Balance

Summer winds down, and I find myself both anxious for fall to really get here and already regretting the things I didn't do over the past couple of months.

A trip to see friends and a new baby didn't happen.

We didn't go to the pool enough.

We watched too much TV when it rained outside.

I didn't get a garden planted.

These things clog up my brain, pushing aside the memories that were made.

Colin learned to swim. And by "learned," I mean, took off his floaties and flung himself across the pool declaring himself independent and capable.

Christopher learned to ride his bike. And by "learned," I mean, I took off his training wheels, and while I was busy turning my back for five seconds, he got on and rode the bike down the driveway declaring himself a big boy bike rider who doesn't need my help, thank you very much.

In June, we drove down to Mississippi and spent a week with my family in which the children played until they collapsed at night, snuggled in Nana's bed to read stories, and got to spend unstructured and unscripted time with their cousins. And as a bonus, I actually stayed the whole time this year with no erupting fights with my brother.

I got to go to BlogHer again and room with two amazing people who just so happened to enjoy hanging out in the room late at night unwinding together - which was exactly what I needed. I met some fabulous people. I saw some old friends. I was inspired - which, let's be honest - if you go to BlogHer and don't leave inspired in some way, you may have no soul.

Good things happened this summer. Momma is still brave, still taking chemo, and still watching it work. It's been harder on her than ever before, but she does it anyway, and I love her so much for doing it.

I don't know what's wrong with my head that all of these good things happened, and yet when left idle, my brain says, "You didn't take the kids to DC," and "You didn't go to the pool all last week," and "You didn't do any of the writing and reading you said you were going to do with the boys." These things, while I wish they had happened, I let them define the summer.

Why is that?

Good things. Bad things.

I need to find the balance.

WHAM. Done.

The therapy. It is tough. I'm often left all thought out, cried out, and tired out before I can open this page and begin to write.

But it's helping.

I'm supposed to be making connections. That's my long term homework. It's a hard assignment for me.

There are reconnections that I'm enjoying, and some that I'm not so much. It's good to get back to a friend you drifted from unnecessarily. A good friend.

But connections are hard for me. Trust is hard for me. Depending on someone is hard for me.

All I really want in life is to feel like I matter to the people I care about. It sounds simple, right? But it's not. There is this widely held notion that I cut off relationships with a cleaver. Just put them down on the chopping block and WHAM. Done.

It's partly true. I did call my ex-husband on Valentine's Day and tell him it was over. A seven year marriage. WHAM. Done.

But it's not like I didn't talk until I was blue in the face before that. It finally got to the point where if I felt like I was any less important, I would just drown.

I do try and tell people what I want or need. I do try and communicate. I think in the past, I've been too worried about pleasing people and not coming off as pushy or demanding. I think that I poorly communicated and then would just finally break. I also think that I had expectations far above what they should have been and then just plowed ahead to make my life meet them, whether the people around fit into them or not. Ahem, pushy.

It's just that there comes a moment when I can't stand one more ounce of pain and disappointment and I break. I lash out at what I see as the cause of the pain, and I break free of it. Not ideal, I know. It's how I have survived so far.

That isn't going to happen with Kevin. I know I matter to him. He shows me. He listens to me. He talks to me. We fight hard. We love each other harder than we fight. It is quite obvious that I am important to him.

And now there are children. There is mattering to someone, and then there is being a mother. There is no kind of being needed like the being needed of being a parent.

These holes I have are being filled. I know that I have to fill them myself too. I have to start mattering enough to myself, whatever that means. Or maybe it's that I have to give myself the right relationships to know that I matter.

I have spent the past several years feeling guilty that I didn't feel sorry enough for broken relationships and things people mistakenly blame on me. I'm done with that. I don't feel guilty. I'm not sorry. I'm incredibly happy. I have finally done what was right.

Just in case I needed affirmation on the decision that I'm done shouldering guilt and letting myself assume that I'm just an asshole - I had a dream.

I was in my old house. There were a lot more rooms than when I actually lived there, and they were full. Every room was full of people I was trying to take care of. I was roaming from room to room just letting people down because I hadn't been able to get whatever food they wanted or they were cold or they wanted a different view or whatever. I ended up back in my living room, drinking and crying when new friends walked in. It was Liz and her husband. They had come down from Brooklyn because they heard I had a great place to stay. She handed me a tissue while her husband went into the kitchen and got some more beers. Then, she looked around and said,

"Shit, Marty. Your old friends suck."

Harsh, I know. But dreams, at least my dreams, are often extremely exaggerated. The sentiment is there, though. It's time to make connections. Connections that I won't feel the need to WHAM and run from. It's way past time.

