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goldenraeofsun · 4 years ago

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Remember Me, Honeybee

Part I

Two hours into the farmers market, and Dean’s had enough. Even the gorgeous day outside, sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky, does nothing for him.

Next to him in their produce stall, Sam rearranges their vegetable display with all the intensity of Bobby Fischer facing off against the Soviets. He adjusts an eggplant a few inches to the left, eyes it critically, and moves it back where it was.

Yesterday, Dean got sunburned from too many hours in the sun harvesting. But before he could even think about a shower, a visitor pounded on their door because some neighbor ratted them out to local Fish and Wildlife. So on top of dealing with a peeling forehead and an aching back, Dean had to take care of Ms. Rosen nearly breaking and entering to get at Sam or his watercress - she wasn’t really clear on which was her priority.

Sam, the cowardly sasquatch, bolted the moment her car tires pulled up to their farm.

It took an hour to get Ms. Rosen to leave. First, Dean had to show her Sam’s pet watercress plants at the edge of their property. According to Ms. Rosen, they’re an invasive species, which Sam could’ve mentioned to Dean at some point. Then, Ms. Rosen explained the $150 fine - all the while heavily implying she could dock a few bucks if left alone in a room with Sam.

Dean forked over the money. Sam’s virtue got to live to see another day.

At least Becky gave Dean plenty of blackmail material. If Sam pisses him off one more time, guess who’s getting Sam’s phone number faxed straight to her field office?

Dean was looking forward to sharing the whole story with Cas when they pulled up to the farmer’s market that morning. But his favorite beekeeper, potter, and candlestick maker is notably absent again.

As Hannah steps away from her stall to replenish her display, Dean seizes his chance. “Be right back,” he calls to Sam as he darts out behind their table.

When she catches sight of him, Hannah turns her back to lift a crate of soaps that would’ve left Dean sore for days. Goddamn angel strength.

“I may be a dumb human,” Dean starts, “but even I know that angels don’t get sick.” His voice drips with disdain. “Where’s Cas? The real reason, this time. Not that BS you fed me last week.”

Hannah sighs, her normally refined tawny wings fluttering in barely-concealed agitation. “He’s… indisposed.”

Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Cas has been here, rain or shine, every market for two whole friggin’ years. Is he,” he forces out the words, dread trickling down his spine, “dying or something?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head. “He’s not mortally ill. He’s just indisposed.”

Dean gawks at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You have customers,” Hannah says shortly.

Dean waves off a soccer mom armed with a bushel of kale and a hungry leer. “Sam’s handling the orders.” He points at the line in front of Sam, and the lady walks off in a huff.

“Is that right?” Hannah asks innocently once Dean’s attention darts back to her.

“Cut the crap,” Dean says sharply. “Why hasn’t Cas shown for the past two weeks? The real reason. None of that indisposed bullshit.”

Hannah sighs. “You’re keeping me from my own customers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So you’d better talk fast.”

Hannah makes a face like she smelled Sam’s post-Chipotle farts. “Castiel was cursed.”

“What?”

“Keep it down,” Hannah hisses, leaning in. “He - well, it’s a long story. Our cousin, an archangel, cursed him.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Hannah’s lips purse. “Gabriel has been very hard to contact for the details. He apparently thought Castiel was moping too loudly or too frequently. ”

“Moping?” Dean echoes, his brow furrowing. “Cas always seemed fine to me.”

Hannah shrugs. “Ask Gabriel. Now, if you don’t mind,” she lifts her nose into the air, wings straightening, “I have customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean retreats to his vegetable stand, his head swimming.

Dean never saw himself as a farmer until his health nut little brother decided to ditch his high-paying (and stressful) lawyer job to play Green Acres, and Dean, naturally, followed since there was no goddamn way Sam knew his way around a tractor. Sam was more likely to mow down his own gigantor foot than move a clod of dirt. Luckily, to Dean, an engine’s an engine.

At the farmers market, Sam’s booth was placed next to Cas’s. On their first day, Cas walked over with a complimentary jar of honey. He was stilted and awkward, sure, but he was also the first one to welcome them into the fold.

Lost in thoughts and worries about Cas, Dean almost gives a customer a twenty dollar bill instead of a one, blanks on when their summer squash will be in season, and accidentally rings up asparagus as broccoli.

“Look,” Sam says after apologizing for Dean’s latest mistake, “why don’t you head back and check on the tomatoes? It’s winding down here.”

Dean dubiously eyes the hubbub of people browsing vegetables.

Sam gives him a light shove towards their truck. “Just go. I know you don’t want to be here, anyway.”

Dean grimaces. “It’s that obvious?”

“To everyone and their grandmother,” Sam says under his breath.

Asparagus Man at the front of the line nods gravely.

“Thanks,” Dean says sourly to both of them.

“Go check on Cas,” Sam says as he gestures for the next customer to step up to the register. “Swing by and pick me up in a few hours.”

* * *

At the foot of the unpaved driveway up to Cas’s house, Dean cuts the engine. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, debating with himself. Cas might not want visitors.

But Dean brought pie.

Homemade, of course. And if it was supposed to celebrate Sam’s birthday tomorrow, what Cas doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Sam likes cake better, anyway, because he’s a freak.

Dean grabs the pie, shoves open the door, and strides up the dirt road to Cas’s house before he can talk himself out of it for good.

This is what you do for sick friends, anyway. Charlie drove all the way up to the city with chicken noodle soup, Settlers of Catan, and prime gossip on Benny’s on-and-off-again thing with Andrea when Dean had the flu a few years ago.

Dean is just being a good friend. It’s not weird.

He knocks on Cas’s cobalt blue door, his heart beating double-time behind his ribs as the seconds wear on with no answer.

Dean dawdles on Cas’s welcome mat. He tries again. Cas’s house isn’t exactly small, with its pottery studio in the basement and wax room in the back. Cas might be in his nest, on the can, or in his garden by the hives. Hell, with this mysterious curse, Cas might not be home at all - but stuck in some angel hospital being poked and prodded by docs. He probably should have squeezed Hannah for more details.

The door opens as Dean contemplates, for the hundredth time, bailing with his tail between his legs.

“Hello?” Cas says, peering curiously at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says, relieved. From one cursory look, Cas seems normal. His hair’s fucked up, of course. His dark wings are equally unkempt, feathers sticking out every which way. All typical Cas.

Cas blinks. His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. But no sound comes out.

“You’re up,” Dean says stupidly. Of course Cas is up, or he wouldn’t have been able to answer the damn door. Dean shifts his weight to his other foot. “Hannah mentioned you’d, uh, been cursed,” he says awkwardly.

Cas relaxes a fraction. “Ah, yes, I was.”

Dean gives Cas another once-over. “I just found out this morning, so I thought I’d stop by. Bring pie." He holds up the pie as evidence. "See how you are. But you look good.”

Cas squints at him, his head tilting. “Thank you?” he asks like he had a half-dozen responses in his head and chose that one at random.

“No prob.”

Cas’s gaze darts down to the pie in Dean’s hands for the first time. “Would you like to come in?”

Dean grins. “Yeah,” he says, stepping inside. “I’ll take this to the kitchen. I’m starving. Do you wanna eat it now?”

Cas gestures him forward. “This way.”

