Not to mention I am a lousy cook and clean as frequently as the Jets win because I am so busy with my career.

Translated, my relationships end badly for a reason. I could never make a guy happy, and a lot of it is my fault. At least I know that though, right? Apparently men don’t like it when you try to make them puppets.

On the flipside someday it might be nice to have someone to spend forever with. A special someone to have that big wedding with. A special someone to honeymoon with on some tropical island. A special someone to have children and grow old with. A special someone who watches football, snores, rakes leaves, and shovels snow. A special someone who even when I want to kill him makes me laugh a second later and I forget about my grudge. A special someone who lets me know the world isn’t a big, bad, dark, hole waiting to gobble me up.

It might be nice to have kids someday. Kids who are babies that I can dress in adorable outfits. Kids who don’t color in the lines and finger paint to the point that it gets on them. Kids who play Pee Wee football, Pee Wee soccer, Pee Wee dance and whatever other Pee Wee thing there might be to do aside from going to that perve’s playhouse. Kids that do spelling words, even if I have to force them before school. Kids who make me laugh with their explanations and schemes of why they did something. Kids who sparkle and make me smile. Kids who know they have puppet brothers and sisters and as a result can put up with anyone’s differences.

But both the husband and kids are fictional. They don’t speak in these dreams. Plus if they were real they would have to compete with my closet of costumes and room full of eleven puppets. My schedule is busy so they would be fending for themselves in the kitchen and doing all the laundry. And something tells me they would not understand being stashed under the bed when space was tight.

Oops, they aren’t puppets.

I guess for now it is my apartment that looks like a war zone, my puppets, my comedy, my video making, my book writing, my singing telegrams and my music that occasionally gets on the radio.

This week a guy took my number and he has been lukewarm basically letting me know he isn’t that into me. Sigh, just like high school. Now off to my guy free life of a bubble bath and trash romance novel. The guys in those books are what women want. Those fictional men can be into me if I make them into puppets. I better stop while I am ahead. I sound crazy. I can picture one of them writing in the next time I am written up in the Gawker. He can say I forced him into a bubble bath after a rain storm. 

Love 

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

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Babies, Kids, The Whole Nine Yards

I recently visited the neighbor girl that used to baby sit me as a kid. She is married and lives with her husband in San Francisco. They brought their lil man Hudson. It was the big visit to Grandma and Grandpa in Pittsburgh. Hudson was the cutest little man. Well behaved, he was a keen observer. We gave him a Winnie the Pooh stuffed bear. Usually at that age, Winnie the Pooh is the big staple. It’s not scary and plus he won’t swallow anything. At eight months, Hudson is a fearless explorer like the river named after the British pathfinder. This Christmas, one of his discoveries was tissue paper. To Hudson, tissue paper is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Actually, it may even be better.

To attract him to the Winnie the Pooh bear, his possible future sleeping companion when he goes through the Boogey Man phase, his father shook the red tissue paper in the bag. Hudson, fascinated and ready for adventure, crawled towards the bag and tugged at the paper until it came out. There was more, and it would be work. So his father simply removed the rest of it and gave his little man the bear.

As old and jaded as I am, I couldn’t imagine being that small. I couldn’t imagine tissue paper being the world of the unknown, the exotic. I couldn’t imagine the world being so big. But I guess when you are crawling it is big and dangerous, and dogs are probably giant scary creatures as big as a T-Rex.

As Hudson went for the bear, crawling on all fours, the first stage of human development and ironically like the stuffed creature who was his gift, he bumped his head. As he crawled he bumped his head again, and again. Hudson didn’t cry. He didn’t even let out an inkling that it hurt. Little eight month old Hudson soldiered on.

As he kept crawling he kept bumping his head over and over again!

It was adorable in a way, because when he didn’t get it he had grit and determination to just keep going. Although little, you can tell he is a tough guy already. I gasped hoping the child wouldn’t get hurt. To Hudson it was no big deal. He was learning to crawl. His parents were good about it but I found myself having a small heart attack everytime he bumped his head. Football players bump their heads, but they wear helmets. If I bumped my head I would worry about brain damage and probably cry. In a way, Hudson is stronger than most adults. But still, that is a lot of head bumping. Wow.

