Spin Me I Pulsate.

Now, in the most drastic about face I've ever witnessed, the Dorf turns to me this morning and says,

"We should go get a cat."

Thankfully, I had finished chewing my breakfast at this point, and I didn't spit it all over his face.

3 years ago last May, we had to put 'the Grr" (Edgar Varese) to sleep. He was the COOLEST cat ever, despite getting a little loopy from his illness. It was extremely hard, and not just because I was pregnant. I stayed in the room as they injected the whatever, and watched him die. But the vet assured us there was nothing we could have done, and no way to make his life better. (actually, the vet was good-I asked him point blank if I could fix him, and he looked me in the eye and told me that if I valued quality over quantity, then putting him to sleep was the best thing)

I've had cats my entire life. I grew up with Suji, the bitchiest calico ever, then had Booger, who was likely eaten by a bear in Northern Ontario, then I had someone give me Mara, the cat who acted like her master, and shortly thereafter we had Xenakis and Leroy.

I had to give Mara, Xenakis and Leroy up, and while they went to good homes, it broke my heart.

The Dorf has always been anti-cat. 'I'm allergic", "they make messes", "they smell", etc, etc, etc. He grew up with poodles though, so I forgave him this. I was slowly turning him into a cat person. I grew up with a cat, and felt that growing up with any type of pet helps a child develop empathy for others. And, there's nothing better than a purring kitty on your lap in the dead of winter now is there?

The Dorf says that he was motivated by the picture of a particularily cute cat on the front fo the paper-the local SPCA also is running out of room. So despite my fears for the kitty with Rosalyn McGrabby around, we're going to at least go to the SPCA and see if we fall in love with anyone. I want an older cat, a calm cat who will sit and judge us all with contempt.

I'm also worried that the thing that ultimately did Edgar in was my inability to find the food I had been feeding him. In Toronto, we fed him Solid Gold, which while expensive, made an obvious difference in him. We were not able to get it here though, and even what I could find didn't seem as good.

SOOOOO-the point of this is to also ask for advice-my kids are three and 1.5 years. Am I rushing this? Part of me wants the kitty RIGHT NOW, and the rational part of me says to wait until next summer at least. Any advice on acclimating a kitty, or if I should even try?

Posted by thordora at 12:04 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

How can anything be wrong with my world with this little imp on my deck?

It's so nice, after all this time, to LOVE this child.

Posted by thordora at 4:55 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Ever have one of those days where you want to say something profound and meaningful, and yet all you're left with in your head is "Jesus, that Glade Plug In smells like SHIT!"?

It's one of those days.

I find myself frequently "drifting" off into space lately, and I think it's the meds. I feel enraptured by my own thoughts and memories, by the space I occupy. Yet at the same time, those moments are just as likely to involve the "chicken or veggie entree for dinner" debate. My brain, I believe she is melting.

Or at least shifting. I'm glad to see that my urge to "create" hasn't ebbed-in fact, most days it's pretty high, and it would be great if it wasn't for the kids/job thing. My head is bursting with ideas, with thoughts and plans. It's like being manic, without being annoying.

SCORE!

Meh, who am I kidding. I've spent most of the day trying to convince a toddler to have a nap before I implode. Currently, she's watching Lady & The Tramp, her usual nap inducement, and I'm worrying that little miss potty trained and won't take off my Mulan panties has peed on the lazyboy. I just hate cleaning pee of apholstery. She's doing pretty good though. And I must say, they grunting and the "I can't poop right now Mommy" is pretty damn funny.

Rosalyn has started humming/monosyllabically singing the Backyardigans theme. OVER and OVER and OVER. We got Vivian a Backyardigans book as a potty reward. It's in Rosalyn's bed. Heh.

Vivian will also be three in 2 weeks. It's so hard to believe. This time 3 years ago, it's was hot, and i was annoyed and scared and worried and excited and waiting. 3 short years. I feel like it's been 20, I've grown up so much, and become such a different person. But more on that tomorow maybe, or never. I just feel that sometimes, the bridge of time is elastic, and plays tricks.

So that's a random day, want to be profound but sounding like my boyfriend in Grade 11 (sorry Bryan-but anyone who screws a 16 year old when they're 24 has a screw loose. Even I knew that then). My head is tired, I'm tired, but it's cool enough to cook, after being 100F yesterday. I even made healthy Apple Oat muffins today. they're good for me and they don't taste like hay. YEAH!

Posted by thordora at 4:35 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm so terribly sick of hearing about Blogher.

Does anyone else feel like this is yet again another club that only certain people get to play in? I'm thinking, oh, i dunno, people with more money and time than me?

I keep seeing tantalizing glimpses of blogging being this powerful act, moving beyond just words to changing people, to altering people. But I don't hold that image for long. I see bands of women toddling behind two or three bloggers, behind certain "expectations" of what a blog by a woman should be. I see the same mass of women that I never related to before all this, and I see them elevated to super stardom.

And yeah, it's cool-everyone has their own space, right? But it seems that some "good" bloggers get left behind, the normal bloggers, who don't seem to travel around on a whim, who don't have the money to just "do their thing", who can stay home and make those moments transcend what they are. I rarely see those types of experiences held up as examples. I see the same popular=painful trend that seems to happen in every other creative movement.

You know what it really feels like, when I get down to it? It takes me right back to Grade 5, when the "popular" girls all had their Esprit tops and had their little "club" in the woods behind the school, and only THEY could join. Only girls who were "popular", which at our school, meant had money, and spent inordinate amounts on time on their hair.

I don't doubt that some, if not many bloggers at Blogher are cool people, aren't are the Stacey's and Vicki's of my grade school world. But I hate the feeling, like I should be sad that I'm missing out on some great experience. Last time I checked, too many women and too much alcohol never ends well. At least it doesn't in Canada.