That last glass

I'm petering out on the whole posting everyday in November. It's just not in me anymore. There is plenty I have spinning around in my head, but not really much I want to put here.

Mainly, I keep thinking about anniversaries. December marks a lot of anniversaries, most of which I'm not terribly excited about.

My last hug from Susan.

My first miscarriage.

The death of my grandmother.

Then there's Christmas. YAY! Happy times. Happy times.

I don't know. It's not as bad as I make it sound here. We have three trees up (so far), my mantle is done, my grandparent's Nativity is out for the first time in years. I'm getting it on with the holiday decor - which didn't happen last year.

I was a little distracted.

Maybe I'll always be a little distracted at Christmas time and just learn how to focus in spite of it.

There are stories that I want to write - moments that I want to put down on paper - of that last weekend I was able to spend with Susan. It's just not for the blog.

When I do that though - have things that consume my thoughts - it's hard to write anything else.

There is one other December anniversary that I don't talk about much. It is an anniversary that I wouldn't have made without Susan. One that I'm surprised I'm still celebrating now that she's gone.

My last drink.

It was a glass of prosecco, in case you are wondering. At Gravy on Wilmington Street. Don't remember what I ate or what I wore, but I remember that glass of beautiful bubbly.

Cheers, y'all. The holidays are coming. Whether you damn well like it or not.

The female commodity

Throughout history, a woman's body has been a commodity. Men have used women to buy, barter, and force their way into power.

It's not a new thing.

The Old Testament is full of women being traded for land or livestock. Fathers bartered with their daughters and sought out valuable deals to obtain wives for their sons.

Monarchies used marriages to create allies and gain strength in their kingdoms. Marriages needed to create sons because the son could take the throne, whereas the daughter was possession for trade. A negotiating tool.

Even in Jamestown, the first English settlement in America, a group of women from England were auctioned off as brides to the men who had settled there. For 150 pounds of tobacco, they bought themselves a new wife.

We didn't belong to ourselves for a very long time, ladies.

Now, the Republican party wants to use women's bodies to barter again. They are selling us out to try and gain votes. They are trading away ownership of something they don't own unless we give it to them.

Do you hear that part? We have to give it to them. Republican women, especially. I won't tell you how I think you should vote. That is up to you. What I will tell you is that if you are a woman, and you still want to be a Republican, then you have to start demanding more from them. You have to maintain ownership of yourself and insist that they quit using you as a commodity.

The economy is a driving force in this election. The economy should be about dollars and cents though, not about rights to the female body.

Y'all, it's not an abortion debate. It's not a contraception debate. It's about the fact that Republican men are using women's bodies to buy votes. It's insulting, it's wrong, and we have to make sure that it does not work. We cannot let them continue to pimp us out for their right wing smoke screen.

Terms like "forcible" and "legitimate" in front of the word rape have got to stop. Blaming women for being victims has got to stop. Impeding access to contraception has got to stop. And while we are at it, abstinence only sex education has got to stop. AND let's go ahead and start reforming the birth industry in this country, because I'm pretty tired of that woman as last priority business model too.

The choices a woman has to make regarding her body are so much more than abortion. We have to be free to choose what kind of birth control we will use. We have to be free to choose if, when, and how we will have children. We have to be free to choose the kind of prenatal, labor, and delivery care we will use, birthing those children. We have to be free to feed our children whenever, wherever, and however we see fit.

Perhaps above all else, we need to be free to be women. Free to be women who are not sexually abused and then attacked over and over again for it for the rest of our lives. It's time we were safe, strong, and respected in our own country.

We can do better than this, y'all. We can do much better.

Chocolate and Cows

Around the corner from our house is a delicious and locally owned yogurt store. We used to frequent it at least once a week. The flavors were unique, they always had a vegan option, and we felt like we were supporting our neighborhood.

A couple of months ago, I stopped in at the local butcher to pick up dinner. The butcher is a couple of doors down from the yogurt shop. In the parking lot, in front of the yogurt shop, was a Nestle truck. It was unloading cases of yogurt mix.

I nearly cried.

The first thing I said when I walked back in the house was, "Well, we can't eat at Skinny Dip anymore."

Protests arose. The biggest was from Mallory, who raised the valid point of, "It's just yogurt. It's not like Nestle is really hurt from you not buying yogurt."

It's true. Nestle could care less if I buy their products. If they did care, they would have changed their ways decades ago since the Nestle boycott has been going on since the 70's. Nestle isn't hurting because of the boycott.

Which begs the question, why boycott then?