I talked to my mother later. I asked her if the bumping of the heads is normal for children. She said it was actually very normal for children when they learned to crawl, and that is why parents with crawling infants put down carpeting and other padding so the little ones don’t get hurt and that they can explore safely. For as cute as Hudson was, a baby can sure give you a heart attack. They are high risk little creatures.

 Skipper was quick to point out that it made sense that a baby would hit it’s head learning to crawl. It’s head was the biggest part of the makeup and the rest of the body had to catch up. I asked my mother if she was prepared ahead of time for this as the oldest of six, her being seventeen years older than her baby brother. “No, you learn everything the first time with kids of your own.” My mom said.

We talked a little bit about a kid’s first year of life. My mom said that it took a while for a baby to sleep through the night. I asked her why babies just didn’t sleep like normal people. Skipper said their head was big, their body was little, and they had to almost triple their body weight within their first year of life. That is a lot of eating to do so that they could make those growth markers, and because their stomachs are so teeny they by-pass food quickly so they need to eat constantly. My mom added that until a child is two, if it doesn’t wake up on time you need to worry about things like crib death. She told us that when we didn’t wake up at exactly the same time she would panic. Babies are cute, but this is another way they give adults mini-heart attacks.

We talked about pregnancy. My mom said she was sick the entire time. I asked my mother why people did it more than once. My mom smiled and said, “Usually it is by accident.”

Then my sister Skipper told me when she was delivering babies in her medical school class with my brother Wendell-that less than two percent of the children she delivered were planned. Skipper informed me that many of the mothers insisted they used birth control. Apparently it does fail two percent of the time.

Oh no!

Weight gain, morning sickness, painful birth, no sleep, and then worrying if they might get injured or die in their crib in their first two years are a lot of stress. It’s not like it gets better. That is just the beginning. Kids cost money. You have to buy them clothes. You have to insure them in case they become ill. You have to buy them more clothes when they grow out of their clothes. You need to potty train them and not get angry when they go everywhere. Oh and when they learn to talk and learn to say no they get on your last nerve. Those are the times you want to send them into the woods and hope for the best. But then you don’t. Part out of love, but partly because Child Services doesn’t look kindly on the Hansel and Gretel parenting approach.

Of course there is school. There is not expecting a genius because you probably won’t get one, but praying they aren’t too horribly retarded. There are spelling words, math facts, reading books, science projects, the dreaded parent teacher conference and PTA. Oh and then there is hoping your kid makes friends and hoping they fit in. There is teaching them not to be bully meat and then hoping that they don’t master the lessons too well so that they become the bully.

Junior high is a nightmare. There is the whole clique thing, the whole dating thing, the whole hormone thing. And that goes with a bad attitude. That is knowing your kid will disobey you and disappoint you because they want to be adult. But they aren’t adults, and yet the big, bad world is beginning to beckon. It’s harder to get them to study and focus when some new hit show in on TV. It is acne and the crying if it’s a girl or the fist fighting stage if it’s a boy. And again, it’s not releasing them into the wild during this phase as well.

Then there is high school. They aren’t as bratty. But now there are new worries. They want to date and be unsupervised. You now run the risk of getting an early grandchild. There is learning to drive and hoping they don’t crash and hoping their friends are safe drivers. And then there is the whole after school activities and finding what is right for them. There are college visits, college apps, refinancing the home so you can pay for college because FAFSA is a freaking joke if you don’t live in a box.

After that they go to college and you hope that they don’t flunk out or meet their premature end during a night or partying. There is hoping that again they don’t get pregnant, don’t get mono, don’t get sick with something with you so far away. But now you are releasing them into the wild and hoping for the best because they are over eighteen. The wild of being away and new ideas. You hope they remember their roots, remember your values, and remember to wear fresh underwear every day. You also hope you can pay for the next semester. And you wish they were little again, but then you remember that was no free lunch either.