Posted by thordora at 4:36 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

The day you told me of the abortion, I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to tell Alyssa either, 2 years before, as the herbs she tried wracked her body before she went and paid for a doctor to help her.

What can you say?

Great! You got rid of the damn thing, let's go have a beer? Oh shit, that must have sucked? Gee, better luck next time?

My internal book of things to say was blank when it came to Abortion: Reaction to. I thought of your parents, your "artsy" but conservatively liberal parents, with a standing in the community to protect, cushy art jobs with the government. Your parents who worried about the effect I might have on you.

I always found that amusing myself.

Laura, I sat starting at you, at a girl I didn't know anymore. You had your first real boyfriend, the first person who really loved you as a lover, the first person to find you beautiful. I couldn't stand him, but I never told you. He made you so happy. He was so wrong for you.

He got you pregnant, or maybe you forgot, or didn't protect, or who knows. You were pregnant at that age, at that time, at 18 or 19 or however old you were and alone you made your way to the clinic and alone you had that potential removed and I didn't know what to say.

I never saw you again after we met that day.

I kept staring into my tea. You only told me after I made some comment about samosas and chutney, and you told me you couldn't eat chutney anymore, because that's what your parents were eating when you came home from the clinic that day, nauseaous and feeling poorly. The flu you told them, as your stomach revolted from the food.

I read a story today Laura, about a girl who had an abortion, and who thought about the father, and her parents, and how disappointed everyone would be. And I still didn't know what to say anymore than I did 10 years ago when you bared your heart to me and I couldn't find a way to tell you what I really felt, that I was there for you, that you made a choice you had to make, that I wished I could have been there when it happened.

For years the characters in my stories were named Laura. I loved that name. But after this, my heroines were no longer named Laura, not because you had the abortion, but because I felt helpless to be there for you as I should have been. You were so strong when you told me, and I know that it was a lie.

Laura, for what it's worth, I'm so very sorry. Where ever you are.

Posted by thordora at 12:28 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

One of the more noxious side effects of the events of my life is the following scenario.

Let's say I say I'm sick, or getting sick, or not feeling well. Inevitably, the Dorf will mention that he feels ill, or did, or will, etc. Now, I'm fairly sure that most people shrug this off, since other people do get sick. I don't. I get ANGRY, like I'm not allowed to be sick by myself, or be taken care of, or left to just be me.

Only now have a begun to realize why I do this. As I child, I had to subjugate my wishes, my problems, my desires, to my mother. My mother had CANCER. You don't fuck with cancer. And what's a wussy thing like the flu compared to CANCER? So I learned to never whine, never ask for special treatment, never complain. My problems can't possibly be anywhere near hers.

So now, when it happens, when someone tries to relate to me, even when my therapist discloses her own history of abuse, all I can think of is how ANGRY I am that someone dares to hold their experience up for me to pity, to feel bad for. I almost get offended.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?


Look, I know it's likely a normal outcropping of what happened to me. But it's so TACKY! And not in a polyester kind of way. It's immature and rude. But then, it can also be argued that my emotional growth remains at 11 years of age, and hasn't moved. I know that people are just trying to relate, but dammit, I've spent years with people trying to relate, and no one just listening or taking care of me.

The Dorf mentioned something last night about me being "emotionally cold, distant and unavailable".

It's true. Sometimes I tell him to read this blog, because it's so much easier for me to be "me" in writing. Figures that we fell in love through letters huh? But I feel terrible, because not only is he the person who takes the brunt of the above, but he also has to deal with the way I am, lost in thought, saying little most of the time. Opening up, when all I've known is being fucked over, is likely the hardest thing I've ever done. I'd rather give birth.

Sometimes lately, I feel like I am giving birth, a birth to a new me, or to the me that has been buried underneath piles and piles of shit, of horror and sadness, of unending sorrow. I feel like I'm reaching back and trying to find the girlchild who loved the world, who had so much to give, and so few people to give it to. Reaching back to a tiny baby whose mother couldn't keep her in the first place.

I often wonder what the scars really are from adoption, and what impact that has in my life as well. I can be rational, but at the end of the day, I have two mothers, one who couldn't/didn't want me, and one who couldn't stay. Did that start me on a path to being guarded and wary, or did the events which happened to be do that?

Sometimes, I wonder about my brain...

Posted by thordora at 11:24 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

So I finally started to talk to my therapist about the sexual abuse I suffered as a child. Mostly, because my slowly settling mind has allowed me to think of it, as well as this summer reminds me of that summer.

The memories are everywhere, peonies, tiger lilies, cherries, ferns, apple trees, the buzzing of power lines in heat, the stark sun of late July.

I always hated summer. Only now, I finally realized why.

I'd spent so long not thinking about this, not wanting to be bothered with yet more memories, that I couldn't connect the dots. Now, with time to think, the memories come flooding in.

There are some I will not let in. They are locked behind a door I shall not ever open. I have guessed at what is there, and it's so bad I don't want to see it.

But one of the more interesting things with the Trileptal I'm taking is that I sleep, and with sleep, come dreams.

BAD dreams. Clear dreams I can't get out of. Dreams that feel like lives lived.

Last night, after finally broaching the topic with my therapist, finally explaining why I cannot stomach to see a real cherry, explaining why having my picture taken bothers me, I dreampt I was being raped. All night long.

I couldn't escape, I couldn't get free, i couldn't get to my husband and child. When I finally did, only because they let me go, I found a book that seemed to contain good things people have said about me, thought about me, and it was titled "Mind over Mind"

I think I'm healing. I just wish it didn't make me want to cry.

Posted by thordora at 10:30 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Maybe you've heard about these lunatics.

Pro-Lifers from Ontario have come to New Brunswick with GIANT signs, showing graphic pictures of aborted foetus'. They then stand on the street, where you cannot look away if you are driving, where you cannot protect your young children from these pictures.

