EJ's Writing ~ Author E.J. Bouinatchova
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Changeling Child

7/17/2017

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My mind cannot conceive that here, in this column of my most sacred writing space, I must write about the loss of my child. Oh we got him back. He was only dead for about 90 seconds. But that's all it takes to ruin a life. His, ours, everyone who knew him. Without going into specifics that will make you want to curl up into a ball of pain, I can only say that his accident was completely unexpected, happened right in front of us, was horrible, violent, bloody, and indescribably destructive on his tiny 2-year-old body. No one thought he'd survive the first night, much less the first week in ICU. But eventually we got him back. Or did we?

I'm sure there's a psychological name for the phenomenon; one that's utterly incapable of explaining the reality. The bottom line is that my husband and I look at old pictures of our child and we know - this child in our house now - it's not the same child. That child died. The one that returned to us... is different. A brother, a cousin, a clone, a fairy child imbued with our lost child's essence, but forever changed. We love him with equal passion, maybe even more. But he is different. I swore on that first night, talking to the Los Angeles "Crisis Response" (a.k.a. "death watch") team that I would take my son back in whatever version I could get him. I meant it. I'm living with it. And every day it both crushes and uplifts me.

You see, of all the things I didn't expect... I didn't expect to have a child who would recover to look essentially the same, but not be the same. Every facial expression, every motion, every angle of head and body...the tone of his voice, and most of all, the look in his eyes...all changed. I tried to tell myself and my husband that maybe some of what we were seeing were normal changes, developmentally appropriate yadda yadda bullcrap.

Every parent knows, your baby is always your baby. When I look at pictures of my 5 year old as a baby, I still see those same expressions on his face now. He is what he is; always has been, always will be. But this little one - this strong, vibrant, indefatigable little force of nature, this kid who survived the un-survivable... We have to get to know him all over again. In time he may get back more characteristics of the "original." At any rate, we will love him forever. But we will never stop missing the child he used to be, the one who was stolen from us before he had a chance to grow up. We will never stop wondering who that child might have become.

I will never share this post publicly, and if you stumble across it, I'm sorry. I know it's not easy to read. If you have a child, hug them. If you have a parent, look at them with love and gratitude.

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Why are My Kids Crying?

3/18/2016

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We live in a mostly-singles neighborhood, in an all-singles building. That's right, we are the ONLY family there. It engenders much misunderstanding and resentment, and a delightful barrage of inane comments, my favorite being: "Wow, your kids sure cry a lot."
Rather than 1) Screaming and tearing my hair, 2) Beating the commenter about the head and shoulders with a childhood development book, or, god forbid, 3) Patiently explaining that babies and young children cry because it is their only way to communicate...I've instead drafted this list of responses that I think should effectively shut down that line of commentary for good.
"WOW, YOUR KIDS SURE CRY A LOT!"
Responses:
"Only when I'm beating them."
"Only when I'm not beating them."
"It's just 'cause they're starving."
"It's just 'cause they're fat. Fat little crying fatty bastards."
"Really? I must have been too drunk to notice."
"Really? I must have been too drunk to care."
"It's only because they haven't yet been baptized into our Lord's holy light."
"It's only because they haven't yet been pledged to our Dark Lord's unholy service."
"No kidding! Know where I can get some earplugs?"
"No kidding! Know where I can get some heroin?"
"I'm sorry. I'll go get more duck tape."


That should about do it, don't you think?
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The Bull and the Butterfly

2/29/2016

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Thoughts on nature, nurture, and wonder...
Two boys, both alike in dignity...no wait, that's all wrong, My boys haven't even heard of the word dignity; they've defeated the concept by their very natures. That's okay, dignity is overrated.

