Spin Me I Pulsate.

PLEASE UPDATE YOUR LINKS AND FEEFS

2006-10-11T09:50:00.000-03:00

New posts will only be posted at www.vomitcomit.wordpress.com from now on. I haven't quite moved all posts over, but new items with no longer be cross posted.

Goodbye Blogger, it's been sucky lately.

Again, PLEASE UPDATE YOUR LINKS AND FEEDS.

What's Life Worth?

2006-10-09T12:49:00.000-03:00

Being Canadian, especially on Thanksgiving, lends itself to a certain introspection and wonderment. We aren't brash and mean, we don't run the world, or think we should, or could. We don't have uprisings, or rebellions (not anymore at least). We, as a country, are quietly passionate people, who generally believe that our country will do the right and proper thing when necessary.
We fought for peace, or at least a form of sanity, during two world wars. We continually travel the world keeping the peace, or at least trying. (Rwanda anyone?). Being Canadian has always meant helping those who need help, at least in my head it has. Anytime I toyed with the idea of joining the army, it was because I wanted to help people, not invade another country for dubious reasons.
So when I hear people questioning why our soldiers are in Afghanistan, I become angry and a little sad. Does anyone remember what was going on there, is still going on there? Women being tortured, raped, killed, girls prevented from schooling, from leaving the house, from being people. Men lived in fear, felt forced to join the group they despised in order to protect their families.
The US led invasion helped none of these things. Before the Soviets, Afghanistan wasn't the dirt hole it is now, and the recent invasion didn't help matters. Hell, it didn't even capture public enemy number one. Afghani's soldiered on, much as they always seem to have done.
Then it seems that their country was forgotten in this war on terror, they were forgotten in some quest no one understands anymore.They hung in some seemingly limbo.
And yet Canada is there to try and root out the problems, make lives better, provide funding and education, build infastructure. Our soldiers are willing to risk their lives to help rebuild a country and a people. And yet some of my countrymen think this is bad, that we're dying for no good reason?
What makes a reason then? What's a life worth? Is a life worth some oil profits, or a school for young girls who will one day grow to lead their country? Is a life worth political clout, or a town where men no longer have to fear for their families?
I have supported our troops, despite my normal leanings against us being in other countries, because we are doing what we do best-helping other people. We aren't there to rape and kill 14 year old girls. We are their to help those girls have a life. We are doing what our soldiers are known for-goodwill, compassion, bravery and skill. We are doing what Canada does. And I'm proud of that, and willing for my money to go to that, because to me, it's an essential part of being Canadian.
Do I believe that our army is underfunded, and sorely lacking in some areas? YES. But until the majority in this country come to realize what our troops really are doing in Afghanistan, they will remain so. They are fighting a war that will one day, allow a country to have it's autonomy back.

What's that worth?

For another perspective, see this article in The Star

Cross posted at vomitcomit.wordpress.com

2006-10-08T20:01:00.000-03:00

Is there anything more depressing than a sick toddler?

Take one child, who normally is bouncing off the walls, screaming, yelling, making herself KNOWN dammit!, and add what seems to be a headcold.

Quiet, sleepy and pissed off.

What we assumed was one hell of a molar coming through now seems to be some sort of illness. You know the kind. The "I'll just go over here and DIE for a little while" variety.

It;s the saddest thing ever, the dopey eyes, the fever burning up the surroundings. We dutifully give her tylenol ever 4 hours, and the fever dutifully comes back every 3.5. The weird thing is, nothing else is happening-she wakes up, you put her down, and she starts crying like you just tipped her favorite cow.

I made cookies, and she didn't want one. She's that sick. (And for the record, next time I decide to make said cookies, remind me that eating 6 of them at once makes your tummy kinda rumbly in a bad way.)

I just hate to watch it, but at the same time, I love it when my kids are sick. They're cuddly and quiet and nice to sit with a just hold. I love the feeling of the little head under my chin, the hand in mine, the moist doe eyes staring at me like it's my fault. Call me nutty, but sometimes I enjoy the dependance.

So, in lieu of anything useful, that was my day. Poor Rosalyn is sick like a dog, and I have a sick suspicion that I'm next.

Moving Soon

2006-10-07T18:32:00.000-03:00

Just so y'all know, as soon as I get all the posts dumped over (I'm up to February), I'll be hauling ass to

www.vomitcomit.wordpress.com

This beta shit is for the birds, and wordpress is prettier. Sure, I can't mess with the CSS, but even when I did it didn't do anyone any favours.

And before anyone asks, yes I WOULD have imported my blog if I could have. You can't with beta so I need to manually move every. freaking.post. Well, not every one. Some aren't making the move-think of it as throwing away all the old underpants in your drawer.

I'm hoping to have everything "officially" moved over by the end of the month-I don't have a ton of time on my hands to sit and do this. I'll post the new address again when I'm ready to rock over there, and if someone can tell me how to set up an automatic redirect, I'd love you.

Have no fear, I won't disappear. :)

BEST. LETTER. EVER.

2006-10-07T12:38:00.000-03:00

Now, we all know I'm not a huge fan of the war in Iraq (or the bloodletting as I usually refer to it), but I do have a TON of respect for anyone in the Army doing what they feel is their duty. This letter home is great. My personal favorites are "Best Chuck Norris Moment" and "Best Vindication."

A funny, frank description of life "over there" from a soldier.

Hands

2006-10-07T11:58:00.000-03:00

Last night, while reading this I took a break to rest my eyes and noticed the wrinkles on my arm.

I thought “I’m getting old. Soon, more and more of my skin will look like this.”

Suddenly, one thought filled my mind, or rather, seized it and shook me- I don’t want to die, I’ve wasted so much time already.

It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I’m not. But it was like I suddenly was filled with the knowledge of how much time I had already lost and wasted. How much of my life I hadn’t appreciated. How fast it all goes. The utter reality that one day I would not be here, and I needed to accept it.

For someone who never really thought of life as something worth missing, this is a pretty huge step for me, and a good indication that my meds are working. I’m sure everyone else has these thoughts normally, but I haven’t.

I’ve always labored under the assumption that I would die, and that it would end the unrelenting bullshit of my life. So I never viewed it as something dire, or at least worth living against. But suddenly, the wrinkles on my hands, at the crease of my elbow took on new meaning.

I’m 29, and suddenly, violently, I want to live. 10 years ago, I knew that I would die at 30, or at least before that. I could see nothing beyond 30, couldn’t envision myself as a parent, a grandparent, as anyone living old. Suddenly I want to hold my grandchildren in my arms.

I look at my hands and I can still see the hands of my youth overlaid. And yet I can also see the hands of an old woman not so far off. I can see wisdom, I can see knowledge. My body aches and twinges sometimes with such ferocity that I wonder if something might fall off, such as now, as pain shoots through my elbow and into my arm. I know that my body is not that of a 17 year old any longer.

Do I wish to go back and change anything? Not really. I live my life by a hard and fast rule of regret only what you’ve done, not what you haven’t. I wouldn’t trade my brain for all the smooth skin and smaller hips in the world. I’ve worked hard to become the me that I never thought I would be. And I kinda like her.

But to suddenly want to LIVE, it was the most incredible sensation I’ve had in awhile. It was so forceful and real, and pure. A crystal shot of life coursing through my veins, where before only sadness and death once lay, it was this perfect little moment in time for me.

I make it sound like I found gawd or something. And I sorta did. I’ve found ME again.

How exactly do people become dumb?

2006-10-07T10:12:00.000-03:00

So where I live has now instituted a mandatory garbage seperation program, after years of it being voluntary. And wouldn't you know it, there's always someone crying and whining and acting like someone cut off their right arm.

When we moved here from Toronto, and discovered they had a seperation system, we were shocked and confused. In Toronto, we had all these boxes, and certain things went in certain places, and you tied your papers together, all while avoiding the racoons. All in all, it was a time consuming annoyance. But we did it, because it's what's best.

Moving to Moncton, where you only had a blue and a green BAG, of whatever size, was neat, although it took months for me to not feel guilty about putting a popcan in a garbage bag. We found the process easy to understand, and willingly complied since moving here. It's a good idea people.

Currently, they're still trying to come up with a way to enforce this in large apartment buildings. So of course, there is a chorus of "why do they not have to do it?"

What is this, grade 3?

I mean really, what's the difficulty here? You throw your garbage out anyway, so why is having two bags hard? Is it a problem to actually have to remember that peanut butter jars aren't compostable? Is it a principal thing-no one is going to tell you what to do? Or is it the plain and simple fact that you're going to pout like a 4 year old because someone else isn't being FORCED to do it?

Of course it isn't "fair". But it isn't fair that I have to suck back the dirty exhaust from your car either, especially since I don't drive. But when process changes occur, you need to allow for some adjustment time. Landlords need to enforce this, and the city needs to find a way to do so.

For now however, the expectation is that people behave like adults. Why should you? Because we all have to live here. I know that it's also easier to dump garbage on the side of the road as well, but really. Some of us have children who'd we'd like to see grow up to do something other than clean up your mess.

Sometimes doing the right thing means being a big boy. Just buy the freaking bags, sort your trash, and shut up. You could be in Toronto with the big giant bucket.

Who me, scared?

2006-10-06T12:50:00.000-03:00

Since it's Blogging for Books time, I really had to think. The themes are:

A tale of a Halloween past, either from your own childhood or from your experience as a parent;
A “ghost story”, either real or sprung from your imagination;
Any time in your life when you were frightened out of your skull.

Personally, having a little trouble with this one. I like halloween, but it's not like I have some love affair with it. Most Halloweens for me have been pedestrian, and rather like the prom. All hype, and very little good candy. Just those icky "kisses" that stick to your teeth and cause things to rot.

And I've never had any ghosts, although I wish I did. Apparently, my brother has a whole family of them, but I don't think that counts. Or my friend who had a milk pouring, poster ripping ghost, but i don't know the whole story since she hates to talk about it it seems.

Which left me with option 3.

Now, I don't scare easily, if at all. I'm a big girl, so it takes a LOT to frighten me. I remember only two instances of being actually terrified. The first occured during a particularily wonderful acid trip which ended in a sunrise I termed as "fuzzy peach". We were walking through a very dark, very creepy, known to contain rapists park, and almost to the end of the path when some jackass leaped out at us, likely after hearing the dorky LSD giggles that preceded us.

Ironically enough, the two GUYS I was with moved a hell of a lot faster than I did, and certainly didn't wait to see if I was ok.

Scare of my life number two was getting myself knocked up.

I never wanted kids, and didn't particularily like them. They smelled and did weird things to the carpets.

So to find those little pink lines on not one but three pregnancy tests caused the walls to shake and seize upon me as my heart struggled to find it's beat again. I attempted to will my uterus to abort abort!

Didn't work. And I was fucking petrified

I wasn't fit to be a mother, I didn't love things, I could barely take care of myself.

I worried that someone would break into our house constantly. I worried that something would happen to my husband. I worried I'd be fired. I saw boogiemen behind every door, in the corners, in my tap water, since we all know tap water is the root of all evil.

I was scared of every piece of food I put in my mouth. Well, almost. I wasn't scared of the veggie burgers from Burger King, which is a good thing since I ate them all the time. But I was scared of pain, I was scared of the kicked in the groin feeling of late pregnancy, i was scared of my suddenly incredible sex drive, and the resulting tired husband.

Mostly, I was scared that I wouldn't pick it up and be the adult I suddenly had to become before I was ready. I was scared to actually grow up. Having a child would mean that I would no longer be able to stay up all night playing the Sims; hell, I wouldn't be able to afford a computer to play the Sims with. I didn't want to start acting as a fully functioning adult-it was bad enough I got married at 20.

But that's the funny thing about being the woman. You don't have much of a choice. Even if you abort, or give it away, you are irrevocably altered by becoming 'the oven". Your breasts change, your hips move, your sense of self shifts so much that you wonder if they felt it in China. You are suddenly aware, vividly, that you are not an island alone.You are part of something bigger, and badder, than you ever dared imagine.

It's a wonder I even left the house really.

I was scared the day my water broke, and remember staring at my husband on our back porch, asking "Are we ready? is this it?" Two kids stood there, two scared stupid kids, and they never came home.

In their place came the adults we were scared to become. I miss that child sometimes, but the fear was the harbringer of something much different. The fear broke down the fences I had built, destroyed them really, which would have been the more frightening if it wasn't replaced with something wonderful.

Awe, and love. Which, in the long run, might actually be scarier than you think.

Here's what I don't get.

2006-10-05T16:53:00.000-03:00

I was thinking about this huge thing with that Foley guy, and how it's suddenly so important that he was molested when he was younger, as if it relates to the crime, and I'm wondering:

Why is it something like 1 of every 3 women have been sexually molested at some point in their lives, and yet most of them never, ever go on to molest someone. Why is this 'excuse" given for nearly every single pedophile who gets caught? Why is it considered relevant?

I was molested, and find the idea of doing it to someone else repugnant. Why is there a seeming "allowance" for men if they admit it happened to them so long ago? If someone shot at me as a child, would that somehow make it "ok" for me to shoot someone later in life?

I don't get it-can someone explain this to me, since the news lately has left me with a loss for words.

Is your place in heaven worth giving up these kisses?

2006-10-05T11:36:00.000-03:00

The conclusion to my "