The various letters to the editor in the local idiot paper (all from men I might add) talk about people being offended "because they've never seen the truth".

What "the truth" has to do with explaining to a 4 year old why there is a bloody mess on a bunch of posters, I don't know.

Some of us are pro-choice, and we know what the procedure looks like. Some of us don't. Some don't care. Some of us are more than a little irritated that a group of mutbags believes that showing such disgusting pictures in public, with no care for the people they might be upsetting.

And then the argument turns into "but abortion is wrong! WA WA WA! Feel bad for the poor widdle babies!"

HORSECRAP.

These people, if I can use that term, are only around to protect what they think is their god given right to protect. They aren't there to support the mother after, in anyway. They don't actually care about people. They care about their agenda.

I've been reading about this for days, and nothing makes me more angry than the thought of explain to my toddler what those pictures are. She'll learn early enough. It is not a group of people, who I find personally repugnant, place to teach my children anything.

And the minute men start trying to order me and my uterus around, I become more than a little irritated. It's bad enough the only place to get abortions is in Fredericton, IF you can pay for it.

I swear, this province will never, EVER get it's head out of it's ass.

Posted by thordora at 9:08 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Who knew that a Black Flag song could really be used to illustrate a toddler's attitude?

Gimme gimme gimme
I need some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

Sitting here like a loaded gun
Waiting to go off
I've got nothing to do
But shoot my mouth off

Gimme gimme gimme
Give me some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

I gotta go out
Get something for my head
If I keep on doing this
I'm gonna end up dead

Gimme gimme gimme,
Give me some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

You know the world's got problems
I've got problems of my own
Not the kind that can't be solved
With an atom bomb

Gimme gimme gimme
Give me some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

Gimme gimme gimme
I need some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

Sitting here like a loaded gun
Waiting to go off
I've got nothing to do
But shoot my mouth off

Gimme gimme gimme
Give me some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

Today has been one of those days that people should hold up as examples before anyone gets their ass in the family way, a day to prevent unwanted teenage pregnancies and unwanted married pregnancies for that matter. A day that makes me want to drink beer until it exits my body of it's own violition.

Oh dreaded tantrum, your name is cheezies....

Vivian decided that she would NOT, under any circumstances, have a nap. She wasn't tired, despite the eye rubbing, the blankie cuddling, the laying in the lazyboy. And DAMMIT WOMAN, she wanted cheezies now, not later.

This developed into a bit of a civil war for the afternoon, which ended with TV time being halted, with no attempt for reconciliation on either side. She was left to pout sadly from the extra chair in the kitchen, as I attempted to make something not fatty that she might eat.

Apparently, chicken stirfry was on her "no-fly" list.

While I didn't get mad, I found myself looking at her a few times, and wondering how on earth my mother didn't beat the living hell out of me. I was spanked, a lot (with reason I'm sad to admit) but considering she was sick, I'm surprised she didn't sell me to the gypsies she was always warning me from. (How's that for dating me-my mother worried about gypsies coming to the door to rob us-I always had this image of some lady in a black dress with tiny children under her skirt who would run around and rummage in our living room)

I also found myself looking at my girls as we walked to the thrift store for our weekly shopping trip. They were tickling eachother with grass stems, and I suddenly thought of all the people I know with sisters who don't get along, sisters they don't like, sisters that don't talk to each other anymore since that thing with the turkey and the boyfriends, and I swore to myself to take a picture of that moment and never ever lose that memory, or my two daughters, my irritating, loud, sweet endearing daughters giggling in the sunlight together, sharing that little smile that sisters seem to have.

They drive me batty-I freely admit it. But I am blessed to hear their giggling voices tearing around the house in the morning, freed from their room at last. I am blessed to have one, and then both, negotiating for lap space, for that dirty little girlchild smell.

I was hit with the sudden thought that even for all the contraceptive properties of my children, there are these magical moments where I stop and time slows and we don't move, and I know that 30 years from now, or 20, when one of my babies has her own baby, it will all come rushing back to me, and I will know that I did not take enough time to just be within time. And I might regret that. I will regret that.

So I have saved that moment in my mind, that moment shining with goldenrod and grasshoppers on a school trail. Because one day, I'll miss the gimme gimme's, and I'll think of sly tender moments on a summer day.

Posted by thordora at 7:23 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

First of all, THANK YOU to anyone who gave me some advice a little while back. I have integrated all of it into what we've been doing. We started about a week ago, and we've been easing into it. Thus far we have achieved:

• 2 longish walks in the stroller, wearing underpants, without incident. Granted, the minute she stands up, the floodgates open, but it's a start, and a lesson to me to get her on the potty as soon as we get home. BUT, she fell asleep for about 20 minutes on one of these trips, and only let a little go, and got upset, before running to the bathroom.
• a clear "I need to poop now" and mad running to the potty. SCORE! She has no problems pooping in the toilet, and in fact, seems to relish it.
• Mostly accident free IF she isn't wearing anything. If she's nekid, she's fine. Even with the princess panties, and the possibility that Mulan might cry, she still pees. Apparently this is normal? I just find it odd, and I can only assume that if she feels something on her vulva, she assumes it's a diaper.
• She clearly knows the difference between having a diaper on and not. She will state "I pee in diapers" as she pees in said diaper. So I know she's ready.
• Bribery, they name is Vivian. This totally works, especially using sprinkle covered chocolates from the candy store (she calls them "sprinklers") Her "BIG" bribe is a Backyardigans book.

So it's been a week, and she's doing ok. I'm thinking maybe we're paranoid, and should be so. Are we doing ok? Tell me internet peeps, are we on the right track here?

Posted by thordora at 7:51 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Whatever this "problem" with my stomach is, it's only getting worse, so I haven't been online much, nor have I been working. Everytime I think it's better, BOOM, I'm writhing in pain for 4 hours.

