I'm thrilled! I really am! Now I just have to figure out how to get to the awards ceremony so I can crumple with defeat in front of my friends and peers. Even were I to win, the best part of traveling to Utah would be seeing so many of my online friends--you don't know how much I miss you each and every single day! Now, I must go find a fan and a fainting couch.
(To read more about the Whitney Awards, click http://whitneyawards.com/wordpress/2011-finalists/)

(I am interspersing this post with photos of my little home decor store bursting with idols of worldliness and materialism--oh, the irony of it all!)

I don’t wish to sound ungrateful because I’m not. Truly, I’m not! We are so grateful for the times we have been thought of at the holidays and even more grateful in those years that we are able to be the givers instead of the receivers. It’s so much fun to do something for a family in need that it gives truth to the phrase “’tis better to give than to receive.” So, yes, I am grateful.

So here are the dos and don’ts as I see them. Please read them in a “loving” voice since my opinions on this matter in no way invalidate my gratitude. Also, remember that I have been the culprit almost as often as the victim (if I may refer to it as such) in these scenarios.

The Don'ts (by category):

Anonymous Giving:

Don't choose to give used items with names written in it such as a book or a jacket. This is not the way a child should learn the truth about Santa. Also, it kind of spoils the whole anonymous thing. Yet . . . this happens with alarming frequency.

Don’t assume that an article of clothing with a small stain or a ripped hem or a hole will be welcomed by even the poorest person on the planet. If you are thinking “They’re so poor, they’ll be happy to get anything,”--a line of thinking that is especially easy to fall into when you don’t know the receiver or the receiver doesn’t know it’s you--then you have another think coming. (Just saying.) (I’ll admit I used to be in that boat. Now I’m in another. And then there’s the child in Africa to whom we send money each month so she can have decent clothes to wear, including spanking new blue and yellow shoes, an inalienable right of all people, in my humble opinion.)

Lastly, should the recipients be someone you know, don’t subconciously (or conciously) expect the recipients to be grateful to you or for your charititable act or for it to change your relationship or to invalidate any wrongs you have done said recipients because, you know . . . they don’t know!

Don’t focus on one member of the family (perhaps the harried mother or the disabled child) whilst shafting the spouse or the other children. It is wonderful (and by that I mean. Truly. Wonderful.) when someone who is having a difficult time in life is acknowledged in any way, however, Christmas is not the time to play favorites. The reactions of the other children (or even the spouse) can be so bad (and by that I mean. Truly. Bad.) that you wish no one had thought of your family at all. (Truly.) To be fair to the other children, they have had it up to here with special attention given to the one with special needs and they don’t need to be reminded—at Christmas, no less—that they just aren’t as special as their special sibling.

Don’t buy obvious clearance table items (defined by just whatever as long as it’s cheap with multiple price stickers still attached, or worse, just the price sticker goop) for one person whilst giving thoughtful and pointed gifts to the rest of the family. (Sooooooo passive aggressive.) (Actually, this applies to any gift giving scenario, rich or poor, bond or free, black or white . . .)

Gift card giving:

This is a great idea. I mean, really and truly. However. Be sure this is a store where the family shops. A $25 gift card to Nordstrom’s is a white elephant and by that I mean, you can’t buy anything at Nordstrom’s for $25 and the poverty-stricken recipient will need to spend money to get any use from it. (Not good.)

If these gift cards are to provide gifts Christmas morning for the kiddies, don’t leave them on the doorstep after they have gone to bed on Christmas Eve forcing an already beleagured parent out into the cold night to provide wrapped gifts in the quickly dawning A.M. Unless, of course, the gift cards are the gifts for them to open Christmas morning, in which case they all need to be for the same dollar amount. Again, Christmas is not a time to play favorites. (Still, it’s great fun for the doorbell to ring on Christmas Eve, so fun, in fact, that you could leave coal and no one would be terribly devastated except for the paranoid child of the family who just knows Santa has no gifts for him/her and will wake up Christmas morning to a stocking full of the black glittery stuff.) (Paranoia—the gift that keeps on giving.)

Also, make sure you supply the little piece of paper that says it has been properly loaded so that the people you are trying to help don’t get to the cash register with lotsa stuff only to be told that the card doesn't work with no way to prove that they didn’t lift it off the rack whilst waiting in line. (Merry Christmas!)