Dean throws him a funny look but follows him to the kitchen he’s been in about a hundred times before - for Cas’s annual Spring Equinox party, for a handful of dinners with other farmers in the area, for water breaks in between weeding Cas’s bee-friendly garden.

Afternoon sunlight from the beautiful day outside streams through the large windows that overlook the back porch and garden. It illuminates the kitchen table, absolutely covered with what looks like all of Cas’s beekeeping books.

Dean clears enough space for pie and strides over to the drawer for the baking utensils, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean hastily turns back around - only to find himself practically nose-to-nose with Cas.

Dean takes an instinctive step backwards, his ass smacking the drawer closed again. “Dude,” he says in a strangled voice. His heart pounds in his chest at the close proximity and intense look in Cas’s eye. “We talked about this. Personal space.”

Cas retreats, his brow furrowing. “My apologies,” he mumbles. “I must have misread the situation.”

“I - yeah - I guess,” Dean stutters as he grabs plates and stacks two forks on top.

Cas falls heavily into a seat at the kitchen table. Silently, he moves enough books around for them to sit and eat.

Dean eyes the haphazard piles as he takes his own seat. “D’you have a problem with one of the hives or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, his brow furrowing. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Dean snorts as he cuts them both slices. “I thought you knew everything about bees.”

Cas shoots him a dour look. “I did,” he says pointedly.

“Did?”

Cas fusses with a pamphlet on colony collapse. “I’m trying to catch up, but there is a lot of information to learn.”

Dean frowns. “Catch up to what?”

“To where I was,” Cas says, head tilting.

Dean sets the pie server down to focus on Cas, since he’s not making any goddamn sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas looks at him like Dean’s the one who lost his mind. “I don’t remember how to take care of them.” After a beat, he clarifies, “The bees. I’ve spent the better part of two weeks relearning how to maintain the hives, harvest honey, check if there is enough honey to harvest...” he drifts off, looking more than a little lost.

Dean blinks. “That’s the curse?” He grimaces as he forks off a generous corner of pie. “Dick move on Gabriel’s part. That’s your goddamn livelihood.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t just make me forget the bees.”

Dean chews at Cas thoughtfully. “What else? Please tell me you forgot that time with the goat and a hooker.”

Cas stares at him. “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean’s next bite of pie freezes halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean anything?” he demands.

“I didn’t think it needed explaining,” Cas says waspishly, as all the pieces finally fall into place for Dean. “I thought Hannah told you about it.” His feathers rustle against the back of his chair.

“Hannah only said you were cursed!” Dean flails, “Not that you have goddamned amnesia. Do you know what pie is? Do you know who I am?”

Cas blinks, a little taken aback by Dean’s reaction. “I retain my general knowledge. I know what pie is,” he says. “I don’t remember eating it, but I know it is meat or fruit wrapped in pastry.”

“Oh my god.”

Cas’s gaze falls to the uneaten pie in front of him. “And, no, I don’t know who you are.”

Dean blinks, all the blood draining from his face. He forces out, “You’re serious.”

“I’d hardly joke with a stranger,” Cas says frankly.

Dean lets his fork drop back to the plate with a clatter.

Cas peers at him curiously. “The curse erased all my personal memories, but I was assuming we were friends, is this right? You know your way around my house, and Hannah wouldn’t have divulged my condition to just anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly, “we’re friends. I - my brother and me, we have a stand next to yours at the farmer’s market.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Work colleagues, then.”

Dean snorts. “A little more than that.”

Cas bites his lip. “But you told me to respect your personal space. If we were -”

“Woah!” Dean cuts in before Memento can come up with any more bright ideas, “We’re close friends, alright?” he says before Cas can get another word out, “But not… like that.”

Dean doesn’t even know if Cas goes for humans. Most angels don’t. Cas never mentioned any romantic partners, and Dean never pressed. Better to keep that box locked up tight. Cas never shied away from giving his opinion to Dean or anyone else. He’s the most blunt, sincere person Dean knows - angel or human.

If he felt anything for Dean - the barest speck of more-than-friendly feelings, he’d have said something.

“Oh,” Cas says, and, behind him, his wings droop the smallest fraction.

Dean scans the table and pushes Cas’s worn copy of The How-To-Do-It Book of Bee-Keeping by Richard Taylor his way. “Test me.”

“What?”

Dean shovels more pie into his mouth. “As’ me anyfin’,” he mumbles.

Bemused, Cas opens the book to a random page. “How do you use a bee escape?” he reads aloud.

“Do you know what they are?” At Cas’s headshake, Dean holds his fingers about three inches apart, “They’re little plastic doodads with little bee-sized holes in the middle. You slide ‘em in the hive right before you’re about to harvest. Once they’re fitted, you smoke out the bees, one comb at a time. Once they’re out of the way, you can scrape off the honey.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Do you also keep bees?”

Dean can’t help his loud laugh. “God no,” he says as he closes his mouth around another bite of pie. “I’m just a farmer. But I’ve helped you out a few times.”

At least twice a month since Dean moved to this corner of semi-rural America, but who’s counting. Honey is only harvested once a year, but Cas can always use an extra set of hands in his garden. Or around the house. Dean’s worked off more than one argument with Sam by kneading clay in Cas’s pottery studio basement.

“So you know all this from me,” Cas says dubiously.

“Sure do,” Dean says, smacking his lips as he debates another slice of Cas’s get-well-soon pie. “You’re a good teacher, and once you get on a roll about the bees, it’s kinda hard to shut you up.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Dean says as he cuts himself another (smallish) slice. “I look hot in a beekeeper suit, anyway.”

Cas frowns, confused. “Do most humans find baggy coveralls and heavy veils sexually appealing?”

Dean snorts. “That was a joke.”

Dean doesn’t mention that he finds the beekeeper getup hot as hell as long as it’s Cas wearing it.

It’s just - Cas doesn’t usually bother with the veil since he likes to have a full range of vision when caring for his bees. Dean once let a whole comb drop on his foot at the sight of Cas bent over, wholly concentrated on the hive, a barely-there smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes were luminous in the bright sunlight, and every few seconds he would lick his lips, probably to wipe away the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip.

“Oh,” Cas says, a faint blush touching his cheeks. His gaze drops to his plate, and his wings sag behind him.

Dean mentally kicks himself. Cas might still have all a whole encyclopedia shoved in his brain, but jokes will fly right over his head like so many of Cas’s precious bees. Since Dean started hanging around, he had been getting better with the jokes and references, but Total Recall Cas got that goddamn factory reset, so Dean has to cool it for now.

“Forget it,” he tells Cas. “I’m an asshole.”

Cas squints across the table at him. “You are not.”

“Huh?”

Cas carefully spears off a bit of pie. “You came by to check on me, offer me food,” he slips his fork into his mouth, eyes closing as he savors the tart cherries and buttery pastry, “stay and talk.”

“I, mean, yeah,” Dean says, wrongfooted, “we’re friends. ‘S the least I could do.”

Cas has another bite. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” Dean says before he crams the rest of his slice into his mouth. He studies Cas as they both eat, an uncomfortable foreboding settling deep in his stomach. Now he sees it, how Cas doesn’t look at him with any familiarity. It’s more like, to Cas, Dean is some fucked up jigsaw puzzle slash zoo animal. Eventually, Dean has to ask, “Are you going to get your memories back?”