The thing that blows my mind, though, is how unique these little men are. They are both in turns utterly ridiculous and utterly adorable - not to mention utterly unmanageable - but their fundamental natures could not be more different. My eldest is sensitive, changeable, thoughtful, flitting cautiously from one thing to the next. To watch him is to feel stab of pain in the heart: something so delicate could be knocked down so easily. And then there's the young one: irrepressible and overwhelming, like a tidal wave. Or a bull. And our lives are the china shop. He leaves an endearing path of destruction in his wake.

I couldn't help but wonder, with my firstborn - was it something we did that made him so fragile? Or is that just the way he was born? I was a sensitive child, either ecstatic or despairing, with little in-between. So says my mother, anyway. It seems like my firstborn is my mimic. I can almost feel his hurt when he gets a sharp word or a disappointment; I remember what it was like to be that small, to feel like the whole world was one big "NO," and never understanding why. He needs very, very careful handling.

The little one is just a mystery. My husband and I look at him and think "Where the hell did you come from?" Like a ray of blazing nuclear sunshine born into a family of brooding artists. Everything rolls off him. He's a force of nature. And in his way, he is much more difficult to handle, because of his utter lack of caution. He just goes and goes and goes, and we're left to run along behind, hoping to catch him on the brink of destruction.

Still, even when calamity ensues, the kid seems to come out okay: gets up, dusts himself off, goes on about his business while his parents nurse their frayed nerves in the rubble. Trying to deal with these two divergent personas is a recipe for a shattered psyche. The adults in this family don't know whether they're coming or going most days. And yet the boys...they're the best of friends. They seem to just take their differences in stride. Maybe we should take a lesson from them.
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Snow Garden

1/28/2016

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A short story about family values, yearnings, flaws, and mistakes. In an alternate reality, I might have been Ava. It's a humbling thought.
Twenty-year-old Ava didn't plan to become pregnant. Men aren't even her preferred gender, and being a young mother and aspiring artist is so much harder than she ever could have imagined. She finds the strangest sympathetic ear in her older coworker, Ashcroft. It's hard to say if their mutual support outweighs their shared vices, but as they work together in Le Romantique flower shop, they are content to bide their time and see what the future holds.

Excerpt:
Ava shifted, uncomfortably. It was rare for them to talk this seriously. “You want to hear something wild, Ash?”
“Of course!”
“I always wanted to be a Mom. Even when I realized, when I was a kid, that I liked girls way better than boys. It broke my heart that I wanted this sort of old-fashioned nuclear family type thing, but I wanted it with a woman—and I didn’t know if that could work.
“That’s why I went for it when Mike and I had our little accident and he said he wanted to keep it. I think I knew he wouldn’t stick around, and I don’t think I really wanted him to. But I sure wanted that little baby.” She smiled to herself and took out her phone. “Look what I got in my email.” She scrolled through pictures of a café-au-lait child with bright, naughty eyes and golden corkscrew curls. Ashcroft’s grandmotherly side made him “ooh” and “aaw” involuntarily at each heart-melting image.
“I want to do right by her. I really do. I just…have to feed the demons sometimes.”
Ashcroft gave her a crooked smile. “I truly understand that.”

“I feel like a selfish piece of crap. I thought I could have it all ways, you know? Be a famous artist…be the next Basquiat…”
“Oh, is that why the dreadlocks?”
Ava looked sheepish. “Too obvious?”
“A bit. But do go on.”
“So I just thought, you know, I’d be this twenty year old supermom, right? Working and Momming and going to school—just like my Mom did with me. ‘Cause that’s what they’re always telling us we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?”
“’They’ who?”
“‘They’ they. The big ‘They.’ Women aren’t supposed to give up their careers, they say, we’re supposed to be strong and independent, and brilliant Moms, too, even if we only see our kids, like, an hour a day. So even though I felt like I could have stayed home and nursed that little baby forever…well, I started to get worried. I thought I should get back to my old life.”
“There’s that ‘should’ again.”
“Yeah. ‘Should.’ I got worried, then I got restless, then I got stupid, and then I got busted, and kicked out, and I missed her first steps when she turned one, and then…that’s when I…” She gestured helplessly, palms up. “I just figured she’d be better off without me. That I’d been given this enormous gift and screwed it all up royally, and that I was the one who should pay the price, not her. Never her.”