For me, it's simple. It's my money until I give it to someone else in exchange for goods, services, or the emotional satisfaction of charity. Once I have given someone else control of my money, I don't have any right to say what they should or should not do with it. I have chosen to let them have it, and it is theirs to use however they see fit.

That means, if I believe really strongly in something, like I do breastfeeding and the care of mothers and infants, then I won't give my money to a corporation who makes decisions that are detrimental to that cause. Actions that are repeated with the known outcome of death to babies and the cause of untold cases of failure to thrive and untold cases of undermined breastfeeding attempts - these are actions that I choose not to fund through purchasing products from Nestle.

It's true. The fact that I never buy another Nestle or Nestle family product doesn't matter to their bottom line. It will never change their actions. I know this.

It's about my conscience. It's about me making an active choice not to support such a corporation who does business around the globe without out any concern about the well being of the people. I choose not to support them, and I sleep better at night because of it.

It's also true that I have supported corporations who don't hold the same values that I do. I use UPS, and they have donated money to political candidates who make my skin crawl and my teeth itch. Their choice. I don't see that value difference as actively hurting other people.

And so we come to the chicken sandwich. The chicken sandwich my children love to eat. The chicken sandwich I love to eat. That perfect pickle and adorable cow.

There was a time that I simply disagreed with Chick-fil-a. I knew their position on marriage and their idea of a traditional family. I didn't agree, but I still purchased their tasty chicken and chugged their unlimited Diet Coke refills.

Things are different now, though. Bringing to light exactly where their money is being placed and the fact that the organizations receiving money that I willingly gave to Chick-fil-a are actively hurting people has changed my mind. It took all week, and watching streams of people thumbing their nose to the pain caused by the organizations funded by millions of Chick-fil-a dollars today, but I'm there. I'm to the point where I choose not to give them anymore of my money.

Besides, there are far better things we should be eating in the world besides chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. And when my children ask why we can't go to Chick-fil-a? It will give me the chance to actively show them how to stand up for what you believe and say it's not okay to discriminate against and hurt people.

It's not okay.

Pardon me, Haley Barbour

par·don   [pahr-dn] noun
1. kind indulgence, as in forgiveness of an offense or discourtesy or in tolerance of a distraction or inconvenience: I beg your pardon, but which way is Spruce Street?
2. Law . a. a release from the penalty of an offense; a remission of penalty, as by a governor. b. the document by which such remission is declared.
3. forgiveness of a serious offense or offender.

Haley Barbour is on his way out as governor of Mississippi, and in true Haley style, he is going out with a bang. The pardons started flying, and by this morning, my Facebook feed was rife with stories of wife murderers getting set free this past Sunday.

Pardon me, Haley, but did you know one of those men shot his wife in cold blood while she held their baby? Was that a "release from the penalty" pardon, or an actual "forgiveness of a serious offense"? Because I'm curious to know if you really are alright with what that man did.

Then just hours ago, it was announced that Haley was granting clemency to Karen Irby.

clem·en·cy noun
1. the quality of being clement; disposition to show forbearance, compassion, or forgiveness in judging or punishing; leniency; mercy.
2. an act or deed showing mercy or leniency.
3. (of the weather) mildness or temperateness.

In brief, Karen Irby killed two residents at University of Mississippi Medical Center in 2009. The victims, Drs. Lisa Dedousis and Daniel Pogue, were engaged to be married. They were driving their pickup truck when Karen crossed the center line in her Mercedes and hit them going 100 miles per hour, killing both. She was drunk. She was tried and sentenced to 18 years in prison.

More things I have heard are that her husband Stuart was beating her in the car while she was driving, causing her to crash. I have also heard that the victims families did not want Karen to serve jail time. 

Karen Irby is the wife, now ex-wife, of Stuart Irby, son of Stuart and Bitsy Irby. Stuart (Sr.) and Bitsy Irby were two of the nicest people I knew in Jackson. I attended church with them from the day I was born. They are both gone. Have been for awhile. This is not the Irby family I knew when I lived there.

The thing about the Irbys, is that they have a lot of money. Since it is terribly rude to discuss money, I'll leave it at that.

All of this has me thinking about Karen's children.

I keep hearing from the Mississippi crowd that her babies need her. She has a daughter, nine years old, and a son, five years old. They have been split up and sent to live with their different biological fathers.

I agree. They do need her. 

I'm undecided on what they need from her though.

Does her release teach them that they everyone makes mistakes? Does it teach them about grace and mercy, which I believe are two of the most important things in life?

Or does it teach them that there is no real accountability with their family name and status? Does it set them up to recklessly travel through their lives, making decisions based on the knowledge that someone will always cover for them?

Karen Irby could have been me or any huge number of people I knew in my earlier years. However. It wouldn't be me now, as I just passed two years without a drink. Being on the other side of the glass, I don't agree with calling drunk driving a mistake. Every drink you pour is a choice. Every sip requires a decision to lift that glass to your lips. Trust me. I know this.

I suspect that Karen Irby's sentence was meant to be a message to people who drink and drive. I suspect that the tragic nature of the victims, cut down in their prime, just starting promising medical careers and engaged to be married, I suspect that Karen might have gotten the same sentence if her last name had been Smith or Jones.

I also suspect though, that she wouldn't be getting that clemency. 

Notice that the definition of pardon in terms of a criminal is simply release from a punishment. Clemency is leniency of punishment with forgiveness. She has been forgiven of her crime. At least by Haley Barbour.

At what price though? Where is the line between accountability and responsibility or grace and mercy? And is there a line at all?

Accountability can come with forgiveness. Consequences can exist while being shown mercy. I'm not sure that is what happened here. 

Nothing good could ever have come from the situation. That is probably the only truth that is certain. Every family involved has suffered and will suffer. I don't know that any amount of jail time, no matter how much or how little, will ever help the suffering.

Coming out of the dark

I haven't written much this year, and in a way, that tells you all you need to know. I've turned inward a little too much I suppose, but it's what I've needed to get through the day to day.

To be honest, I haven't had a whole lot of positive things weighing on me. I feel like the house is too dirty, the boys watch too much TV, we eat out too much - all of the things I'm supposed to be taking care of, I feel like I'm not good enough.

I'll have spurts of competence. There will be weeks when I'm really good at keeping up with a meal plan, finishing the laundry, and staying on top of all the bills. Then, I'll sort of drift off into some place where my family and friends can't find me. Some place where I try to heal myself.

The other day, when I was having my annual at the Birth Center, the nurse told me she really wanted me to add in some therapy to my Zoloft prescription. I told her that right now was not the time for talking. Right now was the time for getting through day to day. If I had to talk about it too? Well, forget it.

Sounds all doom and gloom, doesn't it? It's not. There is just a lot of sadness mixed in with the happy. I have a lot to be happy about, and you can consider that the understatement of the year.

So, my goal for the rest of 2012, is to write about some of those things. I know for a fact that I need to find my way out of my shell, and if I'm not going to talk my way out, then I can certainly start writing my way out.

I've got 17 days left and many more than 17 things I could list. This should be easy, right?

P.S. Mississippi

You did it. You pulled together enough people brave enough to think through Initiative 26 and defeat it. I'm so proud of you.

I know that you are still torn, Mississippi. A little less than half of you feel as though baby killing was stamped "approved" in yesterday's vote. A little more than half of you are, according to your new governor-elect, members in Satan's army.

It hard to be a Mississippian.

The rest of the country doesn't understand you much of the time. My own husband loves to poke fun at Mississippi because he knows how much it riles me. I can say what I will about your horrible pot hole pocked streets or your reputation for hospitality that never intersects with customer service, but if a Yankee speaks out against you? I've got your back.

To the members of Satan's army who voted NO on 26, I am in awe of you. I know that the majority of you were judged harshly. I know that the majority of you had to wrestle with values and beliefs that you hold very dear. I know that just because you voted no on 26, it doesn't mean that you aren't pro-life. I respect your ability to hold true to your values and think rationally about this vote at the same time.

To those of you who voted yes. I am so sorry that you feel so let down. I hate that this feels like a defeat to you. Most of all, I hate what Personhood USA did to Mississippi through all of this.

Divided.

You see, Mississippi, what Personhood never bothered to tell you was how they sabotaged the whole thing before it even started. Simplistically speaking, the vague wording was necessary to directly target Roe v. Wade. Since the Supreme Court ruled that no state could outlaw abortion, Personhood had to go for redefining the beginning of a person. Not the beginning of life, but of person.

However, no matter what the outcome was yesterday, until the Supreme Court changes their mind, Mississippi won't be allowed to outlaw abortion. Initiative 26 was primed to do nothing but keep the state in turmoil, cost it untold amounts of money, and keep the people divided.

What I hope you do next, Mississippi, is continue to surprise the rest of the country. I know you can do it. Why don't you tackle your infant mortality rate? How about raising the standard of living for the thousands of children you have living in poverty? You could even work on lowering your teen pregnancy rate, which would also help lower the numbers of abortions, don't you think?

You have plenty of ability, Mississippi. You showed that yesterday at the polls. And don't think that we don't know how hard it was for some of you to vote for governor-elect Bryant (the waiting Commander in Chief of Satan's Army), and then turn around and vote no on 26. We know you were conflicted. We are proud of you.

It's hard being a Mississippian.

You sure did a good job of it yesterday. Congratulations.

Dear Mississippi,

Tomorrow, Mississippi, you will open your polls. Your people will have the opportunity to go to the polls and vote on Initiative 26. It states:

Be it Enacted by the People of the State of Mississippi: SECTION 1. Article III of the constitution of the state of Mississippi is hereby amended BY THE ADDITION OF A NEW SECTION TO READ: Section 33. Person defined. As used in this Article III of the state constitution, "The term 'person' or 'persons' shall include every human being from the moment of fertilization, cloning or the functional equivalent thereof." This initiative shall not require any additional revenue for implementation.

Y'all. Come on. You know better than this, Mississippi. I know you do.

Personhood USA is USING you, Mississippi. They believe that you are uneducated and prone to vote based solely on faith and emotion. They believe that you are dumb. That's right. They think you are the dumb ones in the country that will get this passed.

I know better. I grew up with you. I was educated in Mississippi. Sure. I didn't learn about the Civil Rights movement like I should have, but I was awarded some pretty fancy scholarships and have been told I'm a right smart young lady. I credit you with that, Mississippi.

I know that you love babies, and I know that you feel it is your calling in life to protect the unborn child. So be it. I don't scoff at you for that. Where many others point their fingers at your teen pregnancy rate, your infant mortality rate, and your child poverty rate, I say, "Mississippi is passionate about saving unborn babies."

So be it.

I have to tell you something though, Mississippi. I have to tell you that it isn't your business who, when, where, how, or why I have sex with someone. It isn't your business what kind of protection I use when I have sex with someone. It isn't your business what happens in my uterus. For any reason.

You can't have it all. You can't have reproductive rights that cherry pick. You can't save all the fertilized eggs that you want to call unborn babies and still have effective infertility treatments. You have to use your minds. Your logic. Your thinking caps.

I know you can do it.

Honestly, I don't want to argue with you about fertilized eggs being itty bitty persons. Let's just save that argument for someone who hasn't had multiple miscarriages. It's too personal. In fact, I don't want to argue at all. I just want you to see this for what it is.

It's another case of the rest of America thinking Mississippi is full of redneck dummies. It's not. I know it's not. I love you, Mississippi. I may have left you for a more northern Southern state, but I still love you.

Please. Don't be the pawn for Personhood USA. It's not what you think it is. It's not saving the babies. It's not saving the families. It's not saving anybody. It's just making you look stupid and backwards. The amendment is too vague and too misrepresented to do anybody any good.

You must stand up for yourself, Mississippi. Show the rest of the country that you are nobody's pansy, no matter how shiny-bright-fake-baby-saving they are.

Penis

Let's just call it what it is. It's a penis. Boys each have one. A girl has a vagina, or as Christopher calls it, a "vaginis." You know, almost rhymes with "penis."

We use the almost correct terms in this house.

What we haven't done enough of yet, which has become glaringly obvious this weekend, is teach which parts of our bodies are private.

The lessons I'm learning the hard way just keep piling up.

Friday night, I was on my own for bed and bath with the boys because Kevin and Mallory were at a football game. I put Christopher and Colin in the bathtub together, like always. After I turned off the water, I left them for a minute to go get their dirty clothes basket so I could gather a few days worth of their clothes.

When I walked back in, there was a brother's penis headed into the other brother's mouth.

Are you aware that this is NOT covered in any parenting books I've read so far? And are you aware that if you try Google for help on the subject, you come up with some pretty disturbing results, making you wish you had been FAR MORE SELECTIVE on what you Googled for advice?

Yeah. I wasn't either until Friday night.

So the conversation of private body parts began in full force that night. Putting other people's body parts in your mouth became something that is off limits. Just don't do it. Fingers, penises, toes, penises, elbows, penises, ears, penises, any of it. Just keep it out of your mouth. Also, penises are something that come out in the bathroom only. All other times, they are to be covered and kept to yourself.

I was secure in the way I handled it. The situation had freaked me out - don't get me wrong - but I felt as though a balance between "this is something you need to listen to and remember" and "I don't want to put too much emphasis on this behavior" was met.

And of course, as soon as I gain any sort of confidence in my parenting, I take my children out in public so that they might knock my off my pedestal in a most splendiforous way.

The day after the incident I don't care to speak of again, I took the boys up to the neighborhood fire station with our friends from down the street. The weather was perfect. We walked with our double strollers filled with our four perfect children through our almost perfect neighborhood up to meet the fireman and see the truck. It was as storybook as it sounds.

Perfectly storybook until Christopher says to one of the fireman, "I have a penis."

I was standing a few feet from him, and I thought I heard him say, "I have a penis." However, I was far enough away and was able to conjure enough immediate denial that I thought, "He didn't just say that."

That denial didn't last long. Almost before I could finish the thought, and certainly before I could imagine what he might have said instead of, "I have a penis," he dropped his pants. And his underwear. Right there in the firehouse.

As a friend said later, I guess he was just whipping out his own hose.

Seriously though, NOT FUNNY. I'm pretty sure the look of horror on my face will forever be burned into the memory of my three year old. Or at least until the next time he drops his pants in public. Which might be tomorrow. You just never know.

Later, I decided to casually inquire as to why he thought it was a good idea to show the fireman his penis. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hey Christopher, why did you try and show the fireman your penis?

Christopher: Because he will like it.

Me: Why do you think that he would like it?

Christopher: Because it is beautiful.

There's not a lot of arguing with that. The kid has good self image. I'm going to start complementing him a lot more on his hair and his smile though. Hopefully it will catch on, and he won't feel the need to show off what he obviously feels like is his best feature.

Boys. Nothing can quite prepare a mama for boys. I'm sure of that.

A night out with winners

Tonight, we took our children to Chik-fil-a, dressed as cows, in order to get free food. Why no, we have no pride, thank you for asking.

Christopher cried because he didn't want to dress up like a cow. We just told him he was Sheriff Woody instead.

Colin rather liked dressing up like a cow and was enjoying himself until he projectile vomited nuggets, fruit, and chocolate milk all over himself, the high chair, and the cup I formed out of my hands to try and contain some of the toxic spill.

I wheeled him into the bathroom, still in the high chair, caught some additional puke, and stripped him down. After trying to clean the high chair as best I could, we mooooooved on out of there as quickly as possible, letting the nice girl up front know that they had a contaminated high chair in the ladies room.

Parents of the year.

But hey, dinner was free, so I'm marking it in the "win" column.

One nation united

"I believe that as people of God, we must answer evil. Sometimes that answer is prayer, sometimes that answer is force. Is killing ever justified? Possibly as an appropriate response to unfathomable evil." ~Karen Wells


Osama Bin Laden is dead.


It is good for our country. It was the right thing for our military to do. Hopefully, it is a giant step to the end of this long war.


But our military is still there. Men and women are still separated from their families. Innocent lives will continue to be lost. It's not over yet, and I'm left wondering what exactly comes next. It's not something that makes me feel like breaking out the bubbly.


Sobering is the word of the day.


I do find it incredibly sad that one the day after the most significant event in this war, that our country isn't standing together. That people are actually infusing inflammatory politics into what should be a battle won together. 


Will nothing ever give us pause to just be Americans for one day? To just be united for even 24 hours?


If that is the case, then Bin Laden is still winning from his watery grave.

Monday, Monday

Apparently, I have needed a hiatus. I didn't know I needed a hiatus, but it's been a little over two weeks since I wrote anything, and I haven't opened my Google Reader in over a month.

I'm just a little stabby.

Random things get to me. Things that don't have anything to do with me, and yet I find myself ticked off at them. A friend warned me that it would happen. Life goes on around you, and all of the sudden, you find yourself mad because none of their crap matters. Oh, your car broke? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your house won't sell? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your cat has cancer? Fine. So does my mother and my best friend AND MY DAD DIED. So shut up.

See? Totally ridiculous. And yet, I find it bubbling up randomly.

********************************************************************
Colin still isn't walking. He can, he just doesn't. It's fine by me. He'll do it when he is ready. In the meantime, he is busying himself by climbing up and down the stairs faster than Christopher does.

He also climbs up onto their little Ikea table. Giving him a place to stand, raise his imaginary stick and ROAR at the bad guys on Scooby Doo.

And into chairs. Enabling him to reach anything and everything that I have moved out of a less monkey like 14 month old.

And onto riding toys. Flinging himself down the driveway as fast as he possibly can, with a wild eyed grin on his face - one that stares back into my terrified gaze and says, "Get out of the way, Mom."

Colin still isn't talking either. He can, he just doesn't. He likes to point and scream. He also likes to mimic whatever you say so distinctively, it's creepy. Like whole sentences back to you. I've never heard a baby do that before, and it's kind of bizarre.

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Barney has infiltrated our home. It's my own fault. And the fault of Netflix. I regret it already.

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If you are local, I would love for you to come see Bill Leslie and Lorica in concert this Saturday night. We'll be at the Performing Arts Center at Johnston County Community College. Tickets are $17 in advance and $20 at the door. You can find out more about it here: Bill Leslie and Lorica concert information.

Grumpy

I'm just grumpy. No fun to be around. Grumpy.

Stupid spring. Stupid trees budding and making my allergies try and kill me. Making me grumpy.

My mind jumps around so quickly that I can't even remember what I was going to write about by the time I open the page. It's frustrating.

Know what annoys me? When you have a friend request out to someone on Facebook, and their privacy settings are such that you can see when they become friends with someone else. But they just leave your friend request outstanding. Dude. Grow a pair and hit "ignore." Whatever. I just click over and rescind the request. It's not a big deal. Just annoying.

Know what else annoyed me? The really stupid flower delivery person who walked into the hospice room next door to my daddy's with a basketball shaped balloon that said on it, "Bounce Back Soon." I was standing in the hallway with Daddy's hospice case worked and tried to get her to stop the delivery person, but she didn't even get why. Um, really? "Bounce Back Soon?" Granted, it turned out that she was just carrying more than one delivery and that particular balloon wasn't for the hospice patient, but still. Couldn't make two trips? Really?

Know what else annoys me? Bras. My belly. My skin.

Also annoying? City of Raleigh home inspectors. Plumbing inspector #1 comes and wants some of the interior pipes changed. Plumber changes pipes. For the re-inspection, plumbing inspector #2 comes and wants the connection under the house changed. Really? You couldn't give us a freaking complete list of what needed to be changed the first time? No. You couldn't. Because Raleigh home inspection is based on the opinion of whatever redneck they happen to send out that day.

See? Grumpy. Snarky.

I could use a donut. But we are trying to give up refined sugar. That. Is also. Annoying.

Know a good joke? I could use a chuckle.

Little monster in the closet

I thought I had outgrown the need to look under my bed and check the closet before getting into bed. 

Apparently not.

Kevin was working from home, and both boys were taking an unusual morning nap. We decided to take a break from what we were each working on and head upstairs.

*insert Barry White music here*

We knew that time was not on our side, so we both began discarding clothing before we even got the door closed. It was broad daylight, and we felt a little naughty for sneaking in a quickie before noon. 

Being a conscientious eco-minded kind of a gal, I flipped off the light in the closet as I headed into the bedroom, wondering why I had left it on in the first place. It's not something I typically forget.

In a moment, I realized that I hadn't forgotten.

A slight thud in the closet caused me to open the doors and catch little Mr. Kickypants sitting on the floor, looking up at me with his great big blue-grey eyes. He looked a slightly worried and more than a little confused.

Kevin and I grabbed our clothes and redressed even faster than we undressed. 

Needless to say, there was no quickie.

There was, however, poop in Christopher's pants. Because what else would he be doing in our closet when we thought he was in bed taking a nap?

Just add "doing a room sweep before nookie" to the ever growing list of things I didn't know I would have to do as a parent.

Day 30 - A letter to yourself - tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself - 30 days of truth

I can't possibly explain how much I don't want to do this. I'm distracted. The season finale of Sons of Anarchy is on. I'm going to see my best friend soon. There's laundry, cleaning, and I've had popcorn for dinner.


It's just not the day to write this letter. 


Things that I love about myself are few and far between lately. I don't say that fishing for reinforcement. I just mean - if I'm finishing the 30 Days of Truth? It ought to be truthful.


So I wait. I'll write the letter. Just not now. Let me get back to it.


In the meantime, I leave you with quite possibly the funniest thing you might read all day with apologies to my relatives who at this point should just put their fingers in their ears and start singing, "La la la la la."


I broke my nose last night. Moving from one compromising position to another. Awesome. Nothing like some wailing and a bloody nose to kill the mood. As Kevin likes to say, I am nothing if not a dainty, petite flower.


Happy NaPoBloMe month. I'm all done. If I don't post again for weeks, don't worry about me. I'm just catching up on all of the dang laundry I haven't done this month. Aw, who am I kidding? I've got Christmas trees to talk about, y'all!


This is part of the 30 Days of Truth series. You can find the entire list here.

Broken

It's that feeling in my throat - around my throat, rather - that something is choking me. I open my mouth to speak and the words never make it to the surface. I sit and stare off into space waiting for the moment to come when I can utter a complete thought or sentence.

I am broken.

The drugs haven't been a secret. Anyone and everyone knows I started them. I never wanted there to be a stigma with it, and I wanted my family to be aware that I want to be better. I want to always be better for them.

Kevin asked me today where this was before he knew me. Where did I hide the crazy? Not in those words, mind you.

The answer was easy. I burned a lot of bridges. I snapped to a lot of judgments. I stayed out too late. I made bad decisions. I smoked too much, any is that, and I drank too much. Self deprecation and self medication. Survival.

I don't want to be broken.

I sang a song at the Type A Mom Conference. A Julie Miller song called "Broken Things". I always think of it as a song I've come through, but lately, I'm realizing that it's a song I'll always just be.

So beyond repair
Nothing I could do
Tried to fix it myself
But it was only worse when I got through


It's a God song, but a life song as well. I do try to fix everything myself. I'm not unlike my two year old in the number of times I say, "I do it myself," a day.

Monday, I determined that my boys would be better off without me. While they napped, I mapped out a plan for my departure. I would disappear into thin air. I would stop by and see a best friend and then vanish into Canada or some other vast wilderness.

It was absurd.

Instead of booking my flight, I called my midwife group. Asked for help. Made an appointment. Then I got up and took my boys for a walk. Scooter and wagon up the street in my pajamas. Because I was still wearing them at 4:45 in the afternoon. I'm not proud of that; I just own it. I felt better.

Then Tuesday, I got a haircut. I don't know what possessed me, but I decided I needed bangs and layers. I could tell my hairdresser was hesitant, and she was right. It's awful. My hair is the worst it's been in years. I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror.

Something that was supposed to pick me up just kicked me to the ground. Simple things that will grow back and be alright seem to be the end of the world.

It's all just so damn heavy.

I don't know where up is anymore. It's somewhere, and I'll find it. But I'm not sure how. Not by myself, that's for sure.

What a little boy needs

Today, while Colin napped, Christopher and I got out a roll of paper and some crayons. He lay down on his back and let me trace him. I used to love to do this - I remember it as a popular Sunday School activity for some reason. Trace the child and then let the child draw on features and clothes.

He was so excited when he stood up and saw his outline on the paper. 

"Look, Mama! See that? That's His-Pher!"

I drew a big smile on his face, and he added two eyes. We talked about what color he would use for his hair (yellow) and what color he might want to make his shoes (blue). Of course, he didn't do either of those, he just went to town with his red crayon.

He colored his way down his torso, stopping when he got right below his waistline.

"Where's my penis, Mama?"

"Um. I didn't draw your penis, Sweetie."

"But, Mama, I need a penis."

"Okay then." I take my blue crayon and add this:

A penis. Because he wanted one. His daddy is going to be so proud.

Open letter to my bee-hind

To My Dwindling Posterior:

While I appreciate your willingness to return to pre-baby size and shape, I would like to remind you that you were serving a very important purpose in your inflated state.

Holding up my pants.

For whatever reason, the only weight I have been able to lose after giving birth 8 MONTHS AGO is weight that you delighted in gaining. Finally, there was actually some shamoopie-booty for Kevin to slap as he walked past me in the kitchen. Finally, I didn't have to pull at my waistbands incessantly. Finally, I would not feel left out when the song "Baby Got Back" was played. 

But you just don't care. You can't wait your turn and let the belly take a vacation. Noooooo, you have to go ahead and ditch out all by yourself. You know, you could have taken a little of the back fat with you for company. Even that would have been nice.

Instead, you have vacated the premises, leaving me with a disproportionate figure and a perpetual plumber's crack. Thanks a lot.

Sincerely,

Flatty Bottomous

Katy Perry plays dress up on Sesame Street, forgets to wear clothes.

I talk about boobs a lot. I realize this. Even before I was so passionate about breastfeeding, I talked about boobs. I've gone on and on about bras and whined about carrying around huge boobies. I've rallied behind my friend Susan during her fight with Inflammatory Breast Cancer. I've talked about my momma's fight with breast cancer. I've even delved into a little bit of the sexy boobie talk, but we won't go there today.

Boobies get a lot of air time here at Chez Canape. That's just the way it is.

I'm alright with women looking attractive, even using their breasts as an asset to their appearance. After all, we have to carry them around, right? They might as well look good.

For some reason though, I'm NOT alright with this.



Whatever, Katy Perry. I don't particularly find your music enjoyable, but I CERTAINLY don't need to wondering if you have enough double stick tape in your bustier to make sure that your boobies aren't going to bust out while you are singing and dancing with ELMO on SESAME STREET.

The idea for the song to be used in teaching opposites is cute. It's catchy. But really. REALLY? Couldn't she have actually worn some clothes to play dress up with Elmo?

If I'm turning into my momma, that's a-ok with me. But we'll be skipping this episode of Sesame Street. My boys aren't going to grow up thinking that's an acceptable outfit to wear to a playdate.

Bah.