Cas shakes his head, his expression hardening. “I’m not sure.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious?” He braces both elbows on the table. “But you were cursed - there’s gotta be a way to break it. That’s how curses work, right?”

Cas exhales a slow sigh. “Gabriel did say there was a way to break it.”

“And you haven’t yet?” Dean demands, almost offended on Cas’s - his Cas’s - behalf. “You’re okay forgetting your whole life?”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you insane?” he hisses, his feathers puffing up like an angry cat. “Of course I am not ‘okay,’” he says, air quotes and all, which Dean hasn’t seen since he told Cas they were lame. (He felt bad about it for a week afterward and gave Cas a free apology pumpkin. First of the season.)

“I am able to navigate the outside world as well as a human toddler,” Cas continues heatedly. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks?”

Dean huffs an impatient breath. “What have you tried so far?”

Cas grimaces. “Gabriel said it could be broken like all curses could be broken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have no clue,” Cas says frankly. “I spent a week in Heaven’s archives and libraries. The most common way to break curses is by consuming a stone taken from the stomach of a goat -”

Dean makes a gagging noise.

“-or bathing in the blood of a virgin at the new moon.”

“Not any less gross,” Dean says emphatically. “Where the hell are you going to get virgin blood? Are they talking about, like, a whole virgin? Or does born again count?”

Cas shakes his head. “The new moon was four days ago.”

Dean frowns. “Did you have to do the blood thing?”

From the look on Cas’s face, Dean isn’t going to make him watch Carrie anytime soon.

“So I went to more obscure magic,” Cas continues. “I tried bathing in a natural source of water. And then I ran a bath and filled it with salt, since salt repels evil.”

“All I’m hearing is lots of bathing so far.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I lit sage in every room and burned three types of wood. I wore an evil eye bracelet. I sprinkled consecrated water blended with honey over the threshold.”

“No dice?”

Cas throws him a baleful look. “I have ants now.”

Dean snorts. “Well that sucks,” he says, since what else can you say when your best friend swaps all his memories for a Bug's Life?

Cas sighs. “From my notes and research, I can’t leave the hives completely unattended, so I’ve spent the past few days trying to figure out how not to kill them,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen table. “Once I’ve determined if the bees will survive on their own, I can look back into the curse.”

Dean purses his lips. “Have you prayed to Gabriel? Tried to convince him to take it back?”

“Every day since it happened,” Cas says, his face somber.

“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s empty plate, “I can’t help with the curse stuff since I save the teen witch adventures for Sabrina. I can help with the bees, though, if you want.” He gets to his feet and dumps the plates in the sink.

Once his back is turned, he frowns as he thinks his words over. Who knows if this Cas actually wants him around? This Cas doesn’t know him from Adam.

To the dishes Dean says, “The next beekeeper is a few towns over. I could give him a call for you, if you’d rather have him. Cain’s mostly retired, so he’d probably have the time to show you the ropes.”

“Is Cain an angel?”

Dean laughs over the splashing water. “No, he’s a crotchety old bastard who would rather live with bees than people. You get along.” He sets the rinsed plates out to dry and faces Cas. “I’m sure you have his number in your phone too, come to think of it.”

Cas meets Dean’s cautious gaze with his usual soul-searing stare. “I wouldn’t mind if you helped me. Maybe I could call Cain if there are any advanced problems we can’t figure out together.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds like a plan.” He jerks his head towards the backyard. “You wanna get suited up?”

“Now?” Cas asks, alarmed.

“No time like the present,” Dean says as he walks out of the kitchen without waiting for Cas to follow. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”

* * *

Cas stares at his beekeeper suit, hanging in its usual place on his screened back porch, next to his gardening gloves.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “You’ve got a spare in your shed, so I’ll grab it on the way.”

Cas picks up the suit like it’s about to bite him.

“’S a good thing I’m here,” Dean says as Cas slowly unzips the front. “It’s always a bitch to get your wings covered.”

Cas’s wings slump. “I have a feeling this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Hey,” Dean says, taking a step forward, “no, it’s your bees. You love them.”

Cas frowns. “But I don’t remember how.”

Dean grins. “Then you’re a lucky son of a bitch who gets to fall in love with something all over again.” He sighs wistfully. “What I wouldn’t give to erase Star Wars from my brain and watch it again for the first time.”

“What is Star Wars?”

“A trilogy of movies from the 70s and 80s,” Dean says, his smile widening.

Cas nods. “I’ll have to rewatch them, then.”

“Damn right,” Dean says. “I gave you the DVDs for my birthday last year, so they should be around here somewhere.”

“For your birthday?” Cas asks, eyebrows rising. “Isn’t gift-giving normally the other way around?”

Dean shrugs. “But I’d been bugging you to watch ‘em with me for years. Trust me, it was an awesome birthday.”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s not sure where to poke holes in Dean’s story first, so Dean reaches for the wing covers. “I think we should do the hard part first.”

“You’re currently the expert,” Cas says as he sets the suit aside.

Dean frowns as he takes in Cas’s black wings, reflecting muted tones of magenta, purple, cobalt, and green. Normally, Cas rocks the sex wing look - a few feathers askew here and there like someone raked their fingers through them - but now his wings look more like Cas stuck his alulas in an electrical socket.

Without thinking, Dean says, “It’s gonna be hard to get them in the wing covers. They’re a little messed up, dude.” As Cas’s face falls, Dean adds quickly, “Nothing a little grooming can’t fix.”

Cas flushes. “I haven’t been able to reach my whole wingspan on my own. Hannah offered-” he breaks off, his gaze skittering around to settle just over Dean’s left shoulder. “But I don’t know her, not really, so I was uncomfortable accepting.”

Dean takes a step back. “I mean, you don’t need to do it. I’ll have to touch a couple feathers to get these on you, if you’re okay with that.”

Cas swallows. “No, you’re right. My wings are a mess.”

Dean’s fingers practically tingle with the urge to reach out and smooth down the closest feathers, but he shoves his free hand deep into his pocket instead.

“Can you help me?” Cas asks.

Dean quietly dies inside.

Cas’s wings flutter in anticipation, and Dean is so, so weak.

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly as he drops the wing cover and approaches Cas’s back. “You sure, man? I - I’ve never done this before.”

Cas turns his head. “Never?”

Dean clenches his hands into fists. Don’t touch. Not until he says so. Dean can keep his goddamn hands to himself. Cas deserves that much.

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” Cas asks softly. “I know how, since it’s only personal memories about my life that seem to have been affected.”

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, a hundred and one wing kink porn videos flashing through his head like popup ads. “No,” he coughs, “I know the mechanics.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

Dean fidgets in place. “‘S like picking beans, right? Don’t pull on them too hard. They’ll come off if they want to come off. Make sure nothing is sticking out at weird angles.”

Cas makes a face. “Did you just compare my wings to legumes?”

“Maybe?” Dean says defensively. “Look, I know vegetables, and I know what your wings are supposed to look like. What else do you want from me?”

Cas’s mouth opens, but no words come out. With a sigh, he faces forward, presenting his wings for Dean.

Dean inhales a deep breath. Christ, his hands are goddamn shaking. Get a fucking grip, Winchester. He lightly touches the base of Cas’s left wing.