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The Love of Two Men

11/1/2015

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A brief contemplation on splitting myself apart...
Picture
It’s not nearly so romantic as it sounds: that I have the fawning, impassioned love of two young men. My love story involves a lot of tears, calamities, aches, pains, nightmares, heartaches and disappointments. And bodily fluids of the entirely undesirable sort.

Not your typical love story, that’s for certain. At the same time, it is infinitely more epic. Having two little boys has rocked my world in every possible way. My life and perspective have been turned upside down and inside out.

The bond is so strange and so strong precisely because they are so alien to me. I don't think I'd feel the same way about a daughter. It would be equal, but different; we would be, on a very basic level, cut from the same cloth. But to have created two such creatures: another gender, a different fundamental essence, out of the stuff of my own being - it is...transcendent.


I believe I finally understand the Jungian concept of Anima/Animus: the female/male archetypes that live inside all of us - like two halves of our soul. Giving birth to these two little men is like seeing the male half of my soul brought out into the world. Times two. It’s exhilarating, and not a little terrifying.
The sense of responsibility is gargantuan. Sometimes it feels like Mama is shelter and comfort and total safety: I am the food they eat and the air they breathe. They sleep on either side of me, despite repeated attempts to urge them into their own little spaces. They inchworm their way back over, little feet sneaking under me like questing tree roots seeking sustenance.

Somewhere on the other side of the bed is the third one. The big one. The one that started it all. But like an all-powerful father-creator power-source, he’s distant. Behind the scenes. He’s brought his creations into the world, and now their fates are their own. 

They’re not heroes yet. Mama’s nurturing is still needed. The world can be a cold and scary place. But Mama is here. Mama is warmth. Mama is strength. Mama is love.

I never thought that I could feel like I am being devoured and created at the same time. Whatever is left of me by the time they are done will be both less and more than what I was. I can’t wait to look in the mirror and find out what looks back. Maiden, Mother, Crone? I believe it will be all three at once; past, present, and future. I am transformed. I am split apart and put back together, finally complete.
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Not Autistic Enough

10/6/2015

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Here I go, attempting to tackle The Big Issue. It's a tough one.
It should go without saying that there is currently a wealth of autism information available  - it's on the internet, on telephone poles, and in mysterious flyers that circulate by owl and disappear after reading. What is this magical affliction? Is it a gift or a curse? It seems there is as much arcane knowledge, rumor, and legend as actual science involved. How is the average person supposed to wade through this morass of misinformation?

Without writing a dissertation, I can only give my own personal not-entirely-random hypothesis of the situation: They recently broadened the autism spectrum so much that it includes behaviors that seem both arbitrary and contradictory, and many only a hair’s breadth away from what’s thought of as “normal.” This has had the benefit of bringing more attention, research and funding into the picture for autism. I think that in the next 5-10 years, they are going to start splitting up and redefining the spectrum again, with more specific diagnoses. And that’s all fine with me. Whatever works. Maybe it’s confusing now, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Since my eldest son was diagnosed “on the spectrum” I have experienced a myriad of reactions when I have to bust out the dreaded "Au" word to people (interesting that's the element symbol for gold, huh?) I've gotten awkward silence, averted eyes, frozen stares, subject changes,  little sounds of sympathy, all the way up to eye rolls and outright disbelief. You see, the prevailing opinion is that my son is just not “autistic” enough. He’s adorable. He’s friendly. He’s interactive. He’s not sitting in a corner, banging his head, lining his toys up in a row. He doesn’t fulfill people’s autism stereotypes.