The White Elephant:

In India white elephants are revered and are to be treated like royalty and fed like a king. This is not something a poor person (that’s condescending, isn’t it? Let’s say “financially challenged person”) can afford to do. Behold, the white elephant gift.(Btw, this is one of those things that falls into the category of my having been the culprit as well as the victim so I’m not judging.) When bringing a bag or box or sleigh full of whatever to the needy person or family, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT be tempted to dig through your cupboards and drawers for any old thing just to make it look more abundant or to enjoy your newly clean pantry or to make yourself feel like a good person or for any other reason whatsoever. Those cookies that were so gaggy that you only ate a few and left the rest to get stale? Nobody will appreciate those. That laundry detergent that was too strong smelling for you? It will probably be too strong smelling for them, as well. That dog food that gave your dog diarrhea? It will most likely (so likely in fact that I would be willing to bet copious amounts of money on it) give their dog diarrhea, as well, and then they will have to spend money to take the horribly sick dog to the vet and pay someone to clean their hideously besmirched carpet. Or perhaps they will be forced to live with the besmirched carpet (which is easier to do when it is already heavily stained with paint from your painted furniture business). (Just saying.)

The Dos (again): Give. Give often and much. You won't be sorry. Giving is better than receiving, a truth I am glad to know.

It was Mark Twain (or Oscar Wilde or Jack London depending on who you ask) who said "The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco", my point being that you take your chances when heading out to San Fran in June, July or August. Downtown, the buildings are so tall that the sun never reaches the pavement. I believe it was me who said, "The most wool I have ever seen in one place is SF in July". Yes--yes, I do believe it was I. So, therefore and heretofore, we were thrilled and exceedingly lucky one day in August when we ventured out and spent a glorious day by the bay.

Our first stop was Coit Tower to show the kiddios where their father popped the question. This was on a cold and stormy Valentine's eve after we had spent hours driving around the city so that The Spouse could find the perfect place to propose. The wet grass under a tree on the back lawn of the Tower was pretty perfect since the rain had stopped, the stars were like bits of crystal in the sky with a view of the lighted Bay Bridge in one direction and the Golden Gate in the other. (We found the tree in spite of some remodeling in the last 25 years but the photos the Middle Child took of us there are pretty much unpublishable. Our posterity can chuckle over them in future. And in private.) (Not because they are R rated, silly! Just terribly unflattering. Ugh!)

The view from there was fantastic, though, as long as the camera wasn't pointed at moi. Crystal clear sky, crystal clear water, just a FABulous day. I wish I knew what that long white building in the background is but in spite of an hours long search online of the historic sites in the city, I couldn't be sure. I think the dome showing just above it is the civic center.

On our drive back down Telegraph Hill we spotted this gorgeous church. Research reveals it to be the Saints Peter and Paul Church. It looks like something out of a fairy tale--or a castle spun out of sugar. It was shortly after this that I saw a couple with backpacks along the side of the road. I know the guy is a celebrity of some kind, a non-working child actor, but I can't think of his name or anything he's been in. He smiled and waved as if we were ready to pull out our cameras but we were concentrating on getting down the steep hill in one piece. (Having said that, I wish I had taken his picture b/c it is BUGGING me not knowing his name.) (I once saw Clint Eastwood drive by in the back of a limo when he was Mayor of Carmel--which is where I was at the time--but he went by too fast for a photo.) (Man, I love where I live!) We then headed to Ocean Beach which, 9 times out of 10, is foggy and overcast and 40 degrees.

Some of the sites we saw along the way . . .Love the detail on this house!

And this one. . . .I can't help but wonder how my life would be different if I lived in such a house. (Reason says it won't be any better but my heart says different. I mean, just look at all that gorgeous trim!)

This is called the McCormick House. That's all I know. Unless I got it wrong. It looks like a church but I couldn't find it on the historic register. It looks like the photos of McCormick House. Please correct me, someone, if I am wrong.

Oh, and here we have a pirate permanently swinging from the Levi's store. Perhaps the manager sees a similarity between pirate garb and the ratty jeans of today. I can't think why we don't have one at our mall but I suppose my sweet little valley attracts a less colorful crowd.