Cas shivers, the feathers rippling.

Dean yanks his hand back.

“Sorry,” Cas says sheepishly. “You took me by surprise. Please continue.”

Gently, Dean grazes the base of the wing again. The feathers rustle like under a moderate breeze, but Cas doesn’t tell him to stop, so Dean keeps going. He feels along the surface of Cas’s wings, most of the feathers slipping, glossy smooth, under his fingertips - until he catches the first snag. Nerves rocketing up to eleven, Dean tugs lightly on the first feather out of place.

Cas sucks in a breath.

It comes loose, and Dean has a fleeting, stupid thought to steal it for himself. But he lets it flutter to the floor.

Dean soldiers on, biting his lip as he tries to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of feathers and burying his face in Cas’s wings. Meticulously, painstakingly, he combs through the mess. As he moves closer to the second joint, Cas’s feathers, which had been subtly shifting the whole time, stiffen.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Cas nods, stilted. “Please continue,” he says, his voice rough.

Dean frowns. If Cas is uncomfortable and doesn’t want to tell him, Dean’s not going to be the asshole who turns a blind eye to the signs. He withdraws his hands, and Cas’s wings -

They flare out, seeking Dean’s touch.

Without thinking, Dean blurts an astounded, “Dude.”

“Apologies,” Cas says, and, from this angle, Dean has primetime viewing of the back of Cas’ traffic light-red neck. His wings retreat to fold stiff as a board behind Cas’s back.

“Hey, no,” Dean says as he lays a hand along Cas’s wing, petting it gently. “I just wanted to check in with you.” He grins lopsidedly, not that Cas can see him. “Communication is important.”

Cas coughs. “Indeed,” he says, and his voice still sounds off. “Please continue. I,” he breaks off, turning a little in place so Dean can see half of his face, “I was enjoying it.”

“Good,” Dean says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I - uh, me too.”

Cas blinks. “You were?” He frowns. “Grooming is… boring. A chore.”

“Not for humans,” Dean says as he picks up where he left off. “We don’t have big fancy wings to lug around everywhere. They’re-”

“What?” Cas waits, clearly expecting an answer.

Dean sighs. “Cool,” he supplies lamely. “Your wings are cool.”

Dean can’t see Cas’s face with his back turned, but his wings fluff up ever so slightly, so Dean counts it as a win. “I’m glad you think so,” Cas says quietly.

“’Course,” Dean says, easy as pie. He pulls on another feather, and, when it doesn’t come out, tucks it back into its proper place, “I’ve never seen an angel with wings like yours. Malachi’s got dark grey ones, and I thought they were your shade of black, but they’re not. Plus, he’s an asshole.”

Cas chuckles. “I don’t see how him being an asshole has anything to do with his wing color.”

“No, but, if you ever run into him - an angel with dark grey wings - now you know.”

“So you’re only looking out for me.”

“You don’t know this yet,” Dean tells him conspiratorially, “but I’m awesome.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that for myself.”

Thank God Cas can’t see Dean’s face. Equally embarrassed and pleased, Dean rambles, “You should also watch out for Metatron - the white-winged dude who runs the thrift shop down the road. He’s been angling to set up shop at the farmers market for fucking ever even though he has a storefront for all his crap. Whoever said white wings meant purity was full of shit because Metatron’s a douche.”

Cas laughs, and Dean nearly slumps over in relief.

He can still make Cas laugh.

“Hannah, she’s okay,” Dean continues as he combs through the rest of Cas’s secondaries and coverts before he gets to the primaries, large and built for flight, and completely within Cas’s reach to groom himself. “But her partner, Duma, hates you for some reason, so I’d steer clear of her.”

Cas’s wings dip a few inches. “It doesn’t sound like I’m on good terms with many angels.”

Dean lightly runs his palm over Cas’s flight feathers - while he’s back here, he might as well. “I guess not,” he admits because Cas is right, “but they’ve all got massive sticks up their asses, so you’re better off.”

“They’re family.”

“They’re dicks,” Dean corrects. “Come on, you’re goddamn cursed with amnesia , and not one is here helping you out? Dick move for dick angels,” he finishes.

“Hannah visited.”

“Like I said, Hannah’s okay,” Dean says as he straightens up.

“At least you’re here,” Cas points out.

“Yeah,” Dean says bitterly as he brushes out bits of fluffy down near the base of Cas other wing, “After two weeks.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

“How?” Cas asks, sounding baffled.

Dean scoffs as he cards his fingers through the shorter feathers near the bone of Cas’s wing, “You didn’t show at the farmers market. You always show.”

“But-”

Dean shakes his head. “I should’ve known something was up.” He yanks a little too hard on a feather, and the brittle shaft breaks between his thumb and pointer finger. Dean lets it fall to the floor in disgust. “But Hannah said you were sick, and I didn’t know if you were the type who wanted company or everyone to stay the hell away. And then I talked to Sammy, and he said angels don’t really get sick like we do.” He exhales a slow breath, consciously holding himself back from tearing any more feathers out. Cas doesn’t deserve that, especially after all the shit he’s dealing with.

“We do get sick,” Cas says, his voice breaking through Dean’s morose reminiscing of the past week, “But never with the type of illnesses that can be treated outside of Heaven.”

“That’s what Sammy told me,” Dean says heavily.

“You were worried?”

Dean pokes him in the muscular part of the wing. “Of course I was worried.”

Cas’s head tilts, but not enough that Dean can make out his expression. “Because we’re friends.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “because we’re friends.” He tugs on a few more feathers, and one comes loose. He holds it between his fingers for a beat, rubbing his thumb along the vane. With a sigh, he moves onto Cas’s other flight feathers. He gives them a few long strokes, unable to help his smile as he feels at the power, the potential, all hidden in Cas’s wings. But, eventually, he has to straighten up.

“All done,” he says with forced cheer as Cas turns around to face him.

Cas blinks a few times like he’s coming out of a trance. “Thank you,” he says gruffly.

He spreads his wings.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest, and his awe must show all over face, judging by Cas’s barely-there smirk. But, dammit, Dean’s going to enjoy the sight. Cas never puts himself on display like this, preferring to play the nerdy beekeeper in a trench coat rather than an almighty Angel of the Lord.

Cas turns his head to inspect Dean’s work. He gives an experimental flap, sweeping all the old feathers littering the floor up into the air. “Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely. He folds his wings back, and Dean’s heart aches for something he never had in the first place.

“Don’t - don’t mention it,” Dean chokes out.

A fluffy piece of down drifts down to settle on Cas’s nose. He goes cross-eyed to keep it in view.

Dean cracks up. Grinning, he reaches up to brush away the offending bit of down.

Cas catches his arm in an iron grip, his own face oddly intense.

“Cas?”

But before Dean can finish his sentence, Cas pulls him closer and seals their mouths together.

Dean lets out a muffled (completely manly) noise of surprise against Cas’s lips before muscle memory takes over. As Dean kisses back, Cas makes a light soothing rumble in the back of his throat, his touch gentle and warm. Dean’s other hand grasps desperately at Cas’s shirt, anchoring him in place. An electric, bubbly feeling is exploding in his chest, a wild kind of joy Dean normally would tamp down, tell himself, watch out for the other shoe to drop.

