So proud

Tonight, Kevin,Christopher, and I went to the Food Lion near our house. We bought a lottery ticket, a 12 pack of beer, and some Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Classy.

Right now. Right where I am.

I'm crossing the line of another "I never" tonight. I'm going to play bunko. Although I have no idea what bunko actually is, I do know that until now, no one I have ever wanted to hang out with has played it.

Things change.

Kevin and I have decided to stay in the neighborhood where we are now. The house isn't as big as he would like. It isn't as new as he thinks I would like. It isn't as close to his work as either of us would like. However, it's ours. We remodeled it together to be just as we wanted it, and we love it. Well, I love it anyway. I love this house.

When we made the decision to stay, I made the decision to try and become part of the community that we live in. Here, wrapped safely in my words, I have no problem becoming a part of the community. I may flit from branch to branch within the community, but I do feel a part of it all.

Tonight I will have to wear something other than my written words.

My doula said to me last week after a reiki session that I needed to talk. That writing was fine, but there was a certain power given to words when they physically come out of the mouth. I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. She is so right.

Me don't talk so good.

But these are the women who are raising their children around mine. They are the women who play at the park. They are the women who will be at the neighborhood pool this summer. I want to know them and be a part of their community, and I want for my child to be a part as well. I think that it's important. Besides, I really like the women I have met so far, and at the very least we have motherhood in common. I find that motherhood can be a huge common ground.

I shouldn't forget to mention that having the coolest across the street neighbor to usher me into the community doesn't hurt. Maybe I'll change clothes 18 times before I leave tonight, but I'll leave with a little more confidence because I've already made a friend.

Now I must go stand and stare blankly at the content of my closet, hoping to find something that has less peanut butter on it than the jar I am wearing at the moment.

Silver linings

I'm not pregnant.

I won't have another miscarriage this month.

Hoo-freaking-ray.

There will be rainbows

I finally watched The Business of Being Born. I have both been looking forward to it and avoiding it all at the same time. I was pregnant with Little Bird when it was in theaters around here, and I wasn't brave enough to go and see it. I knew the basic message was in the over medicalization of birth, and I really wanted to stay with my OB. For some reason, I thought that she was wonderful and would make rainbows appear at Bird's birth.

If she had been at Bird's birth, then maybe she would have. Since she wasn't, we'll never know.

Instead, Dr. Jackass attended Bird's birth.

There is one thing I will not do, and that is question the way Bird came into this world. He and I got him here just like he needed to arrive.

However, there are things I don't have to do again, and won't be doing again. They are as follows:

• I will not be spread eagle in front of Dr. Jackass and have him roll his eyes at me for not pushing the way he thought I should push.
• I will not be in a position where I have to argue in the midst of my questionable pushing on whether or not a scalpel will be taken to my ladybits.
• I will not return to Rex Hospital where I had to fight the nurses day and night to breastfeed my child.

There are other options. I am capable of birthing my babies. I will make choices out of confidence and not fear next time. I will not second guess my ability to nurse my babies.

I will be strong, prepared, and accepting. My baby and I will make our own rainbows.

Now, I just need to stay pregnant.

Goin' to me happy place

Happy St. Patrick's Day from Little Bird, who seems to have taken up Irish Dancing.

Thirteen going on fabulous

A teenager lives in our house now. She moved in last Wednesday and kicked out the little girl who used to be here. So far, she has been just as sweet and delicious as the little girl, and honestly, I don't expect that to change. I'm not scared of these teenage years.

Lovely is now thirteen. On her birthday, she came home to a yard full of flamingos wishing her a "Happy Birthday!" She had requested shepherd's pie for her birthday dinner and also wanted a homemade chocolate cake with chocolate icing. She got both. I even whipped up some peanut butter mousse to put between the four layers of the cake to surprise her. And, to her amazement, I managed to write legibly, even nicely, if I do say so myself, on the top of the cake. She almost didn't believe I had done it.