Quite literally, I might add. (This is one of those photos you really need to click on and see closer up. In fact, most of these pics look much more stunning in larger versions.)

Then we hit the beach. It was a tad overcast at first but it cleared up nicely. There is nothing, no nothing, like a day at the beach. (As long as it's not freezing.)

The kids frolicked in the water and I took some stunning photos because you can't help but get stunning photos on a day like this one.

Tip: it helps to dress your subjects in blue when posing against sea and sky.

Tip 2: It helps when you have the kind of hair that, though straight as a pin the rest of the time, curls up fetchingly around your face when by the sea.

Next came the surprising delight of the whole trip--Golden Gate Park. I had been there a number of times as a child but hadn't--for some unexplicable reason--been back since. When heading towards Ocean Beach, we drive along a street parallel to the park so this time I said, "Gol-darn it! Why don't we drive through the park this time?!?" What a glorious, glorious place! I can't believe I have lived an hour away from it most of my life and haven't been in so long. What's more, I couldn't believe my eyes when I laid them on this edifice.

It is glorious to behold (this is not a postcard--I took this picture--that's the kind of enchanted day it was!) and is modeled after the conservatory in Kew Gardens, London (which, incidentally, happens to be the site of some of the action in my next book . . .). I believe this particular conservatory was built in the late 1800's. Be still my beating heart. For my birthday, my hunny is going to take me there since I only got as close to it as seen due to utterly disinterested kids in the car who will one day say "I came here as a kid! I can't believe I haven't been back!". Believe me when I say that there are many more truly awe-inspiring things to see in Golden Gate Park but I think I shall make that a subject of a different post, especially since I just accidentally deleted the pics I had of it that should have been below and since I don't know how to insert photos but only put them in a post, in backwards order, prior to any writing, I can't do anything about it at this point except start over. I think you know which option I chose.

Since it had been a while since I had been to Sausalito, the Middle Child and I persuaded The Spouse to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and visit. One of our better decisions if I do say so myself. A glorious day in SF is bound to be an uber-glorious day in Sausalito. In fact, it was almost psychedelic.

(This is another one of those pics you might want to click on and view larger--spectacular!)

And this one, too, taken from a moving car. What can I say? A beautiful subject makes for a beautiful photo.

Enter downtown Sausalito. (Click on this one, too.) (Am I getting obnoxious, yet?)

Who wouldn't want to check this out?

I was glad that I did. There are few things that make my heart go pitty pat more than a display of impatiens such as this one.

The shot below made me wonder what it would be like to live where you can feast your eyes on this view every day? I'm willing to bet the crime rate is much lower here than places with no ocean view.

More cool California architecture. I can't get enough of it.

This is the kind of place where you can go and get an ice cream cone, walk past a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and take in a view of San Francisco all at the same time.

Speaking of ice cream, it's a pretty great way to end a perfect day. Wish you had been there with us . . .

Come! If you do, we'll show you a really great time!

Stuck to the ceiling or flattened to the floor--during his growing up years (prior to accurate diagnosis and effective medication), my Big Guy was usually one or the other. In adults bipolar disorder presents as years of depression (or mania) quickly followed by a bout of mania (or depression). Not so with children. In fact, the Big Guy was a rapid cycler which meant he could experience several bouts of devastating depression followed by intense mania several times a day. Or an hour. In fact, he was very often in a “mixed state” which meant he experienced both depression and mania at the very same time. The end result was almost always tantrums, aggression, even outright violence. I remember well the day I was six months pregnant with my second child and forced to call my husband and insist he come home at lunchtime because 11 tantrums from my very large five year old was all I could handle in the course of one morning.

Denial was an effective route to survival but little by little, day by day, tantrum after tantrum, it was, in fact, devastating. For the best part of the year during which I accepted that he would never be “normal”, never be “right”--always be wounded--I walked around my house/my hours/my days/my life feeling as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. It was a death of a child with no funeral, no flowers, no notes of sorrow. No closure.

There were many times when I would sob, wondering if I would ever again see my little boy, the one I carried in my womb, the one I nurtured through his first few years made difficult by constant ear infections, lack of sleep and much worry over his failure to walk when he should, talk when he should . . .

. . .the one I knew to be smart, funny, generous and loving and to have a sense of humor in spite of all his trials. We didn’t know that in addition to his physical, developmental and learning disabilities he suffered from a mental illness and so we did not know--could not know--if there would ever be hope for his recovery.

Today he is almost 22 and though medicine has been an immense help in balancing out his mood swings and minimizing the aggression, he is rarely ever his “true” self. Deep dark depressions are rare (we don’t have to hide the steak knives anymore, thank goodness) though he does experience a bit more mania than most of us are comfortable with. These are the moments I call his “King of Siam” moods, when he barks orders at people and insists that undereducated and thoroughly reliant him is capable of everything and anything at all.

True to form, he continues to be a study in contradictions. One moment his 6' 1" 260 pound frame is folded onto the floor, a la criss-cross applesauce, while he laughs like a hyena over a dog toy that lights up when it bounces. The next he is quiet and reserved, using words like “discuss” and “issue” and “anxious” and “lonely”. Fortunately he is as distractible as a puppy and can be easily persuaded to take up the lighted bouncing ball once again because there is no solution to the issues he wishes to discuss.

And then there are the times when the stars, moon and sun all line up, when Pinocchio vanishes and my real boy sits down beside me and begins to speak with intelligence, appropriateness and with soul. It almost always happens at bedtime when I am tired and mostly undone but I stay rooted to the spot because the celestial constellations only align as such perhaps once or twice a year--and because I never know what treasure he will pull from the depths of his soul to present to me of his own free will without my having to wheedle or cajole or threaten it out of him--and because I miss him so much.

Last night it was all about church. He felt that he wasn’t getting enough out of it, that he wasn’t doing enough to serve others. Naturally, these are words we would never hear from the wooden puppet whose strings are alternately jerked by the imbalance of chemicals in his brain then set adrift by the raft of meds he takes each day; this gentle giant who requires tons of service from others on a regular basis. He explained that his assignment to ask someone to say the closing prayer at church wasn’t good enough anymore. “I need a better calling,” he said, “maybe something like a teacher or the Bishop. Yes," he said with a nod of his head, "I would really like to be the Bishop.”

Quickly, I bit back a smile at this oh-so-obvious contradiction in his nature (this from a man-child who can’t dish up his own jello or spread his own peanut butter, who will never graduate from college, or hold down a real job, or marry, or live a normal life or ever, merely, truly live) lest I conjure up some emotion that would disturb the delicate balance of his brain and cause the real boy to flee.

I must have succeeded because after a while he moved from his dissatisfaction with all things church onto the opening of the door to his anxieties and fears—

--not silly paranoias about things that don’t matter but carefully considered wolves--as he shared his true thoughts, those of the perfectly intelligent, balanced and logical man he was for the moment, the same one I knew would be gone all too soon.

“What will happen when you and dad pass away?” he asked with a delicacy I hadn’t known he possessed. I would have expected him to say “DIE” like I would have at his age (both chronological and cognitive). At the same time, I didn’t expect him to say anything of the sort since he studiously avoids thinking about these things in an effort to keep his own brain level.

“Oooh!” I thought at this fingering of my personal fears and my chin began to wobble.

“I am afraid that M (sister) and P (brother) will put me in a rest home and leave me there.” Hadn’t I worried often and often about this very same thing? My eyes began to sting with tears.

“As long as all of you are alive, I’ll be fine but if even one of you dies, I.Will.Die.Too."

For the first time in a long time (after all, one can’t grieve every minute of every day) I felt that hollow-but-filled-with-pain sensation in the pit of my stomach as I tried to hide from him the tears that were flowing freely down my face. I struggled with the choice that all parents have to make, the one that prompts you to stay quiet when you would rather speak, the voice that reminds that some things must be learned and not told, that there are times when mere words cannot convey what life will teach.

And so I said the only thing I could. “I love you.”

He sighed and got up to go to bed, but as my boy walked away from me, his legs turned to wood.

(I have never done this before but I am asking that if you find this post helpful towards understanding bipolar disorder, could you please stumble it or link to it on FB, etc? Thank you! Meanwhile, more blog posts about the Big Guy can be found in the side bar.)