Many clever and passionate people have written about their feelings and thoughts on the anniversary of 9/11, about what happened on that awful September day in 2001. I don’t feel like sharing the impact that day had on my life and worldview, though it was profound and I will never forget those feelings of fear and grief. I do not wish to focus on that.

I would just like to share my small act of big faith.

On the evening of the anniversary of the terrorist attacks, I boarded a small domestic flight to Santa Barbara, having left my children in the loving arms of their grandparents, and flew through the air with my knitting and my Kindle to keep me company. It was a short, sweet flight, with no hiccups or security difficulties or excessive waiting. My stuff was x-rayed and I walked quietly through the metal detector. Nobody asked me any questions about my bags; I didn’t check any.

It wasn’t until the next day, when I was rummaging through my purse, that I realized I had accidentally smuggled a pocket knife aboard the airplane. It was in my purse, as usual, because a pocket knife is a useful tool to have. But I didn’t remember I had it and nobody noticed it, not even the technician manning the x-ray.

I don’t know how to feel about this, except to be somewhat amazed at how life is always in a state of entropy, even after a massive, shattering upset. Things go back to normal, despite our personal transformations.

We drop our vigilance. We continue with our plans, despite the alarms. We carry on.

On the trails along the American River, a tiny lizard crossed our path and crawled right up Lucas’s body and under his shirt.

Yup. I have a new radiator after my car overheated today for the second time. It was pretty obvious something was busted; there was greenish coolant residue all over the radiator and nearby (unknown-to-me) engine parts. I spent pretty much my whole day dealing with it instead of working. Boo.

The bright side of today is the following:

1. It was car trouble in which nobody got hurt
2. Car is now fine; radiator is replaced
3. I didn’t have to deal with my children while I was dealing with the car trouble, waiting for the tow truck, talking with the mechanic, etc., because others were caring for them; they were safe and having fun with friends
4. I was able to pay cash for the repair; $400
5. I put the tow truck on credit, but will pay it off this month
6. Ian came to get me so I didn’t have to wait at the repair shop all day
7. I got to have lunch with my husband and the food was yummy.

I’m not feeling too great about how things went with Lucas yesterday afternoon. I feel like I ought to know better. I ought to have defused the situation before it escalated into the fight it was. Thing is, Lucas’s behavior is basically bipolar lately. He swings rapidly from adorable “I’m a flower fairy and my magic flower wand will cause all your flowers to bloom beautifully, Mommy” to … well … what I described last night. He went from being totally fine and companionable to hitting me in zero seconds flat.

To all of you who read that and sympathized with me (well, or with Lucas), thank you. I can sum up parenthood by saying this: every day, I wake up and try, try again.

Quoting from Your Six-Year-Old to validate my own experience and remember what’s going on with him:

“Your typical Sx-year-old is a paradoxical little person, and bipolarity is the name of his game. Whatever he does, he does just the opposite just as readily. In fact, sometimes just the choice of some certain object or course of action immediately triggers an overpowering need for its opposite.

“The Six-year-old is wonderfully complex and intriguing, but life can be complicated for him at times, and what he needs most in the world is parents who understand him. For Six is not just bigger and better than Fve. He is almost entirely different. He is different because he is changing, and changing rapidly. Though many of the changes are for the good—he is, obviously, growing more mature, more independent, more daring, more adventurous—this is not necessarily an easy time for the child.”
…

“One of the many things that makes life difficult for him is that, as earlier at Two-and-a-half, he seems to live at opposite extremes. The typical Six-year-old is extremely ambivalent. He wants both of any two opposites and sometimes finds it almost impossible to choose.”
…

“One of the Six-year-old’s biggest problems is his relationship with his mother. It gives him the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain. Most adore their mother, think the world of her, need to be assured and reassured that she loves them. At the same time, whenever things go wrong, they take things out on her.”
…

“At Five, Mother was the center of the child’s universe. At Six, things have changed drastically. The child is now the center of his own universe. He wants to be first and best. He wants to win. He wants to have the most of everything.