Her daddy wanted some pictures made for her birthday. "Thirteen is special," he proclaimed. I think that can be loosely translated, "I would like to have one last shot at my baby girl," but I could be wrong.

The young woman she is becoming is quite remarkable. She has been through a lot the past few years, yet she continues to love with an open heart. She is also able to stand firm in her beliefs, and that will really suit her well as she enters high school.

As an example: a couple of weeks ago, I asked Lovely how her piano lesson was the night before. (I had been helping her with her music because she had a lot to accomplish in a very little amount of time, and because,well, quite frankly, she just wasn't being taught.) She opened up and talked for almost an hour about how her teacher had been telling her to lie to her father and me. She was to "forget" her assignment book so that I couldn't ask questions and was told to not let us know that the teacher had failed to register Lovely for a festival she had been preparing for.

Lovely said, and I do quote because I will never forget it, "It's not right for a teacher to ask me to lie to my parents."

Right on, dearie. That is an incredibly mature realization. If I had been able to stand up for that when I was even 17, I would have had a much easier time of things. It was so brave of her to open up and let us know what was going on and that it made her really uncomfortable.

This girl, this young woman, balances loving her brother and me with the knowledge that her mother tells her that she shouldn't. She balances loving her father and her mother with the knowledge that they don't love each other. She must know how much we all love her, or I don't see how she could do it.

She hasn't been dealt a fair lot as a child. But instead of it ruining her childhood, it is already apparent that she is using what she has learned about life to become a beautiful, remarkable, strong, loving, and courageous young woman.

I am proud to know her, and I am so grateful that my son has Lovely for a big sister.

Hello, My Name Is Anger

I'm angry. I should have known. The shortness, the depression, the feeling of being overwhelmed. The impatience with everyone, including strangers.

When the happy salesman came to my door this week, he rang the doorbell and then did an enthusiastic drum cadence with his knuckles as well. The dogs began barking, and the baby monitor hissed out the sounds of a just then napping baby rustling in his crib. I bolted to the front door and opened it just enough to stick my head out and snap, "I've got a sleeping baby in here. I don't care what you are selling." He jumped all four steps down from my stoop with his apology left hanging in a speech bubble that dripped with shame.

He didn't deserve that from me.

Someone attacked a friend of mine yesterday on a blog. Granted, I am a fiercely loyal friend, but it made me far more angry than it should have. I ached for her and wished that I could take on that other woman face to face. The things that ran through my head to say to her were cruel and hurtful. Very hurtful. I didn't say them, but I dwelled on them.

I told Girl this morning that I was feeling mean. She suggested that what I was feeling was really anger. She is so right.

I don't handle anger well. I have pushed it so far down into the places I never reach that when I do feel it, I don't recognize it. Anger doesn't wear disguises; I just don't know it. It stands quietly in front of me, waiting on me to give it the right name tag. I hand it, "Hello, my name is MEAN," or "HURT" or "SAD," and it patiently places each new tag on top of the other one, but answers to none of those names.

When I think about expressing anger, it frightens me. If I say that I'm angry that my parents and my brother's family get to celebrate everyday together, be it Valentine's Day or a talent show, I'm scared I will be misunderstood. It worries me that by feeling a jealous anger, they will think I'm angry at them. Which I'm not. Right beside the jealous anger sits gratitude that they have that time together. They make odd bedfellows, but there they are.

I just wish that I had that time with them too. And stepping back, I don't know if that emotion is anger or not. That one may be sadness. It's hard to tell.

Plus, expressing anger opens up a vulnerability. Back in September when I shut my blog down for awhile, I kept hearing, "Don't let her know you are angry. Don't let her think she got to you." I get that. I get that for some people, knowing you've made another person angry is some sort of victory. But that's not my problem. Was I angry that someone used my blog to violate my husband and try to ruin our first night out since the baby was born? Of course I was. Anger was an appropriate response, but I didn't show it because for some reason I thought that would make me weak.

I don't think anger wants anything from me. I don't think it expects me to dance with it, write songs about it, or paint with it. I think it just wants me to give it the right name tag. I start today.

I'm angry that I lost two more babies. In a row.
I'm angry at loss.

I'm angry that the best my doctor had to offer was, "It happens."
I'm angry at helplessness.

I'm angry that my parents can't come to see us and that I can't get to see them often enough.
I'm angry at disease.

I'm angry at the adults in Lovely's life who don't see her as her own person. Who make decisions for her based on their own desires and bitterness.
I'm angry at selfishness.

I don't live in the anger, but I have been living around it. Skirting it. Giving it all the wrong names. In that, I have given it stayability. I don't want that. Giving it all the wrong names lets it seep out into my everyday life and stain the relationships I have worked so hard to polish.

I name you, Anger, and I give you notice. You are only a feeling. You will not rule my life.

Oh, Gawd. Bewbs again.

For those of you who know me in real life, I hereby warn you that I am about to talk about my boobs. Again. You may click away now, or read at your own risk.

Catherine breastfed another woman's child this weekend. If you don't know the story and would like to, it can be found here. It's not directly related, but it's got me thinking.

I have two breasts. My momma has one. My friend has none. I still have two that I should be grateful for.

They are mine. I grew them. I have lived with them for almost 25 years now. For most of those years I hid them. I wore baggy shirts and sweaters that were too big. I was uncomfortable with the attention they garnered.

It was more attention than I ever received myself. In fact, this space is even overshadowed by them, with the most searched hits coming from "ginormous boobs" or some incarnation thereof.I suppose that is also because I continue to talk about them.

The first time my husband, then new boyfriend, saw them in just a camisole, he blurted, "My God! They're ginormous!" I quickly put the baggier shirt back on and slunk down in my seat. I wanted the focus to remain on me, not them. Betrayed by my breasts once again.

Only I wasn't. After the initial shock, he went right back to talking to me. My face, rather. He held my hand, put his arm around me, all without copping that oops-feel that even some of my friends' husbands have been guilty of copping. Later, I learned that Kevin's reaction to the girls and their girth was in fact just shock. He actually just considered it a big bonus and gave me reason to believe it too. And since my mother reads this blog, I will stop there.

After I became a mother, I expected to have an epiphany about my breasts. Learn the "real" purpose they serve. Open the heavens and sound the trumpets: breastfeeding. My boobies were created to be a food source to my babies. I would magically begin to respect them and they in turn would learn their place in this world. Which was about four inches lower than I had hoped for, but whatever.

The thing is, I don't think the heavens opened, and I don't think they were made just to feed babies.

You see, I have these hands. Two of them. They type, they play the piano, they change diapers, they bathe a child, they prepare meals, they clean this house. They do a multitude of things for every different part of my being. The writer, the musician, the mother, the wife, all use these hands.

It is the same with my breasts. They are functional; feeding my child. They are sexual; just ask my husband. They are decorative; clothes fit better with them than without them. They are all of these things to me.

The boobies belong to me. If I want to use them to feed my child, I can. If I want to use them to pump milk for another child, I can. If I want to use them to nurse another child, I can. If I want to use them to try and sell albums, I can. If I want to use them to reach orgasm, I can. If I want to use them to keep my toes warm, I can in another few years, I'm sure.

They belong to me. Yours belong to you. And no one. No one should be telling us what we should or shouldn't be doing with them.

Reconsidering the reasons

BlogHer, the conference, is something I assumed I would attend this year. I've been twice now, and it helps me give credit to what I do here, and here, and here, and here.

The first year I attended, I roomed with an amazing woman and got to hang with some super cool bloggettes. It was validating to be around so many great writers and to learn more about the craft and the business. I was inspired.

Then I got a little busy having a baby and all. There wasn't as much time to do the reviews I had been doing for Props and Pans. I got tired of always being down and dragging my blog through the muck. I kept up with it, but only half-heartedly.

By the time summer came, I was feeling a little better about things and Little Bird and I took off for BlogHer once again. We met my momma there, and she helped watch after Bird while I attended the conference.

Here's the thing. I didn't feel connected. Most of the people I knew and had hung with the year before were all attending outside events that I didn't know about and wasn't part of. It's hard to say that without sounding like sour grapes, and you certainly can't say it right after the conference or people get terribly defensive, and you get labeled a whiner.

I'm not whining, I'm just stating some facts. Facts that have been influencing how I look at blogging. Besides, what affected me was not that I wasn't invited to events, it was that I wasn't missed. As in, no one noticed that I wasn't there or included. I felt invisible. Plus, I didn't get to visit with the people I really wanted to visit with because they were busy. With these other things. Maybe invisible isn't the word, maybe it's just disconnected.

I've been doing this for a few years now, and I know that "canape" is one of those names that illicits the, "Oh yeah, I've heard of her," response. I also know that I have a small (but fantabulous) readership. I'm okay with that. I will not find my fame and fortune with blogging. I never intended to.

There are bloggers on every level who I consider friends. They are terrific women who I'm humbled to have personal relationships with. The thing is, they have their own circles of friends, so even though I have friends, I don't have a group of friends. I've had this issue my whole life. I can be friends with a jock, a geek, a freak, and a brain, but I never have fit in with the whole group of jocks, geeks, freaks, or brains.

I stand alone, in the end. Always alone at some point or another, but yet never forever. I'm working on learning how to be a part of a group. There are some women who have been schooling me in that for about 18 months now. It's a good lesson to learn.

In the meantime though, there is the question of BlogHer. It has come down to this for me:

• I am not ever going to do reviews for a living or on this blog.
  
• I will never have enough traffic to sell adspace here, nor will I be changing my writing style and content to make it so.
• While I love reading several different blogs, I have lost the urge to connect with every single blogger that I love in real life. I don't need to meet the musicians whose albums I love. It's become the same sort of thing.
  
• I have a bigger desire for the real life connections I make via the internet to happen locally. There are some amazing bloggers right here where I live, and I would like to cultivate relationships with them.
• For what it would cost me to go to BlogHer, my family could spend a week in the mountains.

That is the bottom line. Do I value networking and the possiblity of making a few more connections over giving my family some much needed time off together? Do I really think that I can accomplish enough at BlogHer to justify choosing it over a week off with my boys?

I just don't think so.

Having said that, I am not against going with a sponsorship. If some company wants to pay my way and have me wear their name plastered on my behind, that would be alright with me. I think the conference is a wonderful thing, and if I end up there this year, I would do some things differently.

I would be a little more outgoing. I would find out ahead of time what was going on and when, and I would get myself included. Because in the end, most of the events surrounding the conference weren't exclusive - getting left out is way different than being excluded.

We'll see. For now though, I'm going to book that cabin in the Appalachians and look forward to some quiet summer days with my family.

And I'm going to keep writing and reading. Because that's what this is all about in the end.

The big scary Bible

Little Bird and I like to go to the library. We read in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night before bed. We love books. I quickly learned that books are expensive, and that even though Mama gets bored of the same board books morning, noon, and night, it just isn't in the budget to keep buying books. And why should we when we can just go to the library?

Our trips to the library are short, as Little Bird mainly likes to pull books off of the shelves and place them in the bins around that are for reshelving. He also likes to stand at the little short shelves of board books and pull them out one at a time, examine the front and back of each book, and then hand it to me. I put some back and pull some to check out and take home.

The very first book Little Bird "selected" yesterday was a big sparkly book about Noah's Ark. We haven't started learning Bible stories yet - unless you count him chucking the baby Jesus from his Fisher Price nativity set with me crying out, "Noooooo! Don't throw the Son of God!" so I thought it would be good to start. I'll bet the Reverend Nana agrees.

When we got home, we sat down on the couch to read. I opened up the Noah's Ark book, and began,

"Noah was a good man.
He lived a holy life.
He had three grown-up sons,
And a kind and loving wife."