Other shoes like Cas’s missing memory.

Dean freezes, and it takes him a long moment to realize Cas isn’t moving either. His grip on Dean’s arm has gone slack. Dean opens his eyes to find Cas’s eyes wide open and glowing with an electric blue light.

Fuck.

Dean’s watched his fair share of angel-on-angel porn and more than his fair share of angel-on-human porn, and kissing’s not supposed to do that.

Dean takes a stumbling step back. “Cas?” he tries.

But Cas doesn’t move. He doesn’t give any sign he heard Dean at all.

Dean falls forward, tripping over his feet. He grips Cas, hard, by the shoulders. With his heart in his throat, he gives Cas a small shake. “Cas?” he tries again, and his voice sounds alien to his own ears, loud and breathy with his panic. He shakes him harder. “Cas!”

Several agonizing seconds pass, and the light slowly dims from behind Cas’s eyes, leaving behind his normal blue.

“Dean?”

Dean’s knees nearly give out with relief. “Hey,” he says weakly, “Nice to have you back, buddy.”

Cas blinks a few times. He swallows, a strange expression coming over his face.

“You okay?” Dean demands. “What the fuck was that?”

Cas stares at him. “That was the curse breaking.”

Read Part II here!

#profoundnet #angel castiel #beekeper castiel #farmer dean #fluff #wing grooming #amnesia #mutual pining #friends to lovers #rae writes fic

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letters-iwillnevergiveyou · 6 years ago

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New Years Eve Bulls7$*t

Dec. 31 2018

So you did the unthinkable, the unimaginable. You actually left me on New Years Eve at home by myself. I knew there was a big possibility this would happen. You said you had business to take care of but after I asked you not to leave me alone on New Years you ended up telling me you were staying home because I couldn't go with you to take care of this business. I don't understand you. You always tell me that but then I find out you pick up D.J. and she goes all over with you. So you leave me home alone constantly and take someone else with you, all while telling me you are alone. And you wonder why I can't trust you. You also said you were alone yesterday and couldn't call me. Come to find out that too was a lie. D.J. was with you. You could have called me all along you just didn't.

Anyway getting off track. Tonight. We go to the post office to send off records I'm selling. My dead husbands records I might add. To help us fund this trip to Belize. You didn't get tracking numbers, or a receipt. I'm totally screwed. All these people are expecting a product and by a certain time. I'm already a month late because of you. You couldn't go back in and get the numbers because they closed. Then you take me to get food. Finally. I told you I was hungry at 12. It was after 6 by this time. Then we go home. You took your apartment key off the ring so I could get inside, telling me you were going to finish hooking up your stereo. I stupidly listened and believed you. After I went inside you took off. The only reason I knew is because I was using your mobile hotspot and when it disconnected I looked outside and you were gone. Now here I am with no phone, my boyfriend ditched me, my car that you have been using while yours has been broke down is now broke down, and I'm fucked again. How can you not see how fucked up this is? I should have taken your car and left you here to sit a couple days with no phone, no transportation and no money. I bet you wouldn't like it. What is wrong with you? How can you treat any human being like this let alone someone you supposedly love? I don't understand. I keep thinking maybe you just went up the street to your buddys house. Maybe you just needed a minute away. Maybe you will make sure to be back before midnight and kiss me, bring in the new year with me, the woman you love and want to do life with. But honestly, you don't do life with me now. You lead a triple life. There is the life you have with me. The one where I am like this secret. You talk a little, have sex with me, then immediately take a shower and off you go. You either stay in the bathroom on the phone or getting high, or you leave. There is the life of the drug dealer. You hang out with your friends and get high. You drive all over the place and do favors for people if there is money or drugs in it for you. Then there is the nice sweet man you pretend to be to the rest of the world. The man you tried to trick me into thinking you were. The one who says the right stuff and pretends to care about you and what you have been through. The guy who anticipates your needs and is there for you when you need him. He is a good dad and just misunderstood. He doesn't exist. He only exists in the 16 dating apps he is signed up in. You know the ones you told me were a "hobby" that you would give up when I told you it hurt me for you to talk to other women that way. Yeah those. I wonder if Sandy ever even cheated on you or if it was you that cheated. I have her number I should find out. Oh who cares I guess. It doesn't matter. You have hurt me more emotionally than I have ever been hurt in my life. I read an article online about signs that you are emotionally abused. Check it out. It's eerily familiar....

10 Brutal Signs Your Man Is An Emotionally Abusive Jerk

By Dr Annie Kaszina

How do you spot an emotional abuser? Most likely when a guy first comes a-wooing, he won’t be carrying his, “I’m an emotionally abusive man” placard. So how do you identify him before you get hurt?

Here are the tell tale signs that he is an emotionally abusive man:

1. He shows a lack of respect. Not all emotionally abusive men will show you a lack of respect from Day 1. Some will turn on the charm for a while — others won’t. But how do they behave toward other people and speak about them? If your boyfriend is critical or contemptuous of other people, be very aware that you have a short shelf life before you become those other people.

2. He always tells incredible hard luck stories about his past. Every emotionally abuser worth his salt has a great hard luck story about his tough past — and, boy, does he tell it well. Telling you his hard luck story is a neat ploy. You only have to respond like the uber-caring, empathic, trusting person you are for him to know you are his perfect… prey.

3. You notice worrying back stories about women. Yep, he’s the one who’s suffered at the hands of women who didn’t understand nor appreciate him. He’s been let down, treated badly, exploited, and robbed blind by past wives and/or girlfriends. His bitterness about these predatory b**ches sends a clear message about how he wants you to behave: no demands, no expectations, just 100% commitment to healing his hurts.

4. He has a bad behavior — or three — that needs to be fixed. That could include drug taking, alcohol abuse, leering at women, tight-fistedness, or anger issues. He’s a little bit broken, but hey, your middle name is Ms. Fix-Him.

5. He’s domineering, and/or jealous, controlling and self-centered. You can tell yourself he’s just “being a man,” but the reality is that he is establishing a power (im)balance in the relationship. It works on the principle that he has the lion’s share of the power, and you get the lion’s share of responsibility.

6. He gets star billing in the relationship — with all that, that entails — while you get to play the bit parts. He gets most of the airplay, and the limelight, etc. as befits the star. It won’t be too long before he lets you know that your job is to keep his trailer nice and tidy.

7. He has a short fuse. “Slow to anger,” “quick to forgive and forget,” and willing to own up to his own mistakes, are NOT accurate descriptions of him. He’s easily upset, he overreacts, and as he tells it, the problem was not of his making in the first place — so, he rarely has to get his head around the “S” word (that’s “SORRY” to you and me). He may well be a “potty mouth.” He certainly doesn’t react in a measured, adult way when he feels peeved and aggrieved.

8. He’s not 100 percent reliable, consistent or predictable. “Something comes up” or he’s feeling too tired or he’s been really, really busy. Showing consideration for you, your wishes, and your feelings is not his top priority.

9. He doesn’t let you have boundaries. He asks inappropriate personal questions early on. He rushes you and the relationship. He sets himself up as the authority on every area of your life — including family, friends, your working life, and even your finances.