“Six is beginning to separate from his mother. In fact, it is this quite natural move toward more independence and less of the closeness experienced at Five that makes him so aggressive toward her at times. On the other hand, his effort to be free and independent apparently causes him much anxiety. He worries that his mother might be sick or might even die, that she won’t be there when he gets home from school.  And in his typically opposite-extreme way, one minute he says he loves his mother and the next minute he may say he hates her.

“It’s not hard to understand why this strong emotional warmth toward and love for his mother, which occurs at the same time he is trying to learn to stand on his own feet, causes him much confusion and unhappiness. It is fair to say that Six is typically embroiled with his mother. He depends on her so much, and yet part of him wishes he didn’t.”
…

“But, rather sadly and touchingly, often when the child has been at his worst, once his temper calms down he will ask, “Even though I’ve been bad, you like me, don’t you?” Or, somewhat inappropriately, at the end of a very bad day a child will ask his mother, “Have I been good today?” It is an interesting fact about child behavior that the less praise and credit a child deserves, the more he wants and needs. The very difficult child needs a great deal of assurrance that he has been good. 

“We must remember that a Six-year-old isn’t violent, loud, demanding, and often naughty just to be bad. There are so many things he wants to do and be that his choices are not always fortunate. He is so extremely anxious to do well, to be the best, to be first, to be loved and praised, that any failure is very hard for him. 

“He is, part of the time, demanding and difficult because he is still, even at this relatively mature age, extremely insecure, and his emotional needs are great. If, with tremendous patience and effort, you can meet these needs, nobody can be a better, warmer, more enthusiastic companion than your Six-year-old girl or boy.”
…

“The child of this age is really a very vulnerable little person, very sensitive emotionally, especially when he is being good. Very small failures, comments, or criticisms hurt his feelings. But if he is being naughty, once he gets started on a bad tack, he may seem almost impervioust to punishment. That is why he needs so very much protection and understanding from his parents.”

It was a fine day today. Except this time, I’m being facetious. It was fine up until about 3:15 or 3:30 when Lucas completely lost his mind. You see, I wanted to put Asher down for a nap, but Lucas wanted to play with Asher instead. So, naturally, Lucas started hitting and kicking me. Of course. That’s what you would do if I tried to put your little brother down for a nap.

I took Lucas by the arm and led him to his bedroom, saying something to the effect of “It is not OK for you to hit and kick me. Now you may go to your room. I will be putting Asher down for a nap now.” Lucas tried to punch me nearly all the way to his room, until he went limp and collapsed on the floor. So I bodily pulled him into his room and repeated my message. Then I closed his door.

Much screaming and gnashing of teeth ensued. In and out of his room he went; every time he came out, I put him back in his room. At one point I held him really close so he couldn’t deck me. That’s when he spit at me.

And that’s when I lost my temper. I shouted. I even said “fucking,” as in “YOU WILL STAY IN YOUR ROOM FOR THE REST OF THE FUCKING AFTERNOON!”

I left, went to soothe Asher, and quickly realized that Lucas had won. There was no way in hell Asher was going to relax enough to go to sleep now. He was crying and fussy and confused about all the drama. Of course. That’s how you would feel if I tried to put your big brother into his room for being a shit.

So, I just lied there beside the baby, listening to Lucas’s tantrum run through its predictible phases and thinking how pissed off I was that he took us to this place and, damn it, I should have handled it better. Somehow. See, there’s really not all that much you can do to a child when he decides to be an ass—that is, there is not much you can do if you’ve already decided that spanking isn’t right. Lucas may not be a big kid yet, but he’s plenty powerful and when one of his blows connects—damn! It hurts. I thought about how convenient it would be if there were a lock on his bedroom door so I could ensure that he stayed put, but then I remembered a friend’s story about how her parents used to regularly lock her in her room.

The screaming changed from “You’re a mean mommy! I hate you!” to “I forgive you, mommy!” to “Do you forgive me now, mommy?” Eventually he got quiet and miraculously he did not leave his bedroom. I peeped in after a while and saw that he had turned off the light and gotten into bed. Another time I noticed the door open a bit, but saw him still inside.

He stayed in his room for an hour and a half. That’s the longest time out ever. I felt I had to make a lasting impression—it is unacceptable for him to hit and kick and spit at me. If it happens again, he will stay the rest of the day in his room, until 5 o’clock comes and he can apologize to me and then explain the day’s events to his father, who doesn’t take kindly to news of Lucas beating on me.

When I finally let Lucas out at 5 p.m., he was all sweetness and roses. He apologized profusely and clearly explained to me what behavior was unacceptable and why he was in trouble. He seems to have gotten the message. 

It’s been a long time since he pulled this type of shit with me.* Somehow, turning 6 has made him insane. Fortunately, the book (Your Six-Year-Old: Loving and Defiant) says it will pass in about six months.

* Since he was 4, I think.

My mother and I just spoke on the phone. She told me that last night, some asshole deliberately drove his van into my mother’s church—the church I was raised in, the church where I had First Communion, where I was confirmed. He smashed through huge outer doors and a set of inner doors, took out an entire bank of pews, drove around the altar and stopped just short of the grand piano. Bastard is lucky that he didn’t drive up onto the altar because it is made of a multiton rock and a huge concrete tabletop combo that could have killed him had he smashed into it. 

Mom says she heard that he was mad at God.

Dude. 

Everybody’s mad at God. That’s a lame excuse for pulling a dumbass stunt like this one.

I am angry about this vandelism. Although I do not consider myself to be Catholic anymore, I have some fond feelings for the parish in which I was raised. No matter how long I’ve been away from it, I will still think of St. John Vianney parish as a religious “home” of sorts. 

I’ve added other religious “homes” into my world since I left the Church—my community, Thiasos, Adelphai, Ta Gynekaia Mysteria and Big Sur, the North Sands beach in St. Andrews Scotland, Burning Man, and more recently, the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento. 

Yet I am shocked and offended that this happened.

Here is the Sacramento Bee story:
http://www.sacbee.com/101/story/719422.html

Deputies say driver targeted Rancho Cordova church

Published 1:50 pm PST Sunday, February 17, 2008

A van plowed through front doors of a Rancho Cordova church late Saturday night, smashing pews, crashing into a wall and coming to rest near the altar.

Saint John Vianney Church at Coloma Road and Chardonay Drive was badly damaged, and services were held Sunday in the church hall.

Father Martin Moroney was asleep in his residence at 10:45 p.m., the time of the crash. He said a witness told him the driver appeared to aim for the building.

“A lady saw man drive through the church lawn,” the priest said. “Next thing, she saw him guiding it for the church doors. He had to accelerate. He just blew up everything before him.”

Sacramento Sheriff’s spokesman Sgt. Tim Curran said Harold David Zequeda, 28, was booked on charges of vandalism of a religious property, a felony, and driving with suspended license.

Curran said the man purposefully drove his Ford Windstar van into the church.

“We do believe he did it intentionally,” Curran said. “It wasn’t an accident”

No one was injured in the incident. The church was locked for the night and no one was inside, Moroney said.

So last night was weird.

And fun.

And this morning I’ve flip-flopped between feeling embarrassed and giddy.

I met my mother for coffee and a mini shopping trip. I took Asher along of course. 

I got him dressed. 

Well, I took him in the outfit he slept in. But I put socks and shoes and a coat and hat on him.

I got myself dressed. 

We drove to meet mom. We chatted and drank coffee. 

Asher cooed at the passing people.

They cooed back at him.

We shopped a bit.

I drove home and put Asher to bed for a nap.

I worked while he slept.

I crept around the house silently.

He woke.

We played.

We ate lunch at around 2 p.m.

I mused about last night while he ate dried blueberries and bits of lunchmeat.

I looked over to where I had removed and left my black boots earlier while Asher was sleeping.

Two.

Different.

Black.

Boots.

Oy.