I FINALLY got someone at the ER to not think it's just the flu, so after an all night visit, with 10 mins spent with the doctor, I know get the fun job of collecting my crap. JOY. Coupled with having to be extremely careful with what I ingest, and I'm totally enjoying things.

So, I'm exhausted, and not feeling well, and I kinda smell. (Having you husband ask you nicely to sleep in the other room because you stink is another highlight of whatever this is). The doctor said it could be one of MANY things, hence all the tests.

I just want to be able to eat without fear of oodles of pain, that's all.

Posted by thordora at 7:45 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Awhile back I stumbled on the story of Matthew Nguyen, and his website www.helpmatthewstay.com.

In a nutshell, this guy was brought to Canada illegally, kept as little more than a slave for years until he ran away and begged to start school. For 6 years he was little more than a captive doing housework.

He started school, and a social worker helped him find housing. He had great grades, and plans for a future.

The our government had this great idea to deport him back to France, a country he barely remembered, with a language he didn't speak.

So the call went out for people to lobby their MP's and the immigration minister. And many of us did. Myself in particular added to the form letter, stating that this young man defines what I want in Canada-someone hardworking, someone with a thirst for knowledge, someone unafraid of challenge. Why would we deport him?

But for once, something good happened. They changed their mind, and extended a 3 year visa, during which time he can apply for immigrant status.

So nice that during all this other crap, that our government periodically fixes the rectal cranial inversion it experiences, even if only temporarily.

Posted by thordora at 2:03 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

There are days when I shouldn't be left alone with my children. Days when rage pours like wine from my lips, my hands and my eyes.

But it's not like my husband can call in "wife gone loopy" or anything.

My bipolar can create these incredible moments of joy, of happiness, creativity and love. But the ugly stepsister of all this good stuff is rage. Blind, unflinching rage and hate.

It boils in me at times, when kids are screaming because it's been 100F for 3 days straight, and they're hot and sweaty and pissed off and I'm' the same and hungry and tired. It bubbles to the surface like lava, burning through me, eating up at me until the inevitable happens.

I try to remember to leave the room, to walk away, to not slam the door, to not slap my now hysterical daughter. Why is this so hard? Why am I so detatched from my daughter, crying and screaming and throwing a tantrum. Why am I so full of this hatred for her in this moment?

I sit down away from her, and try to settle the shaking in my arms.

I scare myself when this happens. I scare myself thinking I'll never be like other mothers, other people. I worry that this rage will never leave me, that my children will fear me. I worry that rage is replacing sadness.

I worry. I worry. I worry.

Posted by thordora at 3:15 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Let me set this up for you.

For the past while, it's been VERY freaking hot in Toronto. It's hot enough here (almost 100F with the humidity today), and it's worse in Toronto. I've lived there. I know how nasty it gets in July.

So what do two women do? The leave their 97 year old Grandmother and Mother in the CAR for over 30 minutes. They get arrested after someone notices that the woman has been there for at least that long, and it's freaking disgustingly hot outside. And what does the brain surgeon child say?

That she's angry that shoppers "didn't mind their own business"

Bonnie Bouclair? You're an asscrap and a moron.

I don't care what anyone says-I wouldn't leave a dog in the car in this heat, and you leave your MOTHER in there, and blame "the line up"? You LOCKED her in the car because she has bad eyesight. There were TWO of you. Someone could have brought her IN the mall, or at least gone out and started the car to get the A/C going. How on earth can DOG FOOD be more important than your mother?

Bonnie says "It's not like we left her to die"

Yeah, actually, you did. Your daughter says "we just didn't think"

These are two women over 30 years old. I would think that they would have been smart enough to realize what they were doing.

oops, there's that word again. THINK.

Read the article here. You may have to register, but it's free.

Posted by thordora at 12:49 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I've decided that since Vivian will be 3 soon, it's time for ME to shit or get off the pot about her potty training. All of my efforts have been half-assed, and she kinda argues to have a diaper on. She CAN go potty, she knows when she has to pee/poop, etc, and will do it IF bribed appropriately.

But these things are NOT consistant, and I'm tired of changed diapers on a child who is no longer a baby.

So I need some REAL advice. Should I just stick her in panties/let her run naked? What should I expect the "nekidness" to accomplish? Cause she'll just pee whereever she is. She'll make a mess, and not care, even in panties.

Am I rushing this? Or is she playing me?

I would REALLY like some useful advice here, because I feel like she's so "immature" compared to other kids not being trained yet (and I know, all kids are different, but since I know she CAN and WILL do it....)

Do I just sit her on the toilet at intervals? Will that work? What about when you're out in public?

ARGH! I'm smarter than this kids bowels you'd think!

Posted by thordora at 6:38 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I dream of war.

I dream of rockets, of blood, of screaming children orphaned. I dream of dirt, of ruins, of loss. There is no sound, and no words. Just death hanging in the air, watching and waiting.

I can do nothing but sleep through this.

When I wake up, the feeling remains, the thought that outside my door so much death waits. But it doesn't. I arrive at work enscathed. My bus ride is uneventful, and I slept not in bunkers last night.

I try and believe that events aren't leading to a final crisis, but my dreams of late are making me increasingly nervous. They seem so final.

I'd like a night or two free of blood, of hate, of pain. There's enough during the day afterall.

Posted by thordora at 8:52 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I walk down stairs after 10 hours at work to this.

I'm told, 'What? Vivian said the dinosaurs wanted to have a parade."

Posted by thordora at 8:18 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I can see your face behind my eyes.

Reflected they hold the years, the
moments we almost lost each other.

Yet they hold a simpler promise than
any other given. A quiet, misty
strength shines constant.

have I loved as strong as this? Have I
deserved for long these moments, savoured
laughter that stretches for miles and miles and
a love that holds firm all of us, steady on your feet?