10. He sets off warning bells in your gut. There was that moment right at the start when, from somewhere deep inside you, there bubbled up the awareness: “YUK. This guy is bad news.” Sadly, that feeling didn’t come with a 20-page PDF report, a government health warning, or even banner headlines anywhere you looked. So what did you? You ignored that feeling. “Listen, if it can’t give me a chapter and verse, why should I pay attention to it? It’s making a lot less noise than he does. Besides, he might be my last chance at happiness, right?” Your intuition doesn’t obsess about the past, or worry about the future. It simply comes to the right conclusion in the present moment. Its predictions are far more clear-sighted than yours are.

If you want to keep yourself safe from emotionally abusive men, you have to learn how to spot them. Emotionally abusive partners create massive mental, emotional and financial havoc in their victims’ lives. This article is here to spare you heartache and disappointment. Don’t be too blind to see them.

.............................................................................Wow. All I can say is wow. So lets break it down.

1. Lack of respect. I don't think I have ever seen you show anyone respect except when you talk about Charlie. Which comes from abuse of your own as a child.

2. Tells hard luck stories. Oh my god I won't even go there. You have a poor woe is me story to excuse every bad behavior.

3. Worrying back stories about other women. Yep! Helloo! The most horrible stories about the women from your past.

4. Bad behavior. Do I even need to go there?

I'll use short answers. Lying, cheating, manipulating, drugs, etc. etc. etc.

5. Domineering and/or jealous controlling and self centered. 150% yes yes yes. You make it very clear you are the boss. All these rules for me that just don't apply to you.

6. Star billing in the relationship. Umm ya. It's all about you. Always is.

7. Easily upset, overreacts, doesn't take responsibility. You get mad at me when I simply tell you how I feel. Or how your actions hurt me. You never apologize. You don't ever take responsibility. It's always someone elses fault or my fault. You will do something fucked up to me and it somehow is my fault. Every fucking time.

8. Not 100% reliable consistent or predictable. This is you. I never know what you are going to do. Even when you try to do better it might only last a day, a week, a month maybe an hour even. Point is, I never know what you are going to do. And you don't show you care about my feelings or needs no matter how clear I relay them to you. I am last on your priority list if I'm there at all. i.e. TONIGHT FOR EXAMPLE

9. The first part of this one eh not so much but the part about you being the authority on every area of my life is spot on. You don't let me have boundaries. You will tell off my entire family if you don't agree with them and my relationship with them. I have ostracized my entire support system because of you. I had it pretty good. My mother in law and I had a great relationship, so did me and my mom and sister. Now I have no one but you. Thanks for that.

10. Sets off warning bells in my gut. Yes, you did. From the very beginning. There was just something always nagging at me telling me you were full of shit. Like how anytime you did something shitty and I would try to talk to you about it, before I could say anything you would distract me by telling me something I wanted to hear. In fact the night you told me you were falling in love with me was one of those times. I was mad at you and said we needed to talk. I was about to tell you whats what when you blurt out you're falling in love with me and that i intimidated you and you didn't know how to act around me. Very fucking smooth.

So there you have it. I am officially the victim of emotional abuse. I never thought I would ever again be in a position to be abused ever again. Yet here I am. The stupid part is that if you were truly remorseful and made an effort I would stay. I would try to make this work. But who am I kidding? You don't love me and I'm not sure you are even capable of loving anyone. J---n lives to love and look after J---n. Ugh I'm fucking done with this entry. Worst New Years Eve I have ever fucking had. If you loved me you would want to be with me.

#alone tonight #new years eve #liar #shitty boyfriend #drugs over me #im done

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kidzstation-blog · 6 years ago

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How to Improve Attention Spans

If you're saying, "Focus!" more than usual, read on for creative and constructive ways to increase your kid's attention.

My 5-year-old son, Walker, pays attention only when he wants to. I'm showing him how to make the letter "A" for what seems like the millionth time. I say, "Start at the top, go down, and make a line across." As I'm talking, he's looking at everything except at what he's doing. He fidgets and plays with his pencil. I keep pulling his attention back to what we're doing and my constant refrain is "Pay attention!" but I'm losing my patience. He listens when I read his favorite books, and he listens to his swim teacher when she tells him to extend his arms to improve a stroke, but this is an exercise in frustration.

Child development experts say that, on average, a 4- or 5-year-old child should be able to stay focused on a task for two to five minutes times the year of their age. So, young kids should be able to focus between 4 and 20 minutes, possibly more, depending on the task. But this rule of thumb, just like any guideline for raising children, depends on the situation. "Attention span has to be contextualized," says Neal Rojas, M.D., a developmental behavioral pediatrician at the University of California, San Francisco. "Are we talking about the first thing in the morning, the middle of day, before naptime, before bedtime? I tell [parents] that they will see a variation throughout the day. Attention span is elastic."

Give Attention to Get Attention

How much attention a child gives a task also depends on whether he is enjoying himself. Many children struggle when asked to do something they don't want to do. "The first time you introduce an activity that is more important to you than to your child, you are testing your creativity and flexibility as a parent and teacher," Dr. Rojas explains. This is where the struggle lies for many parents, because kids entering school have to do more structured, repetitive, and academic tasks, such as writing their names or sounding out letters. Walker and I certainly bump heads on this a lot. Some afternoons, I may want him to work on learning sight words but he'll want to crash his Matchbox cars together on the family room floor. Still, this isn't necessarily a bad thing. "Playing with cars is intrinsically motivating for kids," says Margret Nickels, Ph.D., a clinical psychologists and the director of the Center for Children & Families at the Erikson Institute in Chicago. "There are 5-year-olds who can play with Legos for 30 minutes but who can't sit still to write their names."

So a little creativity can go a long way in turning something dull into something fun. Instead of insisting that my son write the letter "A" with a pencil in his workbook, I can ask him to write it with chalk, shape it with Play-Doh, or even trace it with paint on a big easel, says Mary Doty, a kindergarten teacher at Waimea Country School on the Big Island of Hawaii. "Workbooks can be overwhelming for children, so make [your] own ABC book," Doty suggests. "Cut pictures out of newspapers or magazines [of things] that start with 'A' or look through magazines to see how many 'As' can be found. Use blocks to make the letter 'A.' All of this helps with fine motor skills -- and it's more interesting.' Even playing I Spy and Red Light Green Light, board games, and memory games can strengthen attention muscles. And parents should take time to notice small and interesting details in their surroundings, which shows a child how to pay attention. During a walk, parents can stop and point out the colors of flowers they see or talk about the shape and feel of the rocks they pick up.

To get a child's attention, parents must also give attention. "It's easy for a parent to get stuck in a rut. Our attention is often scattered," Dr. Rojas says. "But if our attention is scattered, and we can't bring ourselves back to the moment, we can't expect a child to be able to do so." Being in close physical proximity while giving clear and concise instructions helps children focus better on what is being said. "The best way to get them to pay attention is to be physically close to the child. Don't shout requests from the kitchen to the living room," Dr. Nickels says. "Go into the living room, stand in front of your child, make eye contact, be at eye level or touch their shoulder, and say 'I need you to do this now.' " Dr. Rojas says, "If I stop and look at my child and say, 'Hey, Alex, look at me. What do you need to be doing right now?' He'll say, 'Reading'. Then, I'll say, 'Show me you know what you need to do.' "

How to Decrease the Distractions

Parents should also be aware if something is getting in the way of a child paying attention. Is she hungry or tired? To combat hunger or fatigue, give your child a snack before she starts homework or any structured task. Make sure the snack is a healthy one, rather than one loaded with sugar and fat. According to the Mayo Clinic, some smart choices include whole-grain pretzels, raw veggies dipped in fat-free dressing or hummus, yogurt, and peanut butter spread on a banana or apple. A good night's sleep is important as well, so make sure your child is getting enough rest. And many kids need a little break when they come home from school. "Everyone needs downtime. It helps us to come back and focus. If kids don't have downtime and they're overscheduled, they may plead for downtime through their behavior," Dr. Rojas says. "They may go against the routine or demands we're making, [which tells] us they need some wiggle room for their minds to wander and relax."