My kid is what they call “high on the spectrum.” And we’re very, very thankful for that. But it also comes with an enormous amount of misunderstanding. People that don’t know us well only see the bright, active kid. They don’t know about his incredible struggle to use and comprehend language. They thought his age-three incomprehensible babbling was “cute.” They don’t know about unbearable frustration of not being able to communicate.

They don’t know about the compulsive movement, the non-stop climbing, climbing, climbing, and falling, falling, falling. They don’t know about three broken bones in three years. They don’t know about the tantrums, night terrors, hair-trigger temper. They don’t know about the screaming meltdowns so intense he would practically lose his voice and cause the neighbors to threaten to call the cops. Did we put on the wrong cartoon, open a door or flip a light switch, anywhere in the house, without asking him first? Meltdown.


My absolute favorite comment to date  - and I’ve heard it more than once - is: “He’s not autistic, he just needs more exercise!” Right. It makes me wonder, do these same people say: “It’s not lung cancer, you just need some herbal tea?” They don’t get it - his constant movement is not a normal activity level, it's a compulsion. He cannot be tired out into calmness. Often, he'll go in the opposite direction. He can be on the stumbling brink of exhaustion and he’ll still literally be attempting to climb the walls. It’s not hyperactivity, it’s what they call a "sensory" issue.

Look up “sensory processing disorders” if you’re not familiar with the term. It’s interesting stuff. (That’s another post for another time). But in short, sensory processing issues can cause food obsessions and phobias (we’ve got both), bathing obsession/phobia, clothing obsession/phobia - we’ve got those, too. Some autistic kids become obsessed with repetitive motions, some just become obsessed with motion (and some are incredibly averse to it - two sides of the same coin).

My son is obsessed with the feeling of balancing. He can’t sit in a chair. He must push the chair back and balance between it and the table (falls and clocks chin). Or tilt it back with his feet braced on the table (goes over backward, head injury). Or balance on the hearth, lean over to the table, one leg in the air, fall, ninja flip, floor (fractured elbow). It’s brutal. Literally. On his body and his parents’ souls.

The great news is that for “high functioning” kids like my son, therapy can be an enormous help. He’s almost 4 now and has learned to speak, albeit at a much lower age level. Communication has helped with the frustrations and tantrums. They’re only daily now, instead of multiple times per day. I suspect there are more broken bones in our future. The kid may be heading for a career in the Cirque de Soleil. That’s fine. Whatever makes him happy.

It’s tough to not be able to explain my son to people, to be met with skepticism or even suspicion when I try. But then, many people in my family defy explanation, myself included. My mom thinks that if they had the current diagnosis level when we were growing up, we would all have been put on the spectrum. It’s a little bit funny. And a little bit not funny.

My heart goes out to all other parents dealing with this strange, baffling, and sometimes fascinating condition. I can’t pretend it’s all good. Sometimes it’s horrifying. All I know is that my son is plenty autistic for me. I don’t need any more. We’re lucky and we know it, and we’re immensely grateful for it. So, scientists, research away! We’ll be watching with great interest to see what you can turn up in the years to come.

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Foods To Eat On Your Child

9/26/2015

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Some food reviews that any New Mom should find helpful.  Not.

Let’s face a common New Mom problem - getting yourself fed. You know that fat little milkleech is going to be stuck to your front for many months. You pretty much have to learn to eat above, on, or around him. Here are a few food reviews you might find helpful.

Burger, Fries, Coke
Safety Rating: Good
This one’s a pretty safe bet. The kid might get a light dusting of salt. But even slippery pickles can be plucked right off a fuzzy little baby head, no harm done. You can even use the secret sauce to give him a junior fauxhawk. Be careful with the coke, though. Rumor has it that spilling coke on a baby will cause worms to come out.

Chocolate
Safety Rating: Excellent
It's not corrosive, it's not abrasive...the only problem with this one is that when little bits fall off and melt on baby’s hot little body - or yours - you’ll earn yourself a round of everybody’s favorite game, “Poop or Chocolate?” Honestly, that’s is NOT a game you want to lose.

