Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Dear Dave Navarro

Hi Dave

I am well aware that you are a "rocker" and that you run the show and all. And I realize that it's highly likely that Carmen took you to the cleaners with the divorce, and has left you a little high and dry and all. Which is why I'm offering to buy you some shirts.

I mean really. You were in Jane's Addiction for freaks sake. You can afford to buy a shirt, or at the very least, put buttons on the ones you have. Do you think the world WANTS to see your craptastic tattoos? Or your hairless mole rat chest? You look like a weasel, and most weasels at least have the decency to wear some fur to cover their ratlike nipples.

You're executive producer of Rockstar: Supernova, we know. YOU DA MAN. But dude, just cover that shit up. It gives me indigestion to watch. Actually, it's a tie between your shiny white chest and Brooke Burke and her baby making boobies saying "Rockers". Both make me equally nauseaous. And it's terrible-do an internet search, and all I can see if your PASTY chest. Are you obsessed with your nipples? Why? They don't DO anything.
So come on, I'm sure we can get some funds together to cover those puppies. At least my stomach hopes so.

Must Read

Now, I don't normally link to other blogs and tell people to go read specific posts-there are links in my blog roll, and in my reader to do that. BUT, since I keep forgetting to ADD Magdelana to my links (she's in my reader, I promise!!), I need to tell ALL of you to go read THIS post.

It's the most moving tribute someone has ever written to themselves, specifically their body I've ever read. As someone starting out on a massive lifestyle change in order to be healthier, this was a timely, and lovely post.

The comment from her man will make you cry too.

Go read. It's much better than any pap I could produce today.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Go have a look-see

A piece of my prose is up at Motherless.

And yes, as usual, it's rather depressing. But do you really expect anything different from ME of all people?

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Drinking is not for parents.

The last 24 hours or so have been a blur and a tired mess. IN a nutshell (since that's all I'm capable of right now)
  1. Start drinking at 8pm shortly after kids are in bed. I want to be DRUNK DAMMIT.
  2. Wait 3 hours for it to kick in. Soooo, apparently NOW I can drink people under the table. GREAT.
  3. Rent porn from the frighteningly large and detailed selection in ROD. Scratch heads over why the world GIRL is left as G--L along with C-M, A--, C--K and C--T.
  4. Nearly smack head on crappy Ikea RTA coffee table laughing at bad BAD porn. Note to self: The reason people in REAL life don't have group sex is that there really are people like dude on the video who look like a hairy cross between Golem and Marshall from Alias. shudder (However, I WAS impressed that the woman was actually REAL and had a baby pooch. Didn't stop me from nearly peeing I was laughing so hard)
  5. Booze kicks in HARD. Never notice what we actually end up renting.
  6. 2 hours later, stumble up to my bed around 1AM.
  7. 7AM on the fricken NOSE I hear screams. The birds, and the children apparently, are up.
  8. 8:30, after being supermom and making whole wheat pancakes from scratch (and mine are the best btw) I drag the spawn out to Tin Hortons for timbits so the Dorf can sleep in. Marvel at the fact that Sugar Twin doesn't taste like ass. Unfortunately, the coffee does.
  9. Attempt to buy sugar at SDM. Discover they are out of SUGAR, and spend 10 minutes explaining to Vivian why we will NOT be buying yes another book, and a further 5 minutes waiting for the brain surgeon to figure out how to use the cash register.
  10. Come home, attempt to make good for me New Orleans Red Beans & Brown Rice.
  11. Shake head in wonder at how I can NEVER get beans to cook. Make kids lunch no one eats.
  12. Afternoon spent cleaning a cupboard in a vain attempt to stay concious. Anyone want to buy a slightly used Avent Isis Manual Breast Pump?
  13. Make dinner no one wants to eat.
  14. Sit here staring at the white of the screen, reminding myself I should go to bed, and trying to not feel like a total fucking loser for being proud of the fact that I stayed under my target caloric intake for the day. Notice room spinning.
  15. Gonna go knit.

Next time I decide to do my 6 month bender, remind me to ship the kids off somewhere. Today sucked monkeyballs.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Baby Picture?

I'm paging through someone's blog, Suburban Bliss I think, and I see that she's got some pictures of her as a child posted, and more in her flickr acct.

I flip through them like the mascohist that I am.

I currently have perhaps 5 pictures showing me as a child, 2 of which when I was a baby. the photo album with all my baby shots has gone missing long ago, and my father claims to not know where it is.

It's actually painful to look through the photos of someone approximately the same age as me, and see all the same clothes, came cars, same wallpapers and time, and to not have the casual memories that she mentions. I don't have my mother to give me the stories behind the pictures, and my father couldn't if he tried. I don't have the story of my childhood, except in my own head, which as we all know, is notoriously unreliable. I see picture of this cute little girl and think that my parents must have been that enamoured of me at some point. I can only guess because I have nothing to show me, no shared history or memory.

It's so bloody lonely and isolating only having your past in your head. The rare times that my brother will actually talk about when I was younger are usually spent with him refuting my memories. All I really have are impressions, feelings. I have a sense of warmth when I remember my mother, I can remember how melancoly winter nights always felt in the backyard lit only by the rear porch light. I can remember how loved, how absolutely loved and wanted I felt.

But I have no pictures or discernible memories to laugh over, to cry with, to speak of. I don't think I could really prove I existed for the first 15 years of my life.

I think of this when I visit MotherLess, and when I wonder if it would have been better to hate my mother, than to love her and lose her. I have barely anything left of her, and I lose more everyday. But worse, I lose pieces of me along with her. Sometimes I figure, if I hated her, I wouldn't care anyway.

The worst part is I can't prove to everyone how damn CUTE I was as a baby.

Comic Geek Husbands CAN pay off

OOH! Look, a bank robbery! Wicked AWESOME.

So the bank across the street gets robbed yesterday. Which in of itself, is NOT exciting. It's a cottage industry around here I swear. I keep waiting for want ads for "bank robber".

I'm sitting here working away listening to "Made out of Babies" on my headphones so I'm not noticing much. I get up to go to the bathroom, and notice that everyone who's sitting on this side of the floor is pressed up against the glass watching nothing.

That's right. Nothing. There's a cop car parked in front of the bank, but nothing else going on, unless you're watching "Crack Ho Hortons" across the street from the bank.

I just kinda stood there watching people get all a flutter about something they couldn't see that wasn't very interesting anyway. It was like watching a group of lemmings when faced with a disney photographer. They just couldn't be lured away, even after I made some jokes at their expense.

On guy continually got up to look out the window, just in case something happened. All I could think was "if there IS a dude in there, and everyone has guns, why in HELL do you want to be standing near GLASS across the street from the main bank doors?

This happens all the time here. If there's an accident, or any type of kerfluffle outside, all these people are at the windows watching. It's a guaranteed break of 20 minutes, and it's like watching a hen house, with feathers flying and eggs breaking. Then, almost unconciously, they all seem to sigh and say 'oh well, back to work" like someone has triggered a switch. It's the oddest thing.


What next, good parenting might lead to good children?

Read this.

Why is it that studies are done to prove things that we already know? We know that talking to kids about not doing bad things like smoking and unsafe sex will help reduce the risk, so why is it a news item that talking about sun safety will also help them make wise decisions.

It's called PARENTING. It's not new, and it's not exciting. It's what you do everyday.

It scares me sometimes to see that we need the news media to reinforce simple concepts like this to everyone. I'm actually waiting for instruction on how to properly blow my nose to come from a study.

Don't we have poor people to feed or something?

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Here's the thing....

I know all the stuff I SHOULD do to lose weight. I know what's good for me, and what's bad. I happen to mostly like the bad stuff, like tasty delicious Coke and greasy frenchfry goodness. And I've been cutting back on those, and today, after receiving some good advice, I signed up on some calorie charting website, learned that my walk to work is 2.6 miles one way and since I had already ruined the day with a cup of oil roasted mixed nuts (fucking merciful CRAP-860 calories?!?!?!) I had a sprinkle donut.

And I know that's wrong, but it's hopefully my last day thinking like a fatty, so leave me alone.

And in reading some suggestions from various sources, including this girlie drink lover, I began to discover why dieting or calorie counting has always seemed creepy and cult like.

Because it IS creepy and cult like.

About 2 years ago, while cranky, pregnant and gorging myself on greasy fried goodness of every description, I had to CONSTANTLY put up with the squealing of a few rather irritating persons around me. Why you ask?

Not cute shoes. Not tickets to something cool, like the Pink Dots. Not even puppies.

They were squealing away about counting points, and how last night's weigh in was "so awesome" and blah blah blah blahblah. Meanwhile, I crammed a few more fries in my mouth.

As I chewed, it occured to me that these "women" (and LORD I use that word loosely) reminded me of a certain subsection of my high school

The Gigglies

My friend Stace and I spent our OAC year snickering, making fun of, rolling our eyes at, and loudly making Valley Girl comments at these girls.

You know the ones. They flirt with the teachers (ew ew ew dirty brain hurts). The laugh vapidly at nothing. Their daddies buy them things.

They end up becoming social workers because they "want to help and they really GET people"

These girls made me sick, and annoyed. Anyone pretending to be stupid for no good reason irritates the hell out of me.

As I chewed, I realized that in rejecting diets and calorie counting and the WWCult, I was rejecting the girl I didn't WANT to be. A woman was strong and sassy and bitchy and, well, heavy on the chub. Little girls like them-I could swat them with my hand like flies, they would have to worry about walking in alley's at night. They were insipid and vain and everything I never wanted to be. They wore scarves on their necks.

These women, these skinny girls, were something I would never be. A girl with a mother. They have their quides in front of them, their families behind them, their mother's showing them how to dress and what to eat.

I have memories of enforced pink sweatsuits and strict diets because I'd get sick for no reason.

And so now, 2 years later, I've really come to grasp what I realized and cast off. while I might be hiding behind my fat for any number of reasons (of which my dear readers, there are a few) I don't have to hide behind it because I'm afraid of being a woman, of being feminine. I did the most "feminine" thing I could ever do-I bore and gave birth to two incredible daughters. Two lovely fascinating creatures who will look to their mother for their guides in how to be women.

I don't want to let them down, dammit, I can't let them down. I don't want to be tired or unhealthy, and nor do I want to furiously count calories to make sure I can sneak in a cookie. I want to be comfortable in my own skin for me, to be the role model I never had. I don't want my girls to ever struggle with eating that last cookie.

So no more greasy things, no more Coke (SOB!).

And thankfully, no more annoying Weight Watchers girls.

Where's the line?

This article is a great read: where is the disgusting line located?

And it mirrors something that I've been thinking for a long time-why does media continue to believe people will buy into anything? Why DO people buy into things that are horrific-imagine having the violent death of a loved one replayed on TV, over and over for entertainment.

We draw lines in the sand because we're moral and ethical people, don't we? So why is the line blurring and disappearing in popular media? I love it when entertainers push boundries-but not at the expense of someone's grief.

What about y'all?

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

I'm not fat, I'm fluffy.

Im fat. Tub o'lard.

It's a sickening realization to realize you're as big as a fricken house. And it's even worse to feel like you cannot do a thing about it.

Since quitting smoking almost two years ago, I'm now at least 100 pounds overweight. And I know it's because I eat too much. But half the time, I can't NOT eat.

it's fucking terrible.

Any suggestions? I want to lose weight, but I can't seem to do it. Will I need to hit that "place" like I needed to with smoking? What's the catch?

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Fade into Me

I wanted to wrap her pain up into a ball and swallow it today.

We watched Lio & Stitch this morning, which we've seen before. I tend to forget about certain parts which are, well, sad.

She was sitting on the edge of the couch, and I was reading or something, when I noticed she was very very quiet.

"Viv? Are you ok?"

She comes flying into my arms, all sobs and heaving breaths and snot and that aching sound of SAD coming from her.

I lost it immediately, wanting so badly to stop her from hurting. I kept telling her "it's ok-I will NEVER leave her, I will always be there for her, we love her"

And she kept crying. Not the whining croc tears of a toddler, but the horrible wracking cries of a heart broken.

She was fine a little while later.

Me? Not so fine. I want so badly to protect her, to be what my mother couldn't be, to hold her and tell her and MEAN IT, that everything will be fine, I will never leave her, I love her, and I don't ever, ever want to let her go. I want everything my mother wanted and more, because I don't have my mother.

I'll be downstairs crying later, if anyone needs me.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Why yes, I do have a "life partner"

I was reading some post somewhere today as I tried to block out two children giddy from being housebound due to the rain (apparently in New Brunswick, fall starts REAL early this year). The post talked about how many bloggers don't really talk about their significant others, and the poster was interested about the why's of this (if anyone remembers the post-please leave the link in the comments-it was a neat post)

And I got to thinking-I don't reference the Dorf all that much, aside from when I'm mad or he does something stupid (not necessarily mutally exclusive). And it's not fair to the guy, because I really do love him, and the other day on the bus, I started thinking of why. And I condensed it to one moment.

When I'm being bipolar, or otherwise myself, and I'm foul for no apparent reason at something as benign as say, a wall, he'll try and crack me up, which he's pretty good at. He gets this sweet earnest look on his face, and I love it. That look always tells me I'm with the right person, because he cares enough about me, loves me enough to dare the possible explosion that his attempt my engender. He tries and he tries, even though I'm like the little girl with the little curl. When I'm good, I've very good, but when I'm bad, I'm horrid. He takes it all with grace most of the time. And I forgive him for the times when he doesn't, because frankly, I wouldn't hang around my ass.

We've come a long way together. I've said many times that we wouldn't be together still if not for the kids, and the changes they created, and I think it's true. He was wrapped up in trying to be some music engineer that 20,000 of tuition didn't make him want badly enough, and still wanted all the toys Deluxe might have. I just wanted someone to love me, be happy with me. I can delude myself and say that I wanted someone to go on a grand adventure with, but it's not true. All I've ever wanted is the quiet happiness my parents shared despite cancer and money and all the other shit life throws in the way.

And I have it. I really do. And it's lovely, like the field behind my house that fills with lupins in the early summer. I have someone who loves me, who is willing to call me on my shit, and finds me beautiful, even on my fat and bloated days. I have someone who never once mentioned how badly I smelled from lochia after giving birth, despite his overly sensative nose. I have someone who loves my cooking, and tells other people. I have someone who turns me on as much as he can piss me off.

I have someone who loves me despite what I might say on my crazy days.

He has his faults-he can be angry, he can be mean, and he can just plain old not think. But usually, he rises above all that crap. He loves his children and his children love him, and he's not afraid to be the primary caregiver, despite all the shit people give him for it.

He's beginning to love his life, and I think I'm falling in love with him all over again.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Hear Ye! People of the mall!

What is it about my local mall that makes me want to pull my hair out, grab a broadsword and run through it's aisles, giggling like an evil dictator? For that matter, what is it about the local mall that caused my water to break with my firstborn, or makes me grit my teeth and be "extra special nice" so I don't lose it?

A few simple hints for the obviously lobotomized walking public:
  1. Yes, that's a corner. Girls, the WORST possible time for you to discuss where BlueNotes is located is when you are standing in from of me and the buggy with the kids in it at a blind corner. Next time, I'm going to smash into you and pretend we're bowling.
  2. An aisle is only an aisle when it's shared-OTHER PARENTS-having multiple children with you does NOT make it ok to walk akimbo, causing me to drive into a rack of half price jeans. Show some respect for others, and move over. Bonus Points: Not staring at ME like I'm the spawn of Satan for glaring at you as I attempt to move said buggy out of said rack will help me not think of karmic retribution involving vomiting and strange rashes.
  3. Coffee? Why yes,I'd love one. Just because I have my kids with me does not mean I don't want a coffee. Stop taking up the entire waiting space with your 200.00 jeans and hair with far too much "product" (what the hell IS product anyway? Bunny eyes?)
  4. Got another buggy? Guess what honey, after I have moved over as far as I possibly can, it's YOUR TURN. When I have to ram the side of yours, and then laugh sheepishly while thinking "you're a nipple", it means that it's your turn to share. I know it's hard, but come on.
  5. WATCH YOUR FREAKING SPAWN. It's a damn good thing I actually pay attention when I have a stroller or buggy with me, because if I didn't, your idiot children would be nothing more than a bloody mangled mess of kid. Where are the parents half the time? The kid can walk for 200 feet with a toy, and still not seem to have a keeper! And these kids always seem to walk directly in front of me as I'm in a hurry, or even just trying to go around a display. If they cannot be counted on to be careful, then tether them. Outside if possible.
  6. Don't give me that look because I have a buggy and you don't. Your kid is at least 8. He can walk.
  7. Hurry the fuck up. If you're in a main aisle, and the slightly harried tired mother is annoyed at your lack of speed, it's not a good thing. Believe me, you don't want the sunglasses anyway.
  8. Which reminds me-if you are looking at one of those idiotic aisle displays, have the courtesy to pay attention when others want to get past you. Your wife isn't that skinny. TRUST ME
  9. Someday little teeny bopper, you will also have a frum and two kids. And I will be sure to remind you of that little eye roll you didn't think I saw. Repeatedly.
  10. MANNERS people MANNERS. Your kids don't have them because you don't. Standing behind me with your buggy up my ass doesn't make me move. Asking politely just might. And don't get pissy when this is pointed out to you. I don't read minds, and I don't appreciate the assumption that I should let you jump in line for no reason.

Why do I even bother? Oh yeah, cause I find shoes like these that MIGHT actually fit me.

Ah malls. Home of the instant lobotomy.

All's quiet on the eating front.

As an outgrowth of an argument from somewhere else, I've been thinking about my stance on kids in resturants.

I don't like kids in resturants. Ok, let me qualify that-I don't like annoying kids with defective parents.

If I go to a small greasy spoon, or McDicks or a food court, I expect and don't mind children. I wish more parents raised their kids to have at least basic decorum and manners, but I expect a certain level of noise and chaos, with that many people and kids around.

However, when I'm about to spend 100+ dollars on a rare night out, I don't want to deal with someone who thinks they can take their kids everywhere.

Some people contend that children only learn how to behave by taking them out so they can figure it out. But that's horsecrap. The only resturant I ever went to as a child was the local family one down the street. I KNEW that if I did not behave in that place as I was expected to at home, I'd get me a whoopin. Plain and simple. My mother taught me the proper table manners and social niceties, and directed me to use them outside of the house. I didn't need to "experience" a nicer resturant in order to know how to behave. I was taught to behave, period.

It's bloody irritating to go out to an ADULT establishment and find kids there. Because it's adult space. What ever happened to adult time and space? I know that we're this grand child centric society now, but why is it so "wrong" to want to have places and things that are only for adults? Are we so undervalued now that it is wrong for me to desire having my beer without a toddler next to me? What am I teaching my child if I act like everything is for them?

Remember when, as little girls, you weren't allowed to wear high heels until 13 or older, because they were something for WOMEN, and not girls? Whatever happened to rites of passage like these? Whatever happened to realizing that somethings are not for everyone?

Saturday, August 19, 2006

But the food made me eat it! Really!

So we sat and watched Dateline NBC's little show on fast food, and how the evil empire is making us fat and lazy and apparently, stupid.

My my, for a society made up of people who demand to use their free will and rights fairly frequently, it seems that eating doesn't fall under thos ecategories, but instead is controlled by evil marketing representatives chuckling behind shelves, waiting for your children.

What a bunch of crap.

Now, I've had the fat tax argument before, and had not a few people start yelling "what would the poor people eat?" Which to me, is rather insulting to people who don't have a lot of money. It was like saying "gee, they don't know any better, and it's all they can afford..."

Since apparently, a pot of spaghetti and sauce is super pricey these days. Last time I ate at McDick's, it wasn't much under 20.00 for me and my two kids, who don't even eat that much. So I find the entire "poor people only eat junk food argument" a non-issue. I've known people with not a ton of money, and they NEVER ate out. They couldn't afford it.

BUT, in the interests of not having that argument again, let me just say that I ALSO firmly believe that governments should help subsidize REAL food in order to level the playing field, and make this food more attractive. Mandatory classes on nutrition and cooking in school. No advertising for crap food, period, unless after hours. No more cartoon characters for the under 5 set on anything that doesn't remember where it came from.

But I digress. Let's just say that I believe I SHOULD be taxed on food or drink or smoke that is bad for me, period. I can eat it all I want, just like I can smoke. BUT, I pay for that priviledge.

What really got my goat with this show, as I felt superior eating my chicken breast and salad, was watching obese teenagers talk about how it really wasn't their fault, and they don't know what their parents are to do.

Hmmmm, let's think about that, shall we?

Perhaps turn off the freaking TV, kick your lard ass outside, and stop buying so much crap. And stop giving you money to eat McDonalds twice a day each school day (my gods the thought of that is making my colon twitch) Oh, the kids have jobs? Then hopefully you raised them to view this crap as a treat.

I'm in the process of remaking my own eating habits, which went to shit after my mother died. McDonalds was a RARE treat, in fact, ANY eating out was a treat. My mother didn't really believe in it, and I don't think we could afford it. I'm slowly purging all the crap food from my life, and my body. For me, and to set the proper example for my kids. Because I can't sit there saying "it's bad for you" while I eat it.

So it REALLY bothers me to see kids and PARENTS sitting there shrugging and saying 'what to do?" and blaming fast food for making it easy.

Two words people:

"Personal. Responsibility."

Now, I know that's a scary term nowadays, and it's easier to blame someone else, but let's think about this. I'm super freaking busy myself, and don't have tons of time, but I don't eat shit everyday. Because I've made that committment to me and my kids. I have decided that we will have this as a treat, and I will spend the time to make sure what we eat is at least moderately healthy. I will not sit and blame Wendy's for having that delicious french fry smell and making me fat. Because at the end of the day I am the one deciding to walk in there and eat, not the company. Heroin can be pretty tempting as well, but I don't shoot up. Beer, now THERE is temptation, but I generally abstain.

Why is it suddenly ok to blame manufacturers for everything? Sure, I agree there is too much, and it's too easy to get. And advertising, don't get me started. But you know what works? Turn off the TV. Remove the print media. Jesus, at least mute the commercials if you can't stop your kids from watching.

Our kids, well Vivian, watches Treehouse a lot. NO commercials. BUT, she also watched PBS, which has brief commercials for Mc Dicks and a few others on it, so I've limited this consumption, and illustrated to my husband why. I personally hate that she watches any TV, and I'm currently wagin my personal "let's cut the cable war". I don't want her to think crap is desireable, so I also take every chance to expound on the joys of blueberries, while making fun of crappy mcNuggets.

We aren't perfect, but I'm NOT going to blame someone else for my own problems, or how I raise my children. It was, frankly, disgusting to watch. Obesity is NOT a problem solely in the hands of those making bad food. SOMEONE raises the food to their mouths.

I wonder who what is...

It's gotta be pink!

So, while we are winning the potty war with Vivian, I'm also constantly bombarded with this request.

"I need a stool step Mommy"

To which I keep replying, yes yes, like I have been for the past 3 weeks or so. We went to Home Hardware, but all they had were white and grey, which brought a new idea to Vivian's small but evil brain.

"I want PINK Mommy. A Pink Stool Step"


Now, if anyone has every shopped in a small crappy city, you'll be aware that it's highly unlikely you will find any kind of stool in pink. Or if you do, it will cost 30.00 and be impossible to put together if you follow the instructions (yes Pooh Bear, I'm talking about YOU)

So I'm sitting here thinking about buying the crappy plastic one and spray painting it pink, if pink spray paint exists, because really, I cannot be bothered to search anymore for the bloody thing. And she's absolutely insistant on pink, since she talks about it every fricken time she goes potty.

If it isn't one thing, it's another it seems...

Friday, August 18, 2006

Yellow Submarine

So I get a card in the mail yesterday from my biological grandfather, a cute little card with a submarine on it. It has a check and a note about "missing" some dates, and buy the girls something, and give them a hug and a kiss for him.

This after hearing nothing for almost 2 years from any members of my biological family.

Have I ever explained that situation?

I was born to parents who were 17 & 18 years old. My biological grandparents moved across the country while my mother was pregnant with me, only moving home when she was near birth (as far as I know-no one was very clear on that story). I was given up for adoption, and I don't believe my mother was really terribly happy about it.

I was adopted by a couple who couldn't have children, who lived 45 minutes away. Ironically, my adoptive mother, who later died of breast cancer, had her chemotherapy treatments in the hospital I was born in. But I didn't know that then.

My adoptive mother died in 1989, when I was 11. (and ironically enough, my biological father died that same year in some work related accident) Yes, I am aware that there is far too much irony going on today.

When I was 17, I decided to attend a ParentFinders meeting, with my father's blessing, and my brother's annoyance. My brother has never wanted to find his parents, despite the urging of our father, who believes you need to know where you came from.

I put the info I had on a list, my "number" and the birth name that I had. Patricia Lynn C.
After much thought, I decided I wasn't ready for the possibility of meeting my birth family, and I stopped attending meetings. I never removed my information however.

A week after Christmas, I receive a phone call asking me if I'm sitting down.

"Your mother is looking for you."

She called me shortly afterwards. The only thing I remember from that conversation was her asking me what color my hair was, and me joking that it really depended on the day. She was blonde, and had spent the past years searching for a little blonde girl who looked like her when she walked around.

She cried, talking to me, tears that I think caused more from relief that I turned out ok, and was real and alive and bore her no ill will.

So I spent some time shuttling between her house and my father's, and meeting the four million relatives I suddenly had.

In hindsight, I'm not surprised I had tension headaches. My father started drinking again after I met my mother, something I hated myself for. Meeting my biological family only made things worse.

I fell in love with the Dorf that spring, and refused to spend the summer with my mother. I don't think she ever forgave me that. That Christmas, she was very sick, and I remember telling myself I couldn't do that again-I couldn't become emotionally involved and lose another mother. I'd lost her once. I wouldn't survive another time.

So we drifted, and now, have sporatic contact. My brother had initially told them of my pregnancy with Vivian when he ran into a relative of mine. My grandmother called the May before I had Vivian, and we spoke, and she was glad to be a great-grandmother, and I was sad to not be closer.

What she didn't tell me was she was dying of terminal cancer, as her mother had. She had months left, and died shortly after Vivian was born.

My mother and I fell into contact again, in a manner of speaking. Neither of us ever called the other, and I don't know why. She had pictures of Vivian, and now Rosalyn, because I don't mean to burn a bridge. I send Christmas cards with updates. But they aren't involved.

So to receive a card from my grandfather (who is REALLY cool btw) is odd, and strikes me as some measure to alleviate his own guilt. I wish my girls knew, I wish I could get to know him better. I wish to have more than a surprise 100.00 in a card every few years.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Watching the watcher

So they find Jon Benet's killer, finally, ten years on, after many lives ruined, crumbled, broken.

And all I can think to do is say nothing.

The accused has the look of someone wanting validation, wanting attention, loving, lapping up the pictures of himself strewn across pages and screens.

And to that I say "I think not."

What I would rather do, and see, are people pointedly mute to this man. Not to his crime, but to what he says. No longer will I open up the articles on him, and the pieces of information that he dribbles out. I will stand quietly and watch, refusing to give into his smug demenor, the knowledge that he got away with this for so very long.

That little girl deserves that much at least.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

I spend my days trying to not think about my mother.

Somedays this works. Other days, I'm full of her, in the grocery store, reading the signs that state "Brighten your day! Mixed Bouquets, 9.99!" She worked in a flower shop, despite having an allergy to certain flowers. I see her in the faces in the homemaker magazines, in jars of food, in the lady ahead of me who cannot stand for long, and must sit, despite her youth. I remember her sad silences that grew with each year, and that final look in her eyes that only terminal disease can bestow.

I cannot be rid of her memory, and it hangs like a stink somedays, rendering me blind, and helpless. I have more memories of sickness than of health.

I spend my nights wondering how to defeat her memory, how to move past her, and into myself. I see my daughter already trying to protect me, and I ache with a nameless pain, or rather, an old, forgotten one.

I see in her eyes my own eyes as a child. I see the fear, I see the pain, I see the desperation of wanting to make things better and being terribly unable to. I see what I have lost, and I become angry with the sadness and the unfairness of it all. I want her back, and I want my childhood back.I shouldn't of had to lose my mother, and I shouldn't have had to take care of her-shouldn't couldcouldn't wouldn't-all these things tumble down into one pile of grief I can't ever seem to get to the bottom of, a pool I cannot drain.

I can't help but think of her lately. I can't help but think of me, me who lived so long ago, who I lost forever on a rainy April day. Or maybe not on that one day, but slowly, over days and weeks of, helping my mother with her boots and watching out for puddles, of being her support. I can't help but think of the absolute pain and horror that the thought of dying and leaving your children brings me, and must have brought her. Motherloss may have crippled me, but I can't stop thinking of how much my mother must have cried out in pain knowing she was leaving her babies, her children. And lately, I seethe with this pain, this fear of it.

I woke up one morning and realized, REALLY realized, what her loss really means, what sacrifice really is. And when I see my own daughter trying to protect me in her own little way, I can't handle it. I see the lost little girl I was, and I swear my daughters will not be her too. I want to hold them tight and never let anything hurt them, never let them be lonely or cold, or scared, or crying alone for hours in their bedrooms, watched only by Corey Haim and Christian Slater on the wall.

I spend my days worried that the worst might happen, and during times like lately, when I'm already saddened by life regardless, it sticks like thorns in my hair.

And I still see her everywhere.

Monday, August 14, 2006

One hand in my pocket....

Well, not really. Rosalyn just had one hand in the door, but the fingers still work, and nothing is puffy. Nothing a little tylenol, a long snuggle and a nap won't fix.

Why is it that somedays I feel like I've got this parenting thing down, and the next, I'm almost screaming OHGODHOGODHOGOD as I notice the increasing shrillness of her cries and then see the pudgy hand in the door. And the tears, oh gods, my heart doth break at every tear I swear.

Suddenly, all thoughts of work, of my life outside of my child disappear, and I am still within the moment, and all I can smell is her hair and the salt from her tears and feel the silkness of her skin. All I can think about is "Is is broken? Can she use her fingers? Will I have to take her to the hospital and be grilled by the doctors about what a terrible mother I am?"

But then Rosalyn looks up at me through her tears, and stares at me with her solemn brown eyes for a few minutes. We lock gazes, and just sit. And something about her look just tells me

"Let it go. You did all this stuff to yourself once you made your own mother's heart stop too"

And I did. And she will yet again.

And she's fine...

Saturday, August 12, 2006

There are times when Motherloss hits a person hard, and times when it doesn't.

Listening to friends complaining about their mother's meddling, or sighs, or, well, anything, makes me glad I never had the chance to develop any type of contentious or odd relationship. That's the bonus to losing your mother early. You don't have to listen to her bitching about your boyfriend or job or lack of children.

Of course, there are days when I want to curl up and scream for my mommy, and the inner toddler stamps her Keds clad feet and yells "NO FAIR!" with clenched fists, cause her mommy should be there.

Vivian's birthday was like that.

And no, I don't sit around thinking all sad and stuff all day long, despite what this blog seems to be like. I'm not that bad now that I'm medicated.

It's just that somedays are full of moments I wish I could share with my MOTHER, moments that only your Mother could understand the significance of.

I watched as the Dorf took Vivian on her first real "ride" at the local amusement park. And after feeling proud of my "big girl", all I could think was " I wish Mom was here."

I wish this a lot. And not just when I need advice, or a shoulder, but in the little quiet moments that I know I'll remember forever. When I sung "O Holy Night" to Vivian so quietly as she fell asleep in my arms her first Christmas. Listening to Rosalyn babble "MAMAMA" in her crib as she falls asleep. Watching Vivian find her courage and climb up to the top of a VERY tall jungle gym. Eating homemade banana bread together.

Times like these make me want my mother desperately, almost like a drug sometimes. She's been gone for over 17 years, and yet she still sits front and center in my mind, especially now that I have daughters. I find myself commenting that now that there are two, I feel better. I have "insurance".

I am so terribly afraid of dying. Because I worry I will leave them. And I worry that they will sit in moments, lost in thought, wanting to cry out for me.

I almost cannot bear it. THIS is what happiness does to me! As my heart contracts from the sweetness, it also recoils in fear and anger and sadness as I want my Mother will me dammit-she deserves to be with us, she deserves her granddaughters, deserves to be more than a creature whose strength will become legend for my daughters.

My mother, and my motherloss, has molded my life, and is also molding my parenting. The oddest part is, if she had survived the cancer, it's highly unlikely these kids would even be here today. But I can't help but get so very angry that I've lost something I want so badly-a grandmother to my girls. MY mother, able to hold my daughters in her arms. I want to enjoy moments without the wistful sadness creeping in.

I want to be able to read "Love you Forever" without bursting into tears. (Vivian won't let me read it anymore, saying "I don't want you to cry")

Doesn't that just break your heart? She doesn't want me to cry anymore....

I like to think my mother comes to them in dreams. I figure since she's never in mine, she must go somewhere, right?

I just miss her, that's all.

They aren't even a radish

I try to live my in law family, I really, really do.

Generally speaking, I'm not difficult to get along with. Granted, I'm not a huge people person, which is why I LOVE this online thing, but in normal, everyday life, I'm fairly easy going IF you're not an assmonkey to me.

Which is why my inlaws and SIL drive me fucking batshit.

After the in law invasion last month, my husband was left reeling from what I have since termed his first real ADULT encounter with his parents. Why you ask? Because his family seems to be from the school of "nothing nice to say? Say it loudly, and repeatedly."

It drives me freaking insane, coming from a family of "keep your mouth shut unless someone is bleeding." I was raised to respect the ways other people behaved, even if I didn't agree.

The family I married into doesn't seem to agree with this. I've now been suffering through the SIL invasion, and thankfully, it's almost over. Of course, we had the first few days where she sat there cleaning and complaining about how "filthy" our house is and how "we're lucky we don't have rodents"

She's lucky I wasn't home when she said these things.

Now, it's progressed into getting drunk, and yelling at her brother for things that happened 15 years ago, and claiming he's a bad lazy father.

My husband works part time because it SAVES us money, and because we've made a concious CHOICE to raise our children ourselves. But apparently, we should be working for the almighty dollar, and throw them into daycare.

WHY do some people think that a week spent around my children qualifies them to lecture me in parenting? Why do I have to explain time and time again, that trying to argue with a tired, hungry toddler is an exercise in futility, and NOT something they should be punished for? How do I explain to an ADULT that when a 3 year old tells you to go away, it's NORMAL, and you do NOT have to get in a pout and tell HER to go away then anyway?

I'm so fucking SICK and tired of never having his family say a good thing about how we're raising our children. It's constant negativity, and I'm about to make a "no in-laws" rule in the house. We ARE doing a good job. The smiles and laughter on their faces tell us that, and the reaction of everyone else to our children also tell us that. They are well mannered and GOOD kids. I'm beginning to be more than a little offended that his family cannot manage to see that.

We work hard, and we do it ALONE. So if the floor is dirty, so what? My mother was always cleaning, and I wish to death I had more memories of her playing to sustain me. I don't want my daughters to remember me cleaning. And what gives ANYONE the right to come into my house, and act like that? It's RUDE. If I tell you to leave the housework alone, that means leave it alone. If we sit and let the kids play and relax for awhile, that doesn't mean we're dumping them on you-that means we're operating as normal, and you feel the need to hover over them.

And if I say "let them get hurt" when they drop something on their toes, it's because that's how some kids LEARN. They won't learn much if I coddle them in every single instance where they could be hurt, or if I'm constantly providing a running diaglogue of "don't do that". Contrary to what seems to be the popular opinion in his family, I HAVE read up a LOT on child development and parenting, and I'm not doing this stuff just cause.

More than anything, I'm sick of having people around who make me so angry, and who NEVER EVER say "your kids rule"

THIS is why we live over 18 hours away from his family, and likely will for a very long time.

Am I the only one? Does anyone else have this problem? My own family is so NOT like this, that it's really hard for me to handle...

Friday, August 11, 2006

The kids and Dorf are gone, and I have THIS.

All is well in my world..nothing that's tempered by burning witches could possibly be bad.

It was a great day to be three. Vivian got a trip to the local amusement park, and is now in another city, tormenting Thor the Thunder Dog.

And now, I'm going to go watch some bad TV, drink my beer and eat crap until I fall asleep. Just like I did before I had kids.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Vivian Dianne're Three!

mmm....homemade frosting...
Originally uploaded by thordora.
At 6:52AM August 11 you made your entrance accompanied by MUCH swearing and screaming by your mother.

She was terrified.

From the first moment that those little lines appeared after many bras broken, to the water breaking after one particularily obnoxious trip to the mall, she was scared. What did she know about kids?

BUBKISS, that's what.

She spent two days in the hospital bleeding and feeling quite lightheaded.

Breastfeeding didn't work, and besides, we had all those formula bottles that we stole from the hospital. They were very eager to demonstrate how those worked. Sadly, my boobs didn't merit the same attention.

When we took you home, you looked so small in your carseat, so fragile and tiny. But so perfect. We wondered to ourselves how we created such a perfect little thing.

One day, weeks later, as you lay smiling at nothing and everything, I remarked to myself that all I wanted for you, the thing that I would tear my eyes out for, was your happiness. I didn't care how, I just wanted it. I wanted the broad grin to last forever and ever, and your heart to never know pain.

Today on the bus home, I thought about you growing older, and how desperate I am to seal you in wax and preserve you as you are right now. This bundle of love and joy and sheer emotion I cannot contain-I love every inch of you, even your black moods and anger, I love it all.

I watch from a distance somedays as you just are. I marvel at the fact that 3 short years ago, you were a pain in my belly, your were a brand new life in my arms, this confusing, LOUD little thing who wouldn't let me watch the season opener of Alias. I sit teary eyed knowing far to well what my father meant when he told me that it all passes far too quickly.

You are no longer a baby. And I mourn what I have let pass.

But I am joyous to see the next year, to help you grow and learn and become even more the woman you will someday be. I am so proud to be your mother that somedays I think I'll just implode from all the fuzzy happy thoughts about how damn cool my kid it.

And I still only want one thing-your happiness. And a pony. :)

I love you Honey-Boo. Happy Third Birthday.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006


I'm getting a lot of feedback lately saying I'm very honest and raw, and that people appreciate this.

Which is very cool. But I don't feel honest and raw, you know?

So here's honesty.

After the birth of my second daughter, I wanted to walk into the woods behind my house, and kill us. I had a plan, and almost did so. I had to stay away from the kitchen and the medicine cabinet, due to knives and pills. I'd stare longingly at the giant economy bottle of painkillers that seemed to taunt me from the windowsill as I did the dishes. I'd dream about my daughter not waking up, of smothering in her sleep, of just going away.

I let her sleep on her belly. Part of me wanted her dead.

Sometimes I'm so disgusted with myself for these thoughts I can barely believe it. I wanted my own daughter to die! I wanted to kill my own daughter!

But lord, I remember those moments. I was thinking this morning about Charlotte (I got your email-just have to find time to reply) and about the first few days after I had Rosalyn, and I was still in the hospital.

And I remembered, the numbing depression started within 6 hours of delivery. A friend came to visit and I couldn't even work up the will to say hello. Tears were streaming down my face when I tried to nurse, even the slightest bit of letdown triggered a torrent of emotion I couldn't handle or prevent. I asked the nurses if this was normal.

I don't recall them saying much, if anything.

I felt so fucking abnormal. I was supposed to be feeling maternal and empowered, breastfeeding my child. Instead, I felt sad and small and alone, and fat as I tried to guide my seemingly giant boob into this tiny mouth. I stared at the white wall, at the light, and felt nothing but sadness and horror.

I hated my child. I HATED her. Immediately.

No one noticed. No one saw anything, no one considered that I might be in trouble, that it wasn't "just" the baby blues. No one even bothered to ask how I was, if I was ok. Although they were very concerned about if I had peed or not.

I had a post partum hemorrhage as well (one of the many reasons I'm not meant to give birth) and as they tried to manually convince my uterus to give up it's dead, I screamed and screamed for the D&C. I had already been through this before, after almost bleeding out. (When nurses start giving each other that "look", and you're lightheaded and rather delirious, you know it's a bad thing). The doctors only gave up after I kept screaming and the nurses kept reminding them I had done this before.

I remember one nurse being nice, and telling me she couldn't believe they'd do what they were doing without painkillers. I would have rather given birth again.

You want honesty? Here it is-the hospital system for birth is not a good one. I felt alone and ignored most of the time. I couldn't express how utterly alone and sad I was, because there was no one to listen to me. I couldn't tell them I wanted to get rid of my child-they would have treated me like a pariah, or at least that's how I felt.

Why am I honest?

Because I don't want Charlotte, or anyone, to go through what I went through. Looking back, I should have demanded care, my husband should have. I should have demanded it well before giving birth. I should have screamed it from the roof tops, demanded a midwife, anything, something.

I trusted my health care system to take care of me, and it failed me. And I don't want that for anyone else. Because I have never felt as alone as I felt in that hospital, hoping the bleeding would stop, begging myself to stop feeling so sad when I should have been so joyous.

It occurred to me that I talk about my post partum depression a lot on this blog. And I do. Because my battle in it, and through it has helped me to define myself as a parent. I got through it. I found my love for my children. But not before I had to slog it out, and not without some heavy therapy to try and fix me. I already had issues, from my motherloss, from adoption, from sexual abuse, (lord, the list seems like a hallmark special doesn't it...) My personal demons made it so I don't ever feel like I deserve help-asking for help is the hardest thing I ever did. Admitting where I was within the PPD was terrifying and ultimately, freeing.

So I'm honest about this, and other things in my life, as an example for others who are where I was a few years back. I thought I had dealt with it all.

But after the sadness, after the storms of crying and begging for my mother, I realized I hadn't ever dealt with any of it, and it just compounded on itself, and I was adrift, and wanted to die.

So I am honest to act as a life preserver, and be there when someone asks "Does it ever get better?"

Oh yes. It does. Sometimes my life is filled with so much joy and beauty, I think my eyes and my heart might burst. It's so worth it...

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Baby Lust, and the tubal road taken.

I can no longer bear children.

I'm ok with this, but lately, with the help of my medication, I'm beginning to understand the craving for a baby that some women have.

I have never, EVER felt this before. I never wanted kids at all. My experiences with PPD after the births of my children helped ensure I'd never have anymore. It's not safe for me to breed. It's why I can relate to Andrea Yates. Because I know that the next child, or the one after that, would be the death of me, and some of them too. Because I'm wired wrong, and it does bad things.

I've noticed in myself what I'd almost term a mourning for a part of my life I'll never, ever live again, and a sadness for not embracing it to begin with.

What defines a woman more than her ability to bear and sustain life? It is what makes us female-and I don't mean that having kids defines us, but our potential makes us woman. My breasts which can produce milk, my uterus which can bring forth what will become a child-these things are so much a part of being a woman, and I shook them off, ignored them for so long.

What power! How fantastic is it to create life! I remember sitting when pregnant, and meditating on the duality I held at that moment. I was the host for something that would hopefully spring forth alive and healthy and ready, full of potential. Feeling the quickening for the first time is something I will never, ever forget.

It's comforting in a way to feel the way endless numbers of women have felt, wanting a child in my belly, but it's disappointing to only feel it now, after the option is gone. And maybe that's why I'm able to feel it-because there is no chance of it actually coming to fruition.

For now, I'll stare wistfully at the newborn sleepers, and remember when, and remember if. I could drive myself crazy wishing I did it differently.

Or I can smile at the newborns, and quietly walk away, holding my daughters hands.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Are manners that expensive?

You would think after almost 5 years in this "place" (I refuse to call it a city) I would be used to the utter lack of and disregard for common courtesy and manners. But I'm not.

ANd I don't think I'll ever be used to people standing there staring at my head, waiting for me to move instead of them politely saying "excuse me." I'll never get used to the same people getting all pissed off when you state the obvious.

I'll never get used to living somewhere that has drivers who think cyclists belong on the sidewalk, or who get mad and CHASE said cyclist down after they have been given the finger for nearly running over said cyclist because they were NOT PAYING ANY ATTENTION.

I'll never get used to living somewhere that contains people who, despite being faced with FOUR, count them FOUR DOORS, need to go through the one I'm struggling to get the kids and a stroller through. I love how they stand and sigh, and do nothing to use the other door, let alone help.

I'll never get used to living somewhere which has people who rarely say please or thank you, or who block aisles and get mad at the people trying, politely, to get through. I'll never get used to living in a place that is treated like a garbage can. I've never lived anywhere, including Toronto, that has so much garbage strewn about. I guess people here just don't care.

I'll never get used to living somewhere that will never admit that it's not some pinnacle of maritme friendliness. Because since ther first day we moved here, we've had more people be ignorant or blatantly rude than we ever had anywhere we've ever been. Of course there are good people here. I just never see them in public. But everyone seems to act like it's ok here, because "it's the city"

NEWSFLASH-most cities are GREAT places to live with occasional encounters with jerks. NOT the other way around like here.

I try very hard to set an example for my children on how to act in public towards others, saying excuse me, thank you, saying hello, being NICE. It's difficult to do when I spend my time in public wanting to scream obscenities at people. But I still try. I hold doors, I say thanks, excuse me, all that good stuff, I'm nice, in the vain attempt to get people to replicate my behaviour.

Not that it seems to help.

It's so bloody frustrating, and ultimately sad, to live in a place where it is blatantly obvious that people don't seem to care about others. AND don't seem to have a grasp of how to drive.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

I'M right DAMMIT! Admit it!


So I'm making my Saturday morning, avoiding my work temporarily perusal of my favorite blogs, linked or saved elsewhere because I'm lazy, when it occurs to me. There is a BUTTLOAD of whining, crying, sniveling and arguing going on.

And I don't necessarily mean that I'm surprised by any of this. Au contraire-I usually participate, or start shit myself. I'm just that kind of girl.

But it struck me that we spend an awful lot of time arguing the same things. On Blogging Baby, we have this thread, once again sparking the Vaccination debate. Sorry guys, I will forever be one of those people who remembers my father telling me stories of all the diseases his friends and friends parents died of as a child. My kids will risk the needles, and for ALL of our sakes, I believe everyone else should as well. I've bitched about it before, and I'm tired of the argument. We could go back 100 years or so and worry about infant and child mortality again, but since vaccinations and sanitation have helped eradicate these things, we're free to argue piss and moan about "possible" side effects to otherwise healthy children. Someone, somewhere will always have an adverse reaction to something. Sometimes we need to make sacrifices for the good of all people (or does community end with each of us?)

So then I see that Eden has left me a link to a post at "The good, the bad and the ugly" which not only sparked arguments, but some rudeness in it's own way.
I have kids, and I found this post to be true to an extent, and I found myself laughing with the author, as she was clearly frustrated by this type of thing, as I have been MANY times. Know why? Because we hated cliques in high school! They were snotty, and mean, and in some cases, not very bright. We were told "don't worry-it will be over soon!"

10 years later, we have cliques again, only instead of talking about clothing, it's about kids. Now, I like my kids, they're funny, occasionally they are the subject of a post. But I do have more to me than that, just like I did 4 years ago before those little lines popped up. And I like to show it, I like to show myself to be a well rounded person who can have a conversation about baby poop and screamo all in the same day. And for some of us, it's a little disturbing to see some of the stepfordy blogs out there, because we might be interested in YOU as a person, not just the overwhelming cuteness that is you kid. It does get a bit much in certain "circles".

But, as Sherri has discovered, don't say any of this out loud, or in any way that may be perceived as "mean". You'll be crucified. And why? She's expressing her opinions, and her frustrations, talking about HER adverse reaction to "ALL MOMMY ALL THE TIME" blogs, and the people who continue like this into real life.

Are her opinions less valid than yours? You're entitled to have your own "We hate whiny people with kids" posts too.

I don't get it.

We all want our opinions validated, as obviously I do if I display them for all to see. Some of us also like to start debates, arguments. Maybe Sherri's language was a bit strong? Doubtful. She was pissed and annoyed, and it showed. I doubt that she was "jealous" for not having kids as one person stated.

Since I've started doing this "blog thing", I've noticed that you can't just have an opinion. In many cases, you MUST have a reason for it. You MUST hate kids if you hate mommy blogs. You MUST hate nascar if you hate those annoying blogs with all the stupid car pictures.

I hate tomatoes, and V8, but I love marinara sauce.

The world isn't all or nothing, and it hasn't been black and white since any of us were 5 years old. Why can no one disagree without getting their shorts in a wad, or taking personal offence to it? Disagree with me sure, but don't assume I'm a communist wingnut because I believe in herd immunity. I don't believe you're an idiot because you've made the best decision you think you can for your kid. I QUESTION that decision, and I worry about the increasing number of people who do. I WANT to hear your reasons, just like I want to hear Sherri's reasons for not liking Mommy blogs, or her commenters reasons for LIKING them. (Didn't see any of those)

We can't all be right, but why can't we at least be nice?

Friday, August 04, 2006


PajamaMama has christened the next few days:
Bloggin’ Good Blogger Days”

Your mission, shall you choose to accept it (and you will), is to go to as many blogs as you can and point out at least one good thing about the author of that blog. Do your best to give them a warm fuzzy feeling. Show your appreciation, admiration or plain old joy.
Tell them why something they did touched you, why a choice they made shows the true fabric of their moral being. Just go BE NICE to every blogger who’s blog you read today. And don’t be shy, either!!
Plus, post an entry similar to this one on YOUR blog and ask people to leave warm fuzzies in your comments. Spread the love, people!

Maybe if we take a week to engage in warm fuzzies, they will become a more permanent part of our daily lives, both on and off the computer.
In review:
1. Leave me a warm fuzzy in my comments.
2. Post a similar entry (or copy and paste this one, giving credit) on your own blog.
3. Leave a warm fuzzy on every blog you visit today.
4. Sit back, read your own warm fuzzies and feel, well, warm and fuzzy!

All credit to her, esp for the body of this post. I love the idea, and liked how she phrased it, so I pretty much copied the instructions.

Nothing like a little good karma to make everyone happy!

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Time may change me, but I can't trace time.

I'm sitting her staring at a picture of Nat's sweet little screaming meanie, Rita, who now has TWO teeth, and laughs and smiles.

Just yesterday, I was worried sick about my friend and her tiny daughter in an incubator.

Staring at the cuteness that is Rita, I starting thinking about my own girls. In about 2 weeks, Vivian will be three years old.

Three years already. Seems like just yesterday, I was scared, unprepared and immature, not ready for what was about to happen, unsure about what exactly that was, and annoyed that someone's toes were lodged in my ribs.

There is nothing on earth like your first pregnancy and birth. I cannot compare it to anything else. Nothing in life so terrified me, or made me recognize my womanhood so much at once. Everything was new, everything was special, the sun shone in technicolor and my heart felt that it might burst open for all the happiness I wished upon my new daughter, even through the haze of hormones and mental illness and loneliness.

In those first few months, I began to discover a new ME, a woman inside this girl who I had mistaken for a woman. I began to grow in ways that would have taken substantially longer without children. I became calmer, reminding myself that even though I hadn'd had much sleep, she could be sick. I could be sick.

We were healthy, and happy, and I remember sitting on my front steps one day, smoking, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was content, and perfect in that one moment. The sun was setting, and nothing, nothing could hurt me at that moment.

I sit back now, and I find myself staring at this girlchild I barely recognize sometimes. It is so true-it goes so FAST! And I warn Nat to just sit and enjoy it as much as she can, because she will turn around and that sweet baby will be replaced with I WANNA DO IT!

But we can't freeze time now can we? And I don't want my sweet little toddler/preschooler (is she one now?) to go away. The fierce hugs and kisses I receive, the requests for pink kitties, the dignified "Ros wants a nap now" when she wants to watch the backyardigans, I wouldn't trade those for anything. But I wish I could have just held tight to her babyhood, instead of wishing it away.

My firstborn will be three years old soon, and I have grown so old, and so young in so short a time. I don't recognize myself, and not just because of all the weight-there's a weight on my heart that all mothers must carry, the weight of worry and joy, of tears and laughter, the weight of knowing that you love something so much, that your heart will shatter if anything happens. The weight of being loved without question, the trust implicit.

I've done some reading that suggests that how we cuddle out children unconciously duplicates how our mothers were with us as children. As I snuggle in to read her Wee Willie Winkie at night, I can't help but feel my mother between us, bringing us together, three generations of women, three generations reading the same bedtime story in the same way. It comforts me, and it hurts, to know how much she is missing. But it reminds me that my time may be short, and to grab each moment, each hug, each fragment of time, and hold onto it.

We never know what we won't get back.

So Nat, hold Rita a little tighter for me tonight, k?

They don't like to be jostled.

Freaking understatement of the year award goes to this dude:

A teenage driver crashed into a hollow tree and stirred up tens of thousands of angry honey bees, creating a swarm that sent her and nine others to the hospital.

"Those bees were mad," said Volunteer Fire Chief Kent Gilbert, who was stung at least 50 times while trying to pull the 16-year-old driver from the wreckage. "I've never seen bees, especially honeybees, attack like that."

Jacqueline Cossairt's SUV slammed into the tree Tuesday after she lost control on a gravel road about 10 miles south of Fort Wayne.

By the time rescuers arrived, a black cloud of buzzing insects had engulfed the car, forcing firefighters to wear full safety gear -- complete with oxygen tanks and face masks -- with temperatures in the 90s.

Safety workers doused the bees with water and foam while they tried to free Cossairt, who was taken to a nearby hospital with broken legs and multiple bee stings. She was remained at Lutheran Hospital on Thursday.

A neighbor, along with a paramedic and seven firefighters, were also hospitalized for bee stings and heat-related symptoms.

"You can't really train for that. You don't really know. You look for downed power lines. You don't look for a million bees," said Master Trooper Bob Brophy, commander of the Indiana State Police's Fort Wayne post.

Bee expert Stan Grove, a biology professor at Goshen College, said the insects are most active in warm weather when they furiously fan their wings to cool the temperature of the hive.

"They don't like to be jostled," Grove said.

Gee, ya think?

I don't know what it is, but it's GREAT for my ass...

So I go to the doctor yesterday, something that usually fills me with a mixture of annoyance and dread. It doesn't help that my doctor kinda looks like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and he has the bedside manner of a corpse. He's competent, but he's also just kinda....creepy, and getting stuff out of the guy is like pulling teeth.

So I'm wondering how to tactfully explain the raving bouts of the runs without making us both ill, when I step on the scale.

Funny, it's about 13-15 pounds less than when I was weighed before my tubal at the end of June.

I get off the scale and back on. Same thing.

Now, I'm not going to disclose my weight, but let's just say I'm about double what I was 10 years ago. And crap, even then, I was still chubby. Thankfully, the weight distributes itself evenly. I've gained at least 50 pounds from one pregnancy to the next, and quitting smoking, while good for lungs, tends to be bad for butts.

So not being able to eat anything while ill, and being terrified to eat anything greasy or bad (and therefore tasty) has seemingly helped my weight loss to start. I've also been eating better and LESS in general, since my problem is portion control and crap food. Ok, making cookies with Vivian doesn't help either.

But what a gift, to step on a scale and see weight gone with nary an effort.

Of course, this may mean I need my gall bladder removed, but if I can one day wear pants from the normal woman's section again, it's ALL worth it.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

How long? How many more?

I'm so deathly ill of hearing about CONVICTED pedophiles committing crimes again again. I'm sick of hearing about someone committing sexual offences after abducting 4 boys and only getting one year.

I am tired, I am SICK of seeing our justice system doing a massive injustice to our children, to our parents. How many girls and boys have to die before it matters? Is someone a dangerous offender because they've raped once, or 6 times?

I have trouble believing that rape is something that you can rehabilitate, and frankly, I'm sick of watching them try.

Many people now believe that you cannot rehabilitate a sex offender, that we haven't found the key to that illness. And don't get me wrong, I believe it IS an illness.

But we quarantine people with TB until it's safe for them to be around people. Why don't we do the same for child rapists? Why do we value of children's lifes and minds so little?

Everytime I see articles about people like Peter Whitmore, the rage I have held for my own abusers come to the forefront, and makes me silly with anger and frustration. How many other kids did they do it to? How many times did nothing happen?

Part of the reason I never came forward was also the knowledge that nothing would happen.

As a parent, I tired of other parents having their faith in other people shattered by disgusting people like Peter Whitmore, who have PROVEN time and again that they are NOT to be trusted, and yet are given free rides by our justice system. He has REPEATEDLY violated his parole, and our laws.

My own personal wish? Until we find the solution, these people are killed, period. And I don't mean sex offenders, like the 19 year old who had consensual sex with their 15 year old girlfriend. I mean offenders who repeatedly offend, repeatedly ruin lives. What are OUR lives worth?

How many children need to be broken before we care?

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