Erika es linda
Erika es talentosa
Erika es única
Erika es increíble
Erika es cómica
Erika es animada
Erika es divertida
Erika es humilde
Erika es una bailarina fenomenal
Erika es mi amiga
¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡Erika no puede estar desaparecida!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ayudame-a-encontrar-a-Erika
Monday, November 17, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
A Gamer's Mother's Lament
I've hit the main switch and shut off all power to my house. Yes, I've thrown myself over the xbox console and refused to let go. Yes, I've even tackled my son to the ground in one of our many fights over video games.
Why is it so hard to find decent parental controls? Because the game manufacturers are electronic drug pushers. They have our children addicted and are taking our money to do it! So I decided to search for how to rig a kill switch for an xbox. Guess what? The manufacturers created a game called Killswitch, so I got a gaming video! Nice. The devil himself could take lessons from these guys.
I raised my son with no video or computer games from birth to about nine years old when I finally gave in. I told myself that I had held back during his formative years and that was the most crucial factor. Then, in high school, he required a computer to do his homework. At that point, how could I control the same medium he needs to do homework? But of course it proved a royal distraction and point of contention. Do I throw in the towel?
An episode of South Park provided some clues. Cesar Millan "stars" and, as the Dog Whisperer, he tames Cartman; his mom can't, as we all know. Calm assertive energy. Stop acting out of frustration and anger because then it's all steeped in too much emotion to be effective and indeed has the opposite effect.
In the face of uncertainty, not knowing what lies ahead for our kids, how will our lamer gamers survive? They'll be zombie meat!
The survivalists, or preppers as they now prefer to be called, have it right. Let's all teach our kids how to use weapons, survive in the woods, and mount an insurrection against the government as needed!
Maybe my kid's springbreak homework should be an essay entitled, "What Video Games have Taught me about Surviving the Apocalypse."
Why is it so hard to find decent parental controls? Because the game manufacturers are electronic drug pushers. They have our children addicted and are taking our money to do it! So I decided to search for how to rig a kill switch for an xbox. Guess what? The manufacturers created a game called Killswitch, so I got a gaming video! Nice. The devil himself could take lessons from these guys.
I raised my son with no video or computer games from birth to about nine years old when I finally gave in. I told myself that I had held back during his formative years and that was the most crucial factor. Then, in high school, he required a computer to do his homework. At that point, how could I control the same medium he needs to do homework? But of course it proved a royal distraction and point of contention. Do I throw in the towel?
An episode of South Park provided some clues. Cesar Millan "stars" and, as the Dog Whisperer, he tames Cartman; his mom can't, as we all know. Calm assertive energy. Stop acting out of frustration and anger because then it's all steeped in too much emotion to be effective and indeed has the opposite effect.
In the face of uncertainty, not knowing what lies ahead for our kids, how will our lamer gamers survive? They'll be zombie meat!
The survivalists, or preppers as they now prefer to be called, have it right. Let's all teach our kids how to use weapons, survive in the woods, and mount an insurrection against the government as needed!
Maybe my kid's springbreak homework should be an essay entitled, "What Video Games have Taught me about Surviving the Apocalypse."
Pieces of broken lives
The scattered and tattered scraps of clothing, personal items, toy pieces and even kitchen utensils--these used to inhabit their proper places and fulfill their useful tasks--now lie strewn and bereft of utility or future value.
I stoop for the 14th time this morning to pick up these pieces of their lives; I am putting them into a large trash bag and ridding my home of their broken energy. The children I tried to help are torn apart by the tornado of hurt that rules their lives and wounds all bystanders.
These objects bear silent witness to the child's grief and the adult's volatile self-hatred. The injuries to the soul are not healed; they only fester and explode in toxic venomous anger misdirected at the innocent and the helpers. Pain, blame, self-hatred all form partners in the cycle of abuse.
Yo te salvé del páramo y tu me muerdes la mano. How tragic that those who need help the most bite the helping hand extended to them. What were my motives in extending that hand? Was I being selfish or unselfish?
And now as I piece back together the tatters of my soul and mend my house, I fight the anger and resentment bubbling up inside. If I allow it to permeate my thoughts, then I lose the battle.
A year later, I can breathe, and I have far fewer regrets. So what if they took advantage of my good efforts and my stable home? They knew better than I that they weren't functional enough to be here, and yet I was able to provide a stepping stone and some respite while they regrouped and moved on to the next stop in their tragic young lives. Such was my life with the Aguilar family . . . sigh.
Two years later, I have no regrets. I acted on faith and good will. I wasn't exceptionally astute but now they all have their place in the world and hope springs again.
I stoop for the 14th time this morning to pick up these pieces of their lives; I am putting them into a large trash bag and ridding my home of their broken energy. The children I tried to help are torn apart by the tornado of hurt that rules their lives and wounds all bystanders.
These objects bear silent witness to the child's grief and the adult's volatile self-hatred. The injuries to the soul are not healed; they only fester and explode in toxic venomous anger misdirected at the innocent and the helpers. Pain, blame, self-hatred all form partners in the cycle of abuse.
Yo te salvé del páramo y tu me muerdes la mano. How tragic that those who need help the most bite the helping hand extended to them. What were my motives in extending that hand? Was I being selfish or unselfish?
And now as I piece back together the tatters of my soul and mend my house, I fight the anger and resentment bubbling up inside. If I allow it to permeate my thoughts, then I lose the battle.
A year later, I can breathe, and I have far fewer regrets. So what if they took advantage of my good efforts and my stable home? They knew better than I that they weren't functional enough to be here, and yet I was able to provide a stepping stone and some respite while they regrouped and moved on to the next stop in their tragic young lives. Such was my life with the Aguilar family . . . sigh.
Two years later, I have no regrets. I acted on faith and good will. I wasn't exceptionally astute but now they all have their place in the world and hope springs again.
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