Pizza
Safety Rating: HAZARDOUS
Two words: Molten. Cheese. Do you really want to have to explain to your darling child, for the rest of his life, why he was an awkward splatter-shaped scar? Maybe you could try to convince him you gave birth inside an active volcano. Good luck with that.

Steak
Safety Rating: HAZARDOUS

Two words: Steak. Knives. Steak knives and babies just don't mix. You could always eat it caveman-style, dripping droplets of blood and fat on your baby's head. But you will probably create a serial killer. Or a chef. Or both.

Salad
Safety Rating: Good

There's not really too much that can go wrong here. Stick to oil and vinegar dressing. You're supposed to oil babies anyway, right? And all the health-foodies will tell you that vinegar is wonderful as a health and beauty product. Do be careful handling an oiled & vinegared baby afterwards though; little suckers get slippery.

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To The Horizon

8/26/2015

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500 Word flash-nonfiction: A tribute to my father, the salty old dog.

Picture
How would a father-daughter pirate team work? Would you kill anyone who looked at me funny, or would I kill anyone who challenged your authority?
You’d stand at the prow, letting the wind blow right in your face because you love it. I’d stand just behind your shoulder and shield myself, because I hate it. But I’d watch the opposite horizon for any signs of danger and opportunity.
Your blue eyes would look as sharp as chips of the sky against your leather-brown face, seamed by the sun. You’d wear your hair in a long tail, gold and silver curls that you’d be a little bit vain about, even as they tangled in the salt spray.
The more I think about it, the more I see…
I cut my hair short and climb the rigging barefoot, wearing less than I should and not caring about the lustful stares. I can be a tomboy at heart no matter how full-breasted and round-hipped I become. Because I can furl a sale and haul a line with the best of them. My hands are rough, my shoulders strong, and I’m the fastest hand on the ship with a sharp knife.
No one can stand against us, and no one will try. Because we’re as fair as we are tough. We know the greedy merchants from the hard-luck explorers. If we judge a target wrong, we’re off without harm. If we judge them ripe for the picking, we take, and if we need to, we kill. We can be vicious. We can be cold. We have regrets, and we live with them. Because life isn’t fair, even when we try to be.
I don’t know where my mother is. I just remember she was a woman of steel. My brother went his own way, because he was a scholar and a landlubber. We might see him again, or maybe not. But that’s as it must be. This voyage is for us.
This is the dream we had when we toured the HMS Bounty replica where she docked in Massachusetts. We dropped down the hatches, sat at the wooden benches off the galley, closed one eye against the sun as we popped back to the open air. Do you remember how our eyes flashed when we looked at each other, and our fingers twitched to grasp the rigging?
You’ve gone on ahead now. And that’s as it must be too. I felt that moment when your spirit set sail for distant shores instead of hovering nearby to watch us live. To see your grandson born. To watch the family business grow and fail and resurrect. You just watched from the aether, sometimes laughed and cursed, but never judged. Because that’s you.
I told you when I felt you go that I’d join you when the time is right. And you know I will. Because kindred spirits always find each other. Because this is our dream, and I will follow you to the horizon and beyond.


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Waiting For a Smile

7/17/2015

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Picture

A short story that may be the most personal thing I've ever written. I would never have dusted off and published my memoir if not for my firstborn son. 

Something about looking into his angelic face made me flash back over my whole life: I wanted to do better, to make something of myself. But I also finally accepted who I was and where I had come from. I owe it all to him.