I can see our future behind my eyes.

Bound heavy together, tied to eachother but not
tied down. Floating on this piece of happy we
never thought we could have. Our daughters
cry lovely for your arms. They dance forever only for you.

Posted by thordora at 4:07 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

People like to mother me.

Today, with my stomach churning and burning, and me thinking I either have an ulcer, or stomach cancer, I mention to someone who also reports to my boss that my stomach is trying to kill me, and I feel like hell. I just needed to bitch at someone.

Not 5 minutes later, I get a frantic phone call from my boss asking my why I'm at work if I feel like hell, and to go to the doctor. She has since told me about 5 times to go to a doctor. (I haven't gone because the doctors here, or at least my doctor, is rather ineffectual, and a pain in the ass. I might visit the ER however.)

Women have always done this to me. There must be some kind of "pet me, hold me, love me" sign over my head. When I worked retail, the older ladies would always let me come to them for advice, for those snippets of wisdom that mother's usually give their daughters, that I'm sure most daughters could live without. I loved it-they'd feed me, drive me home, tell me it was ok to rely on someone once and awhile, to be weak, to not "take it like a man" as I usually do.

I don't usually experience much of a bond with other women, likely due to my early motherloss, and I have trouble relating woman to woman unless it IS in a mother/child kind of way. I automatically defer to that relationship, and I assume it's because I've never known any other way to be with a woman, never outgrew being a "girl" with a female authority figure, with any type of older female. I find myself slipping into this role, and being entirely too comfortable with it, like a stray cat that loves you.

So today, having my boss repeatedly question if I was ok, making it clear that yes, she really was interested in my welfare, and really did want me to go to the doctor, I liked it. I liked having someone worry for me. I liked having a woman think of me, worry a tiny bit for me. I liked knowing someone cared.

ISn't it the bizarrest thing that this person is my boss?

Posted by thordora at 1:53 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I am an avowed hater for "reality" TV. I can proudly say I've never sat and become engrossed in Survivor, never cared much for Fear Factor beyond the belief that anyone eating cockroaches for less than 100,000 dollars is an idiot, and never even wanted to bother with Big Brother or The Surreal Life. It all seemed rather, well, tacky, like one of those friends your mother had who wore too much blue eyeshadow, and tended to 'forget" her bra. Shiny like costume jewellry, I knew my teeth would rot.

So why I'm now getting sucked into 'Rockstar: Supernova" is beyond me. Is it the fascination with the bald spot growing on Newstead's head? Is it because Tommy Lee is beginning to look like a pruny grandfather? Is it the shock value of someone thinking that singing Nicklecrap or Creed will get you in a band? Or the utter disbelief that someone can screw up crap songs? Or is it the sheer joy of watching Gilby try to find a nice way to tell the Puerto Rican girl that she REALLY can't sing?

The Dorf started watching this because he loves Voivod, loved Metallica, and Jason joined Voivod after telling Metallica to screw off. And because Jason seemed like the only normal one in Metallica (and I must confess to a slight crush since he cut all his hair off.) But we got sucked in.

There is something hypnotizing about bad performers.

I sat there yelling at the TV last night because they did not vote off the pretty Puerto Rican girl-don't get me wrong, she can perform, she's kinda hot, but she doesn't even seem to know anything the bands have done, and admits this proudly. Add in the fact that she cannot even sing, and you'll understand why I was annoyed. It like the "show you my boobs" defense.

See! I'm totally sucked into this pap. It's like a cross section of all the annoying wannabe singers I've known in my life, up on a screen, screeching a crap Coldplay song in a crappy way, or pretending to be "deep" and "interesting", when you can tell they're as interesting as water. The one guy is like every rich goth kid you've ever known and wanted to stomp. The Dorf mentioned "he was living on the streets". I asked him if he really believed that, in light of the fact that LAST years winner also was canadian and lived ont he streets.

SEE! TOTALLY sucked in.

Sigh....

Posted by thordora at 11:31 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I've been thinking a lot about grief lately. One of the writers on Blogging Baby recently lost her father, and it triggered me thinking. I started thinking about the 5 Stages of Grief. They're usually listed as so.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

I lived with these stages as my bible shortly after my mother died. It gave me something to hold onto, a reason, some sanity to remind me that what I was feeling was normal, and would, eventually pass.

The order varies for some-myself, I remember Bargaining as the big first one. Back when I still didn't believe in gods, but tried to find the one my mother found such solace in, I'd beg them to let her live, just until I got my first period, until my prom, until a boy kissed me, really kissed me. I said I'd be good, said I wouldn't upset anyone or anything, I even offered myself in her place.

Nuthin.

She died of course. We spent one last Christmas with her, but it was a sad one. What do you buy someone who's going to die? A book? My father tried to buy her clothes, because she was so cold all the time, but most didn't fit because she didn't have the energy to even get herself dressed half the time. I helped her with her winter boots, I carried the bowls of vomit upstairs.4 months bled into eachother. I spent it in a haze, likely denying that anything was wrong. Although I doubt it. I knew very well what was happening.

I remember a little while before she died, my mother sat with me in one of the visiting rooms in the palliative care ward, and we talked. I don't remember what we said, but my mother never, ever talked to me alone like that, on purpose. I'd give up many things to remember that conversation, even if it was just her voice.

Even then, I sat there ignoring the basic fact that she was dying. I know this because I remember NOT looking in her eyes, something I only do to a person if I don't respect them, or if I'm too easily broken by what they might say. I ignored it, even when she came home to die. No one comes home to live in the front room, in a hospital bed, barely able to talk. No one comes home, and lays on pads to piss. She demanded her home to die in, and they allowed her this.