Okay. That's a nice story. Next page.

"God will send a frightening flood
To cover all the land.
And as the water rises,
There'll be no place left to stand.

I have to wipe the world clean
Because my people are so bad.
But I'll save you and your family,
So Noah, don't be sad."

Holy crap. I know the story. I went to a Presbyterian day school. I know all the stories. It hadn't occurred to me how freaking scary they are until now.

Evil snake in the garden. Cain and Abel. Job and the series of unfortunate events. Daniel getting thrown to the lions. Jonah and the whale. Then of course, the torture and crucifixion of Jesus. They are all freaking nightmare stories.

I believe in a God of grace and mercy. I want for my son to know of the goodness and kindness. He should know of the grace.

I guess that you have to tell the stories like these to get to the grace. I mean, the story of grace in my life involves death, divorces, and miscarriages. It's not a pretty story, it's just a happy ending. But without the first part of the story, there can be no grace.

Tell that to a 13 month old. No thanks. For now, I'm skipping over the story of the flood and just talking about the animals on the big boat. I think I'll leave out drunken Noah too, just for good measure.

Snowed in. Figuratively.

The posts lie unfinished in draft form. That is so not like me. I just can't seem to finish anything I start online lately. I owe someone a review, but it's going to be a bad review, so I can't get motivated to write it. I have posts about new mamas, posts about nursing, posts about reading, all in the hopper - unfinished.

Since I never got around to posting pictures of our snow day in January (at least, not that I can remember), I'm going to brighten this page with a few shots from today. Little Bird is a Snow Bird. He loves it. Poor old Gibson - it just made him nervous. He kept trying to nose Bird up out of the snow and clean off his little hands for him. That dog worries way too much about the baby.

These women who I love

There really has to be a better terminology than "in real life." You've probably seen it online - IRL - to denote between what is real and what occurs online. I used to use it. I've decided I'm done with the phrase.

The friends I've made via the internet are as real as the friends I get to see face to face. Granted, there are differences to the relationships, the history, and how they play out, but they are just as real.

It's my birthday. Yup. Today. Fat Tuesday. I freaking love it when my birthday falls on Mardi Gras. I get to stick a candle in a King Cake and dance around like a fool. It's awesome.

I got the best present this year. I had to beg for it, but I got it.

Kevin took me to Baltimore to see some of my friends. Some of my real friends. We spent the afternoon with a crowd of them, and then spent the night with Nita and her family. It was absolutely wonderful.

These women have invested themselves in my life. They have trusted me and given me reason to trust them. They have stayed with me through my cliched darkest days and brightest ones as well. We have grieved together and celebrated together. I honestly love them.

Gail, Amy, Jill, Nicole, Heather, Jessica, Nita were all there. I had never met any of them in person before, and yet there wasn't a moment of awkwardness. Well, except when I cried during my first Gail hug. Or cried again when I was telling Jill goodbye. Or when Amy texted and said that she was going to make it after all. Okay. So it was awkward when I kept crying. I couldn't help it though. I was too too happy.

Thank you, Kev, for going with me and meeting these fantastic women. I hope next time that the whole group can be together. The whole group of real friends.














Happy birthday to me. I'm a lucky lucky woman. And yes, I'm aware that my child is only 1 and is already a boob man. That has to be my favorite picture ever.

Happy birthday little Pippi

Little Bird's first friend turns one tomorrow. Her mama has a new blog, and it's a rather nice place to visit, especially whilst I gather myself again. I think you'll find though, that you'll want to stick around.

Add another to your reader, you know you want to.

First kiss

One of the best things about motherhood is that no day is completely and totally horribly bad. This day has tried its best, but it's just not making its way into the suck ass column.