If siblings distract each other, have them work in separate rooms. Betsy Hiatt, a mother of six in Olympia, Washington, knows the importance of kids paying attention. Four of her youngest children are two sets of twins, ages 6 and 8. Her 6-year-old twins have difficulty paying attention in school and at home, but one of her 8-year-olds, who used to have a short attention span, is getting better as he matures. Her strategy is to set up regimented but separate routines. While one child is practicing the piano in the living room, another child is working on homework in a room next to the kitchen, yet another is eating a snack in the kitchen, and another is reading in a nook in the kitchen. Although this strategy may seem a bit like musical chairs, it's working for Hiatt because she is able to give each child individual attention. "I have tried having everyone all in the same room, and it can work, but that tends to get chaotic and counterproductive," Hiatt says. "I figure the kids have been in a classroom setting all day and they all kind of want one-on-one [time] with mom."

Hiatt has her older twins help the younger two stay focused. She doesn't allow any of her children to watch TV or play on the computer until all of them are finished with their homework; this motivates them to help each other keep their minds on the tasks because they all want free time with the TV and computer games. "You have to keep directing them, but you also have to let kids figure things out on their own," she says. "So parents should not give up talking to their kids about the importance of paying attention. Even if though they don't seem like they are listening, they are."

Children can tune out and stop paying attention when they think a task is too hard for them. They may need instructions broken into small steps, Dr. Nickels says. For example, instead of telling a child to clean his room, it might be better to say, "First, please pick up all of your Legos and then I'll come back and tell you what you need to do next." Sometimes even illustrating a routine on paper and posting it on the wall can serve as one good visual reminder instead of constant missed verbal reminders, Dr. Rojas says. Keep in mind that that giving short reminders is more positive and works better than long-winded explanations, yelling, or guilt tripping. And remember to praise the children's efforts. "A lot of times in our culture, we praise the outcome. We say 'Great job, look what you can do.' We ? don't focus on how wonderful it is that the child put effort into something," Dr. Nickels says. "Instead of saying 'You didn't write your name quite right, or the letter 'H' goes like this, we should say 'You try so hard to hold your pen and stay within the line. That's wonderful.' "

Research has also shown that exercise can help kids pay attention. A Centers for Disease Control and Prevention research review from 2010 revealed that elementary school children who took breaks from classwork to be active during the day could concentrate better on schoolwork. Other studies have reported that parents who make exercise a priority in their family life will have more physically active kids; parents should help their children find a sport they like, provide outdoors toys such as balls and jump ropes, and set aside time each day for activities such as going on a walk or riding a bike together.

Is an Attention Problem the Same as ADHD?

Another way to encourage children to be more active is by limiting TV time, which can sap a young child's attention span. A 2011 study published in Pediatrics found that SpongeBob SquarePants and other fast-paced cartoons shortened the attention spans of 4-year-olds. "Overstimulation and exposure to television, computers, and video games can really hurt attention spans," Doty says. "I can't tell you how many times I have had to stand on my head to get some of my students' attention because they had been babysat by the television." The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends no more than one to two hours per day of total high-quality screen time, including TV, videos, computers, phones, and video games. (And kids under age 2 should not be exposed to any screen time and other entertainment media.)

Instead of turning on the TV or handing over the smartphone to your children, have them focus on other activities that will help increase attention spans. Children can read, work on a puzzle, help make dinner, build forts out of blocks and chairs, and help with household chores. Just turning the TV off and having a conversation with a young child can build attention; when parents focus on their child and listen, they model how to pay attention. Recently, my husband said he would make a point of having conversations with Walker, a quiet middle child who can get lost in the shuffle because he's sandwiched between a talkative 8-year-old brother and a charming 2-year-old brother.

But sometimes, a child may have attention problems that are difficult to solve with simple strategies, and parents may need help from a teacher, pediatrician, or even a psychologist. Some red flags include a 4- or 5-year-old having consistent trouble engaging with anything for more than two or three minutes, needing constant guidance to do an activity that should be manageable, jumping from one activity to another, and being unable to control impulses. For example, a preschooler may be unable to stay seated and attentive during reading time because he sees the classroom aide setting up snacks. Instead of staying in the circle, he may get up because he wants to eat a snack. "If he wants what he wants when he wants it all the time, that could be a sign of an immature or not fully functioning attention span at 4 or 5," Dr. Rojas says.

It's important, though, that parents be careful about assuming their child has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), a syndrome usually diagnosed in early childhood that is characterized by impulsivity, overactivity, inattentiveness, or a combination of all three. ADHD may not always be the root cause; there may be other influencing factors. "As adults, when we're worried about something, it's hard for us to pay attention. A lot of children we see who come in for evaluation have underlying anxieties about not being perfect or not being able to do something," Dr. Nickels says. If a child is diagnosed with ADHD, parents should work with a mental health professional to develop a plan that will help increase a child's attention span.

Mental health issues, such as depression, anger, and anxiety, can make it difficult for children to focus, and young children need help learning how to cope with these feelings. Parents should talk with their children about how they are feeling and help them put their feelings into words. For example, a parent could say, "You may be worried about Dad going away on a business trip." Once a conversation is started, the next step is to help the child do something that will make her feel better, such as drawing a picture to present as a gift for her dad's return.

Now, with my own son, I have implemented some suggested strategies. We?ve made letters using rocks, toy cars, and wooden blocks, and our schedule is more set after school: He plays a little, eats a snack, and then tackles academic work. He does his homework in a separate room with his dad, which allows my husband to give him undivided attention. After being in school for several months, Walker is able to focus better and longer, and his kindergarten teacher has noticed and praised him for it. It's still not always easy for him to pay attention, but it is easier to pull his attention back to a task when it starts to wander. He still doesn't love writing, but he has learned to write the alphabet, a few words, and even some short sentences. Time works wonders.