With time, comes a vague acceptance. I've accepted that my mother died. I didn't lose her. She died, she went away from me. But I've also accepted that she knew, and had no choice. My father told me recently that she held on and held on until her forced her doctors to be honest, to tell her that there really was nothing left that they could do. Up until they did, she believed, she persisted, she made my father sick with her hope. My father had looked into her eyes and saw what was, that her life was limited, and there was nothing any of us could do.

She accepted this, and slowly, began to die in earnest. The rest of this story is the same as many others, changing only the age the kid was. My mother died in our front room one day in early spring.

Grief is funny. I'll be fine for days, weeks, months, and it's the little things that cut me. Premade cookie dough in the oven, the way I cut apples like my mother, cleaning her teacups. All at once, all of those stages are swept away, and I'm crying like a child into my cookie, lamenting the fact that it's been far too long since her and I sat and ate the dough together, while it was still cold, and my father was at work. Suddenly in a store, some frilly, flouncy dress will catch my eye, and the cold hard tantrum I threw in the Cataraqui Mall over my communion dress comes to mind. I still remember my tears, my fears, all crystallized in that moment. Somehow knowing at 8 that this might be the last fancy dress she'd ever buy me. It had tiny x&o's all over it. I remember how bloody frustrated she was, and tired. how I do regret making her so tired.

The next fancy dress I got was for her wake. And I hated it too.

Even as a child, I felt that the other people in my life, teachers, friends, had allotted a certain time frame in which I was allowed to grieve, and once I crossed that time, my "antics" were no longer so excused. 2 years was all I was "given". After that, I was a bad seed with "anger problems", some messed up girl that was more effort than I was worth. I didn't sit still in class, I wasn't dainty. I certainly wasn't very pretty.

I distinctly remember telling my guidance counselor about the 5 stages, and that I was very angry because my mother died, but that it was ok, it would pass. He left me alone, mostly after that. I remember others asking "But what is wrong with YOU Dora?"

At 13 you have enough trouble not saying 'Fuck you" to everyone as it is. I knew nothing was wrong with me. I knew I was grieving my mother. But no one wanted to give me the space to do so. How is anyone to grieve losing a parent in two years, least of all a teenager? Why couldn't someone have been there for me, just been there, without the accusations, and the blame. I was a mess, but I was also a sad little girl who wasn't quite sure who to cry in front of.

So back I'd go to Kubler-Ross, to see, to hear that I was ok. That I was ANGRY, full of rage, and unable to accept kindness or pity or compassion because DAMMIT I'M PISSED. But her voice I her books was a steady quiet influence on me, and helped me.

Years later, someone finally told me that it was ok to grieve as fast or as slow as I wanted. And so I began to grieve anew, but this time, it was different. This time, the hurt, the abandonment, it didn't matter. This time, I just grieved for the life I didn't have, and the life my mother lost.

This time, I'm gonna be ok. Because this time, two little girls see the world in their mommy's eyes, and don't quite understand why mommy gets sad. And those two little girls deserve a whole lot better than good enough.

And I've accepted that.

Posted by thordora at 3:06 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

to snicker at my daughter for being so bloody clumsy? She really does come by it honestly, since her mother has sprained ankles falling off curbs, or into those little divots people carve between their lawn and the sidewalk. But I swear, this child has no depth perception.

This morning, next to the computer, for no apparent reason WHAM into the desk. Falls back onto ass. Sits there, likely muttering toddler swears. Tries to get up, slightly bumps head on desk WHAM down again. See sippy cup, attempts half standing grab WHAM down on her head. Finally figures out that she should stand, then grab.

Makes it 5 feet when she hits the floor like a ton of bricks.

Now, maybe I am a bad Mommy, maybe I'm a sadistic bitch with PMS, but this has been cracking me up all morning. This child will just fall down. She thinks she has better balance than she does or something, because she'll be running, and giggling and happy when suddenly she goes down HARD.

And I piss myself laughing.

Posted by thordora at 11:49 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Ever have one of those days where it's too fucking hot, you've had 4 hours sleep, you haven't showered in a few days, and toddlers won't nap after being out in the sun?

Welcome to the bliss that was my day.

It's been awhile since I have actively wanted to just pick Vivian up and smack her head on the wall a few times. (of COURSE I wouldn't really-I just wanted to, that's all)

She has this new routine that consists of kicking, punching, "pretending" to not see her as she walks into, and bowls over, scratches, etc, Rosalyn. It's driving me catshit. Rosalyn is enough of a drama queen to take FULL advantage of the situation, right up to the "shuddery cry". She's not even 17 months yet.

Ladies and gentleman, my daughter the future Emmy winner.

So I ended up with BOTH toddlers on Vivian's bed, crying, while I browsed the internet and tried to think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts revolving around beer and illicit substances on some island in the South Pacific. Vivian turned into a full whammy, toddlerific tantrum.

So I did what any mother would do. I told her to crawl into the closet and cry there.

Posted by thordora at 7:50 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

There are two things I hate about summer.

• Bees/wasps/yellowjacks/anything that might look mean and sting me
• Idiots.

Now, the first can be remedied with various traps, sprays, etc. I can avoid the stinging meanies. Idiots on the other hand.

We're walking up the street and the LOUDEST Honda Accord I've ever heard comes roaring up the street. It's some version of metallic blue, like if blue forgot to be blue and instead turned into "left on the lawn gray". There is, inevitably, 2 ugly white guys trying to look "ghetto", bopping their heads to Without Me by that other white idiot, since all loud crap cars in this town seem to come with that song looped in the car radio.

Dudes, it's Moncton. Good luck with the ghetto thing. Really, I mean it.

Then there are the disturbingly loud Harley's that seem to echo up and down our street morning, noon and night. I know you're cooler than cool, I know you're tough. Just...go bother someone else with your idiot machine.

I'm not even going to mention the moron who parks in my driveway and leaves his garbage. I cannot WAIT to figure out who he's friends with.