The next step is the journey to adulthood, where you worry about them being gainfully employed and finding a partner who treats them well and doesn’t use them as financial support or as a punching bag. You worry about them being on their own and hoping they are good people, at least you tried, right? You hope that they don’t break the law because now they can really punish them. You hope someone doesn’t hurt them. You hope they are making good decisions. Hope is the key word here, because now you can’t change their minds.

And then when they raise their kids, they don’t want to listen to anything you say. What do you know? You only had a few of your own. But now you can be grandma and give them candy when Mom and Dad aren’t looking.

I don’t understand why teenagers just have sex and think it’s going to be easy once they have a baby. It sounds like hard work and quite frankly, horrific if you aren’t ready. I asked my mother why anyone wanted kids as I laid out all the things you have to go through and how sometimes they are a headache. She said, “Kids make you laugh and are funny. And Hudson is soooo cute.”

Yes, Hudson is cute. Cute and a lot of work.

Kids are cute, and a lot of work.

I’m cute and I’m a lot of work. Ask my mom.

I think I can wait until I am about one hundred to have children. In this day and age it seems nothing is stress free and safe, not even an elementary school.

 

Love

April

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl

877-Buy-Books

Amazon.com (both hardback and ebook)

Portion of proceeds go to the children's library at Sandy Hook Elementary School

Doing My Part For Sandy Hook Elementary School

My heart goes out to the little ones who lost their lives at Sandy Hook. In so many ways, there is so much wrong with the world that we live in. A disturbed young man shoots up a school filled with innocent children, and his mother kept taking him to the firing squad despite his obvious issues. Everyone wants to scream about guns, no one wants to talk about mental health. The Westboro Baptist Nuts want to picket their funerals saying that God sent the shooter because the gays are getting rights, and therefore using the deaths of those babies to do it. Anonymous is publishing the info of the Phelps Family on the internet. I am a woman of peace and a spiritual nature, but the Phelps Family has gone too far in my opinion. I would say that they have a place in hell but hell is too good for those self-obsessed, delusional, bigoted nutcases. In that mix we have the people screaming that this happened because we took God out of the schools and therefore let Satan in.

In this debate about gun control and this discussion of mental illness we forget about the children of Sandy Hook. We forget about the children, six and seven, who's biggest crimes was leaving their toys out, not making their bed sometimes, teasing each other, and perhaps fighting with a sibling. My point is, they were children. They were innocent. They were just going to school, minding their own business when Adam Lanza took their lives. As someone who is an advocate for people with mental illness, I want to believe he has found peace. But I also want to believe he is burning in hell, because heaven is for the innocent victims like those twenty children he slaughtered in cold blood.

We also forget about the living victims, the families of the children lost. The parents who tried everything to keep their children safe, and who thought by sending them to school they were not sending them to their death. The surviving siblings of these children who feel nothing but a sense of longing and guilt. Also, the children who went to that school that survived and will have nightmares forever and that have been robbed of their innocence and childhood.

That being said, I am doing my part to help the victims of Sandy Hook. This Christmas through the first two weeks of January, a portion of the proceeds from my book will go to help the children of Sandy Hook. Donations will go to their school's library to buy books and to provide whatever else those children need in the way of counseling. To see the commercial I made please go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ky3J02_ZMgc&lc=aRGJr7s6AYSMxIPsVbXLwD22FL3FTUOUIt4TjO3-r44&lch=email&feature=em-comment_received

In the words of Martin Luther King, Jr, "It is always the right time to do the right thing."

And it is the right time to help those children. We should not be focusing on the tired argument of gun control, fighting about God in schools, letting the Westboro Baptist Church trample on their dignity. No. We should we concerned about not just the lives lost but the living victims.

Let's all do our part.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
877-Buy-Book
www.buybooksontheweb.com
Available on Amazon


Come to my book signing
December 27, 2012
Bethel Park Library
5100 West Library Ave
Bethel Park, PA