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eminperu · 7 years ago

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On the Value of Being Challenged: Defining my ideals through one million rhetorical questions (sorry)

“We’re afraid she’s not being challenged enough.” I think the first time this phrase was applied to me, an examiner pulled it out of a very standard toolbox for talking about kids like me, at a conference regarding my placement exam results for entrance into the gifted program. To be fair, it was also a sugar-coated explanation of why Mrs. Meyer couldn’t stand my arrogant first grade ass (in my defense, she refused to call on me in class anymore because I KNEW THE ANSWERS. Yeah, Mrs. Meyer, let’s not go to Applebee’s when we’re hungry BECAUSE THERE IS FOOD THERE). It’s also the justification I learned to rely on when I didn’t do stuff because I didn’t want to do stuff, like the time I tested out of Mrs. Whitsell’s math class because she played too much Enya and favored the boys, or got sent out into the hallway in fifth grade for working ahead in the book during the lesson (that was a terrible punishment, I finished my work in a cool ten and chatted with people passing by). Let me be clear, I know I’m not anything special—Berkeley made sure I knew that. But even though I’m no Cindy Crawford (guys, she studied chemical engineering at Northwestern with a reported IQ of 154, check your biases), being “smart” has been arguably the most central and defining characteristic I have. While I’m not sure I’ve always felt adequately academically “challenged” in all my pursuits, I’ve also never worried that I was not developing myself in some way. [Warning: I’m not going to try to be modest in this post. I’m trying to honestly reflect, so just deal with it.]

This week (and by this week I mean the week I started writing this post a month ago…eek), I’ve had two coworkers from my last school tell me about a few students who have said really nice things about how much they missed me. Both of the students are absolute rascals, the kind who really hated school until the year I had them in my class. I love those kids. I love knowing that I excel at forming relationships and reaching “behavior” kids. I remember when Jason finally got an 89% on one of my science tests last year and bought in. I remember how excited Deon would get to do a job for me (run a note that said “Mr. Fields please make Deon do something physical for the next eight minutes then send him back”) as a reward for sitting through a whole guided reading. I know I’m a good teacher. I use my creativity and my intelligence every second of every day, topped maybe only by empathy and ability to connect with people. For the last four years, I’ve also clung to the self-righteous smug cloud I get from saying I am a teacher in low-income schools. Teachers work hard, plus I get an element of altruism when I drop the zipcode of the schools I teach in. Apparently, “teacher” has burrowed its way into my identity in a pretty significant way. Is teaching my thing? Is helping people my thing?

I know work ethic isn’t my thing. I know that. I’ve never been one to happily do things for sake of doing them—generally speaking, I’m about the destination and the journey can go fuck itself (is it starting to become apparent what Mrs. Meyers was on about?). But I do like to do things that matter. And I do like for people to think I am smart and capable. Does that mean I need to be challenged to feel successful? Do I find intrinsic value in completing tasks that I deem worthy?

It seems fair to say I couldn’t really know if I valued being challenged until I felt I wasn’t anymore. Teaching used every single bit of my mental and emotional energy and drew on all of my skills (threw a lot of my weaknesses in my face as well, to be honest). Now, my VIP Kid lessons don’t even require me to view them before teaching them and, while I think bartending definitely draws on a a lot of my strengths, it also isn’t exactly a high cognitive workload. I find myself jumping to grasp those little moments—when my manager says I can do my job better than him, when my teaching boss jokes that my half-sarcastic corrections of him will either get me fired or promoted on my first day, when my 15-year-old tutee loses his shit over finding out that I went to Berkeley—this self-satisfaction at proving my intelligence to others seems a little new and a lot douchey.

Working from home rocks, but it also kind of sucks. I wake up, I teach online, then it’s 9 am and I have the rest of my day ahead of me. My fingers seem to automatically begin to take me to Netflix or Facebook after my grueling three hour workday. I enjoy watching Friends. I like laying out in the park. But why would I feel so much more accomplished if I had reorganized all my clothes? Or painted a picture? If I had completed a full day’s work (not just a few hours), I think I’d feel totally justified in not accomplishing anything “productive” afterwards. I didn’t anticipate that how I chose to spend this precious free time I dreamed about, talked about, moved 6,000 miles away for, would ever affect that drastically how I see myself. And let’s be clear that 6pm-on-a-Thursday-still-at-school-Emily would backhand me for even THINKING of complaining.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m pretty happy here. I have made a lot of friends and my time is 100% my own. With that, though, comes a lot of time to think. I want to make sure my time here is balanced and I leave feeling like I got something out of it. I got a couple in-person teaching jobs because, for fuck’s sake, I need to put on pants and leave the house before 7pm–also, they hand teaching jobs out like candy here if you look like you speak English. And I feel really satisfied after those lessons, although I’m teaching people with loads of money that want to use their English to make more money. However, I have to limit myself. I started working 10-11 hour days just because I could. I partially came here to write, and I did a whole lot more of that in Europe than I seem to be getting done here. I also applied for a really simple writing job and didn’t get it, which sucked. There could have been a million reasons why, but I had to submit a short writing sample so I’m guessing I’ve subconsciously swallowed this pass as a failure and am letting it sit heavy in my stomach (and confidence). I’ve started a book, but I also found that any grant applications I can submit won’t be due for quite a while (and would commence the following year). I’m scared I don’t have the self-motivation to pursue the things I love with the vigor they require. I could see myself easily falling into a pretty content life of teach, nap, cook, bartend, repeat. Is that enough? Before this year, I would have said yes. Here I am in this bratty millennial dilemma: wanting to be recognized for being exceptional; but lounging in the comfort of not putting myself out there for something I’m sure someone smarter/more diligent will get. Another factor at play: if I were able to live this lifestyle in San Francisco around all my best friends and the all-around greatest people in the world, I may feel differently. I’ve always thought that relationship-based—not not achievement-based success—appealed to me. As long as the people I love are happy and involved in my life, I’m happy. Of course, I say say that while also having always pretty much achieved things in a linear, predictable, and temporally-appropriate manner.

The flip side of this is that it’s kind of cool to be working just for money now. Before, I was teaching and the factor stopping me from blowing all my money was being too tired, not not having it. I saved a bit, and it really wasn’t a concern, priority, or consideration (especially not when deciding what line of work to go into, obviously). Now, I measure how many activities I should do based on what I made that day. “Nah, I don’t wanna buy those jeans, that’s three VIP KID classes!”

Basically, in summary, I take issue with the phrase “Find your passion and you’ll never work a day in your life.” My last job was fulfilling beyond measure, but it necessitated that I work my ASS OFF each and every day. I think I may have placed myself in a paradox—doing what I love makes it so I can’t enjoy my life, but if I don’t do it I won’t feel fulfilled.

This is dumb. I came here to bartend, be a barista, sherpa some alpacas, sleep in and workout. Fuck feeling fulfilled, right? Ugh, what’s that whole thing with the grass being green, again? Anyway, back to Neflix.

Goals: CARVE OUT MY WRITING TIME AND HOLD MYSELF TO IT. Make a plan for what will make me feel productive during my week at home. Keep eating healthy and working out (I have made time for that, and that feels good).

Updates: My friend Feras visited and I finally go to travel around Peru! Cusco was absolutely beautiful, a quaint history-rich town splayed up and down the Andes mountains. The architecture, the air, the size—it was a welcome break from Lima. I was also taking on A LOT of classes and shifts at the bar, so it was similarly a welcome break from working. Machu Picchu was absolutely incredible as was our dinner at Maido; I’ll post about those soon.

I’m headed back to Kansas for about three weeks to see my (whole!!) family and I’m so excited. I think the reset will be really nice. I’m going to hold myself accountable to reflecting on my experience so far and channeling that into a productive life plan for the next few months (even if that plan means staying largely unproductive).

#On the Value of Being Challenged: Defining my ideals through one million rhetorical questions (sorry) “We’re afraid she’s not being challeng

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