My labs are back. Still pregnant, but not for long. Honestly, I don't know if the nurse said they were dropping or that they weren't climbing like they should be. After I heard, "Dr. Howell said to tell you she is so sorry," I sort of zoned out for the next part. All I know is that it's not a viable pregnancy, and I have an appointment on Monday. I guess I just hang out and wait to bleed now. Fun.

I got this news on the way to my La Leche League meeting. This is the meeting I first went to when Little Bird was 3 weeks old, and I've been going ever since. I did miss December because he was sick, and we missed January because I didn't realize the third Friday of the month wasn't the second Friday, thereby leaving me feeling stupid on the fourth Friday.

While turning around and going home was my first choice, I decided that I could use the company and it could help me take my mind off the bad news. So I kept going. And when I got there, no one else was there. I sat for about 10 minutes just in case they were all running late (unlikely), and then gave up.

When I came home, I looked up the meetings online, only to find that meeting has been completely deleted from the roster. I've been attending it for a year now, giving my contact information each month, and they didn't feel it necessary or even polite to contact the regulars to tell them they were dissolving that group? I'm not impressed.

What's left for a day that is starting out in full crap mode? A trip to Target, of course. Here's where the day starts getting better. Pushing a cart around, staring into the eyes of my little guy, I can't help but smile. He's reaching for things, talking up a storm, and basically warming me up from toe to head. A couple of swimsuits and a new toy later, our retail therapy session gave way to the need for a nap.

Here's where the bad day loses it's grip for sure.

Little Bird wakes up from his nap and begins chirping to himself in his crib. He talks to Mr. Bear, and plays with the mirror thing tied to the inside of the crib. I love it when he wakes up like this. I give him a few minutes to himself and then go upstairs to get him. I lean into his crib and tell him I'm going to get kisses when all of the sudden, he lays one on me.

My little boy planted a big smooch right on his mama's lips. Then he backed up, grinned, and threw his arms around my neck for a hug.

First kiss. I may not remember my first kiss from a sweaty pubescent suitor, but I will never forget this first kiss. It turned a very bad day into a much more bearable one.

Sorry, Cliff

It had to go. About 10 inches of hair hit the floor today. How very liberating. Clifford, I did put it off and think twice, but in the end, the shears won. If it makes you feel any better, my child cried and screamed when he saw me and clung to his Papa for dear life for what seemed like hours to me. He was not a fan of my new do.














In other news, my HCG levels were at 41 today. Which means that I'm pregnant. The nurse says reassuringly, "That's a good number," I guess because I don't sound very excited over her congratulatory call. It's hard to get excited about that when I was just telling everyone last month that I was pregnant. Then not. It's all becoming rather anticlimactic.

Humph. I'll believe it when - well - I was trying to pick a week, but I can't. Eight weeks? Twelve weeks? Twenty-four weeks? Who knows. Right now, I'm hopeful and scared. We would like for this to be a baby that comes along into our family say, Octoberish. But still. Humph.

Maybe, Baby.

Yakkity Yak

I blog in my head most of the time now. For some reason, I haven't been able to pull together cohesive posts as frequently as I used to. I blame it on busyness. I could blame it on distraction. The TV is on at night more than it used to be. Little Bird is awake more and eager to go go go.

It is worth noting that we have survived the first middle of the night vomit episode. Bird woke up Monday morning around 2:00 AM, and his cries were much more than just some nighttime stirring. I opened the door to his room and was hit with the putrid smell of acidic banana yogurt and cheese. Bird was covered in banana and noodles. He stood there in his crib, with this stunned look on his face, and then yakked up some more.

Needless to say, I've been a little busy with my boys. His daddy woke up as soon as I got back in bed around 4:30 AM, and ran to the bathroom to throw up. Both of my guys have needed extra loving care, so the post I have brewing about some amazing friends will have to wait just a little longer. It deserves more attention than I have to give it right this second.

For tonight, I give you some of the photos from Little Bird's one year old photo shoot. Which, of course, was almost a month ago. I am so behind on things. Enjoy.

Everything else can wait

Last week I found myself at a monthly gathering of women. It's mostly social, but the women on the invitation list are all very politically and community minded. I haven't been since I quit my job as director of a local non-profit. For some reason, I decided it was time to go back last week.

I baked my brownies to take, prepared dinner, and made sure that Kevin had everything he needed for Little Bird and himself before I left. Kevin was going to feed and bathe Bird and then I would be home to nurse and rock him to sleep.

When I arrived, I found the friend who I knew would be there. Getting to catch up with her for a few minutes was the deciding factor in my attendance in the first place. However, I didn't want to monopolize her entire evening, so after catching up for a few minutes, we moved on to join some other conversations.

After the common pleasantries regarding the wine, the food, and the view from the amazing downtown condo, the next question was always, "What do you do?"

I would answer, "I have a one year old. I stay at home with him."

Crickets chirping.

Chirp.

Chirp.

Chirp.

It is just the conversation stopper I had heard it would be.

Looking back on it, I could have said, "I'm a musician," or even "I'm a writer." Both are true, even if they aren't full-time work for me right now.

But the truth is, I do stay at home with my son. I am a mother first, and everything else comes after that. It was my natural reaction to answer that what I did was to be a mama.

The conversations didn't stop long. I was perfectly fine asking them about their jobs, talking about the economy, and even slipping back into conversations about the grants process and the state of arts funding in our community with a city councilwoman. Talking about what I used to do came naturally, and fit in with the evening, so I did it.

I don't want to only talk about what I used to do though, and on the way home, I thought it might be time for me to think about getting back into non-profit work. Maybe look into doing a little lobbying. I got excited driving home with possibilities of working for the community once again playing through my head.

As I walked through the front door, I had my mouth open, about to call out for Kevin. Before I could get a sound out, He came running on tiptoe down the stairs. Without the baby.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" he said. "I've just gotten him to sleep."

All of the swirling thoughts that were spinning in my head dropped like anvils, and I started to cry. No rocking. No nursing. No Mama. He just went to sleep without me for the first time.

I realized right then that there was no job I could do that would be more important to me than being here for all the little things. Nothing that I could accomplish out there that would make me feel more fulfilled than to spend as much time with my son as possible right here.

Everything else can wait.

One Little Sheep

There is a story in the Bible about a shepherd with 100 sheep. One night, he is putting all of the sheep back in their pen and only counts 99 of them. He secures the 99 sheep and then goes to search high and low for the one missing sheep.

My heart hurts today for that one missing sheep.

Some of you know that I used to be the executive director for a non-profit music school for children from low-income families. Hundreds of children who were considered "at-risk" youth came through the school while I worked there, and for the most part, I have all of these warm fuzzy feelings about success stories. Children who decided to go to college. Children who earned places in the premier youth orchestra here in town. Children who got music scholarships to college. A clarinetist who ended up the top player in the state and is now at Harvard. Children who I when I bump into them, still give me a hug and have something good to say about their experience at the school.

Funding was granted because of our successes and our mission. Who could say no to giving music lessons and instruments to at-risk youth? Even the White House thought the program was super and in 2004 I took one of our students there to accept a Coming Up Taller Award from Laura Bush. I was proud of the work we did and the families we helped.

This morning, I turned on the news and saw the other side of the coin.

About six years ago, there was a little boy who had all the cards stacked against him. He was withdrawn. His mother got him to lessons late if she got him there at all. He was unresponsive with his teacher, although he really really wanted to learn to play. He was 10 years old with a tough guy attitude already trapping him behind a thick defensive wall. When his lessons were over though, he would come see me while he waited for his mother who often had to be called long after his lesson was over and told to come pick him up. We would talk, rather, I would talk and he would give me one word answers and at least one smile every week. He was the kind of boy that I knew had it in him to do great things, but had no support system. I fought like crazy to keep him in the program. Convinced his teacher weekly to be patient with him, rode his mother to get him there and get him there on time, and skirted around the attendance rules so that he wouldn't be kicked out. By the time he was 13, he disappeared. Phone disconnected, mail returned. Lost from our radar.

Last night he was arrested for murder. He's 16 years old.

It breaks my heart. It reminds me to look at the kids who get into trouble with the law and remember that at some point, somebody believed in them. It reminds me that most of the time, these are kids who had insurmountable issues at home, if they even had a home. Sure, they made their own choices and have to answer for them, but somewhere along the way, he was let down by the people who should have done right by him.

When I saw his mugshot on the news, I didn't see a murderer. I saw the little boy who never lost his drumsticks and always wanted to have his lesson even when his ride dropped him off so late that the next student had already started.

This little boy had potential to succeed, and the adults in his life failed him. Then he failed himself. I'm just so sad. I wish that I had tried harder to find this one sheep and keep him with us. Keep him in a program where he could learn self respect, good self esteem, and self discipline.

The 99 continue to make it worth all the work, but my heart is broken today for the one little sheep.

Cross posted at Triangle Mamas.

Respect the blog

"I may be just a little fairy, but I have a big vocabulary!"

It's my favorite line in Abby Cadabby's song "I Love Words." Christopher and I watch that video on the Sesame Street website at least three times a week. He sits on my lap and bounces while I sing along.

Although I haven't followed the 'no TV before 2' rule, we read far more than we watch TV. He gets about 15-20 minutes of Sesame Street in the afternoons, and on Sunday morning, we usually watch a weird little show called "Lomax, the Hound of Music." However, in this house, books rule. I want for my children to love words as much as I do.

I love reading words. I love writing words. I love prose, poetry, song lyrics. I will read anything. Cereal boxes, recipes, old letters that I've read 100 times before - it doesn't matter. I am fascinated by how words fit together like puzzle pieces to create exactly the right picture. Even when the words are crammed together like clowns in a tiny car and don't quite seem to work? I still love them.

I don't pretend to be a writer. Well, maybe I do, but not a good one. A few months ago, I took an online creative non-fiction class. The instructor was quite good, and I enjoyed the assignments very much. Truth is, I don't have the discipline to be a good writer right now. I would much rather sit down at my blog and type out what I could pay someone $200 an hour to listen to than craft rough draft after rough draft.

However.

The importance of these words cannot be discounted. I have found my words splogged across other sites. Ideas I have had and started here continue on without a mention of where they began. It's not cool. It's disrespectful. It needs to stop. Especially the particularly nasty sites where some perky titted naked chick poses above one of my posts about my baby. Creepy and wrong.

Kelly is spelling it out. Her writing made for a lovely article in The Times online. Only they didn't link to her. They mentioned her, but used huge amounts of her material without even a single link. No respect.

Mommyblogging is a radical act. We've discussed it. We all know it. We are telling the stories of motherhood in a new day and age. Connecting across boundaries that once were too far and too wide to reach. There is power in our writing and in our community.

It's time for us to respect ourselves and demand it from others too.

Respect the blog.








Go on over to Don Mills Diva and join the revolution. You deserve it.

To cut or not to cut, the very uncontroversial version

I have had a little touch of the grouchies. Not sure why, and there is always a reason why. I'm just not really interested in figuring out what it is right now.

Instead, I contemplate my hair. Which is long. And boring. And a pain in the arse to deal with. It's long and really really thick. I mean really thick. It wants to be curly, and parts of it are incredibly curly. Like tight corkscrew curls. Unfortunately, the top layer is just a little wavy, so it doesn't match. That leaves me to straighten it most of the time, and that takes about 45 minutes to an hour.

I just don't have that kind of time or patience anymore.

Plus, I don't want to be that forty-something year old woman who still has long hair because
a) She's always had long hair.
b) She can't think of anything else to do with it.
c) She thinks it makes her look younger.
d) No one has told her that it makes her look way older.

Of course I have awhile to go before I'm forty-something. But I have that itch anyway. The cut the hair itch. It grows back, right?

I'm open for suggestions.