Tag Archive: Children
A beautiful record of ones child’s youth.
Originally posted on fox4kc.com:
Dutch filmmaker and artist, Frans Hofmeester, filmed his daughter every single week since the time of her birth. When she turned 14-years-old, Hofmeester created and recently revealed this time lapse video of her. Watch as she grows up, to music by Hollywood composer Mateo Messina, in only about four minuets.
[viral zone= "viral block"]
His parents were two of my all time favorites, in fact still are and she had Ben and I had Mike, beautiful boys they are with just so much talent inside.
I wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas and for those who do not celebrate the birth of our Christ a very Happy Holiday Season to you as well.
I remember the days of our family home on Christmas morning. We, the three of us children, were so very lucky to have what was waiting under our tree, be it real or the metal one with that colorful wheel. We never knew of the struggle or the monies spent for months to follow, to pay for it all. Life is simple through the eyes of a child or that is how it seemed when I was a kid. I was blessed with a Mom and Dad. A roof over our heads and a wonderful feast laid out on the kitchen table.
For many years Thanksgiving was spent up here in New Hampshire with my Mother’s side of the family where all would come together as one and give thanks for what we had. Back then I never gave thought of what others went through to pull it off. They worked hard each and every day and lived within their means. We had mini Christmas that weekend as well because usually Dad would take us to his parents house for Christmas school break.
Dad worked all day and then worked on the car he would load up with presents which we never knew were ours, see what I mean about simple times. We were children who spent the days outside playing after school never giving a thought as too what the parents had going on. No wonder they were stressed, I see that now. The car was packed with gifts for grandparents and us then in went all the clothes we would all need for a road trip to Nana and Grandpa’s. You see I have since learned by trucking it was 660 miles each way. With three rambunctious children and our dog Teddy. We made this journey from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania most Christmas holidays. Maybe that is where I found the love for the road. Staying awake with Daddy driving in the middle of what I now know was blizzards, helping him keep track of the white line on the edge of the road. He had his whole family with him in our old car with a piece of plywood on the folded down seat for us all to sleep. Daddy never did and I am sure Mom tried to always stay awake so Daddy could as she was his company, on this journey. So today with the saved tree from the dump with no gifts under it, I remain thankful for all I have ever had for it is more than many others never did.
With Daddy gone and grandparents too as well as all but two Aunts and 2 Uncles my family now three brothers and my Mom, we no longer have those times together. That is what I miss the most as this holiday nears FAMILY.
Today I am thankful and grateful for all of you I follow and to those who follow me, for we are a family of sorts. Sharing joy and happiness. Wonderful things to bake and make. We are there as well when sadness hurts so bad. Thanks everyone for yet another year spent with you.
Peace On Earth Good Will To Men
Originally posted on Live & Learn:
20 October 1944
US Army Air Force Base
I hoped I would never write this to you. In a little less than an hour, I’ll be strapping myself into my old plane and pointing my nose westward. I’ve seen the orders. I think it will be for the last time. And, so, suddenly I find my life stripped away, like the branches of an old, black tree. All that matters is that I write this to you.
I know that you won’t remember me. Not really. When I spent three days with you last year when you were 6 months old, and although you can’t yet understand it, I loved you more then than you might imagine loving anybody right now.
Now listen to me. This Life, know that it is precious. You’ve got to grasp it, every little whiff of it that passes by you. It…
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Been sad and hurt for too long.
Was told by a child I had placed for adoption, to go away, as he had done to find peace and love within again.
I had never meditated before and yes I was worried but I also knew deep inside something had to change.
It was time for me to finally be whole. So I booked by 10 day stay and in the following months while I waited for my day to
come to take the first step, there were so many days I thought I would cancel but I did not.
I went away from home for the first time all alone.
I took an oath of silence.
I learned how to meditate.
I learned that I was really strong not broken as I had thought.
Over those ten days away I meditated in silence, for 100 hours. Yes it was hard. Was it worth it, hell yes. A million times YES.
This trip into the unknown world of Meditation was scary but amazing as well.
I will never be lost again.
I will go within and see all is well.
Life can be so very hard and so many could use this outlet to find peace and happiness.
My son and I agree after having both learned to go within, that so many could benefit from learning how to meditate
starting with small children. When I went to school in 1963 there was a time each day we laid our heads on our desk to take
a rest from the stress of learning, had we been taught the simple act of Meditation in the first grade maybe just maybe
we would could have had a world full of PEACE or a lot less pain.
You asked if there were someone we would not want to read our blog and immediately I thought of my son.
Yes I do not mind if he looks at all the pretty photographs and all of your posts I have re-blogged.
Why I want him to KEEP OUT is I do not want him to know how much pain I used to be in. See it is key that he gets to see
how very happy I am today.
Happiness spreads Joy and Sadness spreads Pain.
We are both to BE HAPPY for the rest of our days.
So Keep Out
It was 1976 and I was given money for an abortion. I chose adoption.
Had I kept my child how my life would have been so much better but clearly so different.
Had I kept him with me as I had really wanted, I would have smiled every day.
I never would have shed tears for 32 years. I never would have married the evil man I did. I never would live where I do now. I never would have learned all the things in life I needed to learn, about people and how they really are.
It would have been hard yes. I would have been an awesome Mommy to him. See I was not that strong back then I had no idea that giving him to a family who would adore him showed really how strong I was. I just never thought I could do it on my own and give him everything a child deserved.
So had I taken that road I would have done great. I never would have known you all and be able to share him all with you. Thirty two years after kissing him goodbye I was saying hello to him and starting a different journey, in fact down yet another road. Who knows where this one will take us but he is just like me so I think it will be FUN.
It was 1963 and I was seven. We had moved to the suburbs from the city as so many did but I was just a little over four then.
I swear I can remember walking down the street we would be moving to and looking at the few homes that were already up for buyers to pick from.
We went up to the house on the hill and it had a HUGE frog inside we wanted THAT HOUSE, me and my little brother.
Mom and Dad decided up by the busy road was not the house for us so we were going to live in the first house as you started down the dead-end road. It was a dirt road still with 4 homes ready for families and we got number ONE!
The woods behind the house were off-limits to a 4-year-old and a two-year old and Mom was going to have number 3 soon, so she could not run after us.
I guess I was about seven when I first ventured into those woods, behind our family home,. There a stream that ran alongside our property out in the forest. Mom took us three out to pick wild Blueberries. High bush type so she picked the most and we carried the containers. It was so beautiful out back I never wanted to go back to the house.
Mom still lives in that home and when we lost Dad eight years ago to Cancer, I found out that when he was not there I didn’t want to be either, just wasn’t the same but I did go back because Mom is there and I once again stepped back into those woods and began to cut back the growth on the other side of her fenced property. See they had fenced it off to keep us in. Scary things can happen to children in the woods all alone, though somehow we never quite believed them. Boy that huge forest I remember so fondly as a little girl is really just a silly half-acre but it used to be HUGE!
I remember a day so long ago , running back to the house with an armful of Lady Slippers for Mom, oh how I loved these blooms that loved the dark, damp wooded areas. She saw how pretty they were but insisted I should NEVER pick them again as I would be ARRESTED! They had a law for that, can you imagine being so young and loving the woods as I did and being told to be good. My poor Mom had her hands full!
So yes I love the country as it is truly a part of me. I never pick the flowers instead I grow so many in my yard as I can and capture all the wild ones with a camera.
I never wear shoes from spring to fall ( well unless I leave the yard) just like when I was seven boy did that make Mom mad, she said it made her look like a BAD MOM.. I say it made her look like a Mom who loved to see her kids happy and free to experience all the wonders of the world, well until I stepped on that bee!
So my home here in New England has a stream for one side of my property line too and tons of deep woods( over a couple hundred acres) with many wildflowers and insects , wildlife too.
The city is Grand don’t get me wrong. I spent 27 years driving a big rig through each of our nations cities. Eighty feet long and at times longer and did it like it was second nature to me but come the end of a trip or the end of a sixteen hour day it was back to the woods for me, as I have always adored nature it seems, well for the last 50 years to be certain.
Here is my piece of the forest , well this year maybe closer to a JUNGLE with all this rain
What a horrible night.
Beautiful towns covered by swat teams, one of the bombers is now dead but so is a MIT school officer.
Long night of terror for many I pray it ends TODAY
Two angry men bombs, guns, grenades WHY
Makes you wonder why so many flee from their homelands and flock here. It is not the America I knew as a little girl and it is very sad.
Praying for the people just 50 miles from me and America as well.
All trains, buses shut down. Businesses now closed people told to stay in their basements pray for us that this will end without another life being taken.
UPDATE the WHOLE CITY OF BOSTON IS SHUT DOWN!
No Taxis, autos, trucks everyone to stay in their homes and wait till he is caught.
He ran over his own brother when fleeing the shootout so no one is safe
This is CRAZY
Say prayers please one cop dead one injured is on in early 30’s and with a small infant :( so sad
Woman with infant now in police car being questioned girlfriend or sister.
Suspect bloody and in custody AMEN
This is what I was saying in my post Why?
It is happening more than most of you will ever know
I drove a school bus and you would be shocked.
So when your child or your siblings child acts like this speak up offer support and help them GET HELP or this will never end and will surly get so much worse.
Friday’s horrific national tragedy — the murder of 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut — has ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.
“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”
“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”
“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9-year-old siblings knew the safety plan — they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.
That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.
At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.
Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.
The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look, Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”
“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”
His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself.”
That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where are we going?”
“You know where we are going,” I replied.
“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re sending me straight to hell!”
I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the police,” I said. “Hurry.”
Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than he is, but I won’t be for much longer.
The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork — “Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…”
At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.
For days, my son insisted that I was lying — that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here.”
By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t believe them anymore.
On the intake form, under the question, “What are your expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”
And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.
I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am Jason Holmes’s mother. I am Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.
When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you’ve got charges.”
I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise — in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.
With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill — Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment centers in 2011.
No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”
I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way our nation can ever truly heal.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.
(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)
Today we will walk the shore before the snow moves in and covers this beautiful seaside landscape but with an ocean storm soon to brew, we will be back next week with both metal detectors to see what has been thrown up upon the sand.
Our hearts are broken with all the senseless killing of adults and children here in New England as well as all over this world we live in. This family lived less than five miles from me until just over 10 years ago. There had to be warning signals. I see them in children of friends and no one ever seems to say a word. I am one who speaks up and then pulls away when the correct thing is not done, though if something as horrible as a plot was known to me I would say something but would authorities interfere?
I own guns, I have been trained in the use of them and would never hesitate to protect someone from being killed, by someone who meant them harm. I am not evil, my gun is not evil but sadly not all who are allowed to PLAY WITH GUNS, SHOULD.
So as you go about your daily lives judging or just keeping your mouths shut for fear of hurting someones feelings or even just minding your OWN BUSINESS, know that by closing yours eyes to the obvious you are in fact perpetuating evil, ever so small it may be at the time. I see how children treat their parents I am sure you have too or how they treat animals and even strangers. We all have seen this. I decided a long time ago I would give up my life to protect someone from loosing theirs, it is just who I am. I will not walk by as someone is mistreating another human or animal they are supposed to love and respect. I will say something for the person or animal unable to SPEAK UP for themselves.
The poor families from this recent mass murder now face a lifetime without their babies and for those who just went to work at that school who lost their lives they leave families behind left to ask WHY?
Please say a prayer for them and your loved ones as you never know when true evil will walk in on them
Front row Middle girl yes that’s me.
Mom got me all dressed up and walked me to the top of the street.
The rest of the kids from the neighborhood where there too. Not sure if my Mom was the only one to take photos but I can tell the sun was in my eyes. Didn’t we all look like we were eager to attend. The real photo she should have concentrated on getting was the last day I attended SCHOOL, now that was the most important day!
My best friend was in the back row standing next to a boy. She moved here from the deep south Georgia and Alabama . We were best of friends instantly. We did everything together. She would come places with my family like to Zoos and Parks and I would go with her family to the Ocean. The place I always went with them to, is still my very favorite section even though storms have destroyed so much of what was so beautiful.
We had one TV, a Black and White for years. We also got to play after supper, under the one street light, which happened to be right in front of our house. We played kickball and dodge ball life was good.
Out of all the years Cathy and I attended school together we were only in one class together, eighth grade math. By then we liked boys though neither of us were allowed to date. Boys would come over and sit around and listen to music with us but no dating.
When we went to high school we parted ways she went to the local high school in town and took college courses
while I took a test to be accepted to the new School in town. Vocational/Technical High School that had students from five towns attending. It was a beautiful school and I met so many wonderful people and you know most of our small class of 1974 is on my Facebook Friend list. I think this speaks volumes of the times and the families. We came from hard working, Blue collar workers with one car, 3 kids and a dog and no divorces.
I never asked if we were rich or poor I never went without supper unless I refused to eat what Mom cooked. Remember the dog, he would eat ANYTHING, he was our best friend at the dinner table till Mom caught on and tied him outside while we ate. We tried to always finish supper no mater how much we hated Lima Bean Soup so we could have dessert remember she was a great baker, her cakes and pastries were the best tasting.
We were allowed to go out after breakfast and not return till lunch you see we lived on a dead-end road with just 15 houses on it and all our other friends lived in the other houses with their brothers and sisters. We were never inside unless it was raining. We always played at each others houses. The Mother’s we always home. I can only remember two times I actually had a babysitter well till I turned eleven and became one. I babysit my brothers, I had 3 of them and then babysit for a family with 8 children and a family with two of the sweetest little girls. I made enough money babysitting and always bought family gifts at Christmas but put mine and my brothers names on them for our parents.
So many things happened on this dead-end street where I grew up. I loved this place so much I never wanted to grow up. It was a place where many memories, that will last a lifetime, were made.