Excerpt:
Now:  I always wake first and look over at his sleeping form in the shadows of the crib that adjoins my bed. He is perfection. I want this moment never to end, but my heart beats faster with the thought that his eyes will open soon and he’ll greet me with that sleepy morning smile.
My son wakes and bumbles over to me; his autumn gold curls tickle my chin as tiny fingers dance up and down my arm.
His face looks up at me, flushed from sleep, and the color of his skin is mesmerizing—not peaches and cream, no, nothing so common. More like porcelain and pink roses.  Big round cheeks and cupid’s bow lips.  A Victorian doll of a child, straight out of a thousand classical paintings. Until you reach the eyes: mysterious Eastern eyes, dark brown like oil-slicked sand.  How did the eyes of a Persian prince wind up in the face of a European farm child?
​Who are you, little alien that’s invaded our lives? Where did you come from?
 “Good morning, Little Lovemonkey,” I whisper. “Your Mama loves you. Do you love your Mama?”
“Dikka Dikka!” my son replies. I think it means he loves me too. Or that he wants to watch cartoons.
We laze in bed a while longer as he giggles and cuddles, flops over onto a grumbling Daddy, rolls back to Mama’s breast. His fingers find mine. So strange, those miniaturized versions of my own hands, long and tapered at the tips. He grasps my thumb and pulls my hand over to cradle his face. Hazy morning light catches the pale white lacework of scars on my forearm and wrist. I’m going to have to explain that to him someday.  
I wonder what kind of lie I’ll tell.


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How To Avoid Your Maternity Room Copay

6/6/2015

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A rather dirty spoof of one of the many awkward moments surrounding childbirth.

If you’ve given birth to a child in a hospital, you’ve probably had this conversation. (If you’ve given birth to something other than a child in a hospital, you’ve probably had a very different conversation, and that’s your business). Try out my variations illustrated in the dialog below to avoid any maternity room charges.
​

Discharge Nurse: OK, you’re good to go, Here are your aftercare instructions. Remember, nothing in the vagina for 6-8 weeks.
New Mom: (Uncomfortable pause). What, nothing?
DN: That’s right.
NM: So, no...like, you know...marital aids?
DN: Right.
NM: No dildos.
DN: No.
NM: No massagers, buzzers, ticklers, vibrators?
DN: None of those things.
NM: Definitely no penises, then.
DN: Definitely not.
NM: Other vaginas?
DN: How would you...never mind. No.
NM: Jeez. So, no toys at all?
DN: No penises, no toys.
NM: Not even Yo Gabba Gabba? I mean, have you seen Muno? ‘Cause he looks like a giant…
DN: NO.
NM: No Legos?
DN: Abso-fu...g...k...not. Just no.
NM: Not even the occasional Beanie Baby?
DN: (Frustration showing). No way!
NM: How ‘bout the real baby? What if I want to put him back?
DN: That is REALLY not something you can do.
NM: Really? Total no-returns policy?
DN: Correct.
NM: (Sighs). You’re making this extremely difficult.
DN: It’s really not that hard to understand. Nothing in the vagina. For your health. It’s off limits.
NM: But that’s just a lot to ask, don’t you think? That we lose access to a whole body part for 6-8 weeks?
DN: Why? How many things do you need to use it for?
NM: (Momentarily at a loss, before remembering sarcasm). Well, it’s just such a safe, convenient place to store things, isn’t it?
DN: (With thinly veiled disgust). If you say so.
NM: I do! I mean, I usually keep my wallet in there. What am I supposed do with it now?
DN: (With utter loss of tact). Have you tried shoving it up your ass?
NM: Well, sure. I mean, where do you think I’ve been keeping it since I got here?
DN: (Glaring). Just take your discharge instructions and go, please.
NM: Fine. I guess I owe you guys a copay. Let me just get my wallet…
DN: That’s ok, really.
NM: No, I insist! (Begins to reach behind back).
DN: No, no, it’s fine. We’ll waive it. Really.
NM: Really?
DN: Really. Just go.
NM: Well, okay… (Goes on to begin happy life with new baby and off-limits vagina, several hundred dollars less in-debt than she thought she’d be).

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    "MamaBou"

    Family is sacred. They are my biggest challenge and my greatest inspiration. They amaze me every day.

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