What I have trouble understanding is why all these boys (because it's rare to see a girl driving in some souped up Honda Civic trying to look cool. Girls know better) have this urge to be loud and annoying. Do they expect that all the women in the area with sigh this collective noise of bliss, cream themselves and hurl their bodies at this wonderous piece of machinery? Because I've done random polls. EVERY. SINGLE. WOMAN. snorts, snickers, and mutters something about small penis'. No one thinks those guys are a great catch. They think about how annoyed their neighbours would be if that dropped them off every night.

What I need to develop is an Idiot Trap. In this town, I'm thinking I could just dump some greasy food in a garage, and go from there. Or advertise penis enlargement services.

Posted by thordora at 2:40 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I took my first dose of Trileptal last night. Apparently, this is one of the best ways to "help" my version of a brain.

I hesitated filling the script for a week. I put in on a shelf, and refused to look at it for an entire week. Because it's confirmation that there is something wrong with my brain, something wrong with me. And while there is a HUGE sense of relief surrounding knowing what is wrong, and going forward to fix it, there is also a massive sense of "oh shit" as well. I am crazy.

Not that I mind. I'm open about my "illness" to people, I don't hide it. I wouldn't hide cancer would I?

Actually, I probably would, because I wouldn't be able to stomach the pity. But there is no pity for mental illness. There are generally two reactions:

1. The "oh, my cousin/sister's boyfriends mother's uncle/some guy I knew had that too" reaction
2. The "that's, interesting" stepping slowly backwards from you, becoming really odd to be around reaction

Telling other people you have a mental illness is sorta like telling someone you have really bad diahrrea. It's information they didn't really want, because they have no idea what to say. People have been trained that mental illness=BAD. They don't understand the struggles someone might have, and you can feel some people silently judging you. Try to explain to someone that yesterday I couldn't stop spending money, and everyone was super nice and the world is fine, and today I want to hack at my wrists until the bleeding stops because I'm dead. Watch their reaction.

They might think that there's nothing "really" wrong with you, or that it's just your diet, or how you sleep, or not enough exercise that's making you neurons fire stupid. They might think you don't deserve your children, they might wonder if it's safe to be around you. Anything-but I can feel all these things. Some people, I just can't reach, no matter how much I want to show that just because my brain was on the half price rack doesn't mean I'm that different..

Ok, there's the whole social phobia thing that used to drive Stacey so nuts....and the don't want to order dinner on the phone thing...the olive thing...the used food thing...the constant mess thing...

Alright, perhaps there are a FEW differences. But after you scrape away all my little weird twitches, I'm not that different. My whole life I've been on the outside, and never really knew why. It started well before my mother died, and continued. Her death gave me a bigger excuse to be weird. I just got lucky and found a group of people to be weird with for awhile. Now, I feel like it's Grade 8 again, and I'm surrounded by all those girls in their Esprit shirts and I can't find a common ground.

So I took the pill. I slept like a baby. It's supposed to take awhile to notice any changes, since it has to be built up slowly to prevent side effects, and not ruin my kidneys. Oh, there's also this possibility that my skin will blister and flake off, but it's REALLY rare. So I think it's a fair trade off to try and be normal.

But is that what I want anyway? I've defined myself for years AS the outsider, the "scary girl", the scathing tongue with a big heart. Will that disappear? Will I become something flat, distorted? Will the me that I recognize when I dream go away forever?

Something to think about today while I work at least.

Posted by thordora at 9:14 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm standing in line waiting for my lunch as a woman plays with her daughter, about 3. Her infant son sits cooing in his car seat in a buggy, cute as a button, chubby cheeks, all that good stuff babies tend to be known for. I smile that wistful smile that all mothers must. You know the one. It represents something I hate.

Regret.

I see the Avent bottles and I think "I should have tried harder." I should have breastfed my kids, despite everything else. Of course, these thoughts are easier when I'm NOT psychotically suicidal. I see the tiny hands, the brand new smiles, and I think, "I should have loved her then." But the truth is I didn't love Rosalyn then, and I didn't love Vivian at that age either. Love took a long time coming, like I was breaking in new jeans. I had to wait for the scratches to go away with time, and for it to become something comfortable, something barely noticable.

Nothing will haunt me more than the knowledge that I did not love me children for a long time, that I could not enjoy them, revel in them, as friends do, as our relatives did. I lost time I will never get back. They will never, ever be babies again. I will never, ever have babies again.

Am I defective? Being unable to love a baby, is that wrong? It feels wrong? I feel like some Roman mother who would have left her child out for the wolves to devour overnight. I feel less of a mother because I could not muster up that feeling, that slippery alien feeling, until lately. For almost the first year of both of their lives, I sincerely believe they could have been taken from me, and I wouldn't have cared.

Tell me it's only the PPD, and perhaps I'll believe you. Remind me that I love them to pieces now, that somehow, that love crawled up the stairs and slithered into my chest like it had always been there. Convince me that what I felt was normal, and real, and it doesn't make me less of a mother.

But it won't make me regret any less that I could never coo back at my own babies the way I can strangers.

Posted by thordora at 5:11 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Jen at Spaghetti Harvest FINALLY popped (after much trouble-read the post, but not while eating-there's a lot of blood involved.)

So RUN on over and say HEH to Miss Emily Grace, the new rug rat.

Posted by thordora at 4:19 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

this album still bloody rules.

Posted by thordora at 10:30 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Somewhere in Britain, a 62 year old woman is preparing to give birth via C-Section, after becoming pregnant using reproductive technology.

Say it with me folks. 62 freaking years old.

Now, as a "nice" girl, my first gut instinct is to say "oh well, good for her, the nutter."

My second rational instinct is "This ain't cool."

I've read various websites chroniclling various couples and their attempts to get in the family way. I've seen them write about the time, the effort, the money spent, the excitement and the loss. And I respect this, and could never do it. And I don't understand it, likely because I'm adopted, and I've never felt the need for my own children. I had always planned on adopting if I wanted kids, and still plan to a few years from now.

What I don't understand, in this case, and others, is why women today think that having a baby is their "god given right". Cause really, if you believe in God, and think you deserve a child, wouldn't you have it without all the shots and the hands and the drugs? Why all the effort?

Am I the only one who stops to think that perhaps if you can't have kids, you aren't supposed to? My parents couldn't, and they adopted my brother and I. Am I the only person who gets concerned that perhaps were forcing nature, and creating children who may have flaws down the road? Am I the only person concerned that a 62 year old woman is NOT interested in the child's welfare emotionally? And I don't mean who will raise it, or feed it, I mean isn't she concerned that perhaps the child wants it's mother before others.

Are we opening Pandora's Box by insisting to breed later in life, by demanding it because hell, we get everything else we want, cause we want it. If I stand here and stamp my feet, I should get a baby, because I deserve it.

Some people are barren. Some people have miscarriages. Why? Because the offspring created are defective in some way, carry defective genes, or the uterus just isn't up to snuff. Period. No sugar coating, not polite way of saying it, you can't have babies. But now, we'll just go ahead and make them for anyone, because we can.

My mother used to say "Just because you CAN doesn't mean you SHOULD." I worry about the effects on these children, when their mothers are older than my kids grandparents. And of course, there will always be one example of an older mother doing it. And that's fine. But I can't be the only person more than a little frightened by the seemingly nonchalant usage of all these new technologies, ones that create life, something that has taken thousands of years to develop.

How many women won't use formula, because it's unnatural, and it's not best for the baby? Same with organic foods, clothing, the television. How many women screw with their periods with manufactured hormones? And yet how many of these women think nothing of having their children almost forced into, and out of their wombs, in a process that becomes more and more unnatural. Does wanting a baby really blind you this much? Is there really such a need for a sense of entitlement so huge that you don't care about that child's life? There's a reason that menopause hits women in their 50's-because ye old eggs are too old, and your body is no longer meant to breed, like it or not.

Don't even get me started on the part about going to Russia to buy some "impoverished" woman's eggs.

I fear that we are treading to quickly down a path that we won't be able to get off, and when we hit that point, people will wonder how on earth we got there.

Posted by thordora at 2:52 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

In the on going "I'm gonna show you exactly who is really boss here" contest, Vivian seems to be winning. I just don't know if I have the strength.

Today, before noon, we had

• two instances of "oh no you didn't just close the patio door despite my yells not to?
• one instance of pouring sand on kitchen floor to "not" make a mess. (how the hell does that work?)
• 3 instances of "she pulled my hair first"
• 2 staring at you, gonna pee in my big girls princess panties anyway
• 1 just not gonna listen, walking away to go grab something sharp and pointy.

The Dorf told her he was going to sell her this morning. I think she believed him.

I don't necessarily believe in the terrible twos, but man, oh man, I'm believing in the theatrical threes. This child is locating every single nerve, and doing a foxtrot on it. And staring me down at the same time, as if daring me to do something.

And why yes, backhanding her is the item that immediately comes to mind. I don't however, because sometimes we're treated to items such as

Me: Can you not do that?

Vivian? Why? Because No?

Me. Yes. because NO. N-O means nu-uh.

It's cute and all, but she usually goes ahead and does whatever it is we don't want her to do anyway. Because she's my child.

Posted by thordora at 3:32 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Now normally, I don't make much mention on this blog about goings on in the outside world, since I tend to back myself into corners all over the internet anyway. But this....so close to dinner time, it icked me out.

Apparently, Jean Paul Gauthier is putting hot pants and wedge heels on men. See picture.

Now, think of the guy who works in the deli down the street from your house, the old guy who jiggles when he gets the salami out for you, think of him in that little red number.

Nice thought, isn't it.

Now, I'm a fairly liberal person. Ok, most days, I don't give a rat's ass what you do with your time, I really don't. So long as no one is hurt, whatever. I'm easy to get along with. But this:

Men with shaggy mullet hairdos sported hip-hugging pants in bold python patterns or crinkly see-through jackets with a trompe l'oeil denim print.

I just can't handle that. There are certain outfits I don't want to see on anyone, since it HURTS ME to see it. I'm thinking immediately to anyone my size wearing low rise pants and a halter top in public. (while I know that the low rise problem is hard to escape, the halter top one isn't). Hot pants and mullets also come to mind. There is NOTHING good about a mullet. Case and point:

I don't really think our society, especially in the shape it's currently in, is prepared for male hot pants. There's what, 29% of our population that is obese? And we want them wearing freaking hot pants?

Here's my thought-let's focus on changing eating habits, and what's cheap and convenient, instead of creating yet another overpriced, sure to fail fashion trend. Let's bring on the fat tax, and make sure anyone (myself included) who wears clothes too tight has to pay a fine.

I mean really...mullets?

Posted by thordora at 4:41 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I can see you standing in the rooms I grew up in, years from now. You're tall, you're lovely, and you're no longer quite mine. I see you as a woman, long forward, and I mourn this already.

~she's bright, she's right she goes all night~

la la la. Your hair streams down your back as I watch from the corner, where my monsters used to lurk. You touch the walls, not believing my heart lived and died here. You ask me where I slept. You stand there now.

I can see my mother coming through you, her spirit invading. You ask me what she wanted for me.

Same thing I want for you honey bear. Happy, happy, love forever and ever and no pain and no scars and no moments you can't forget, unless they're the type that you don't WANT to forget. She wanted flowers and candy and HOME forever. Remember home? This place we sit in right now, where it's sunny forever and golden in memory strings we can pull on to engulf us. She wanted all of this. She only wanted this.

It's fragile already.

Posted by thordora at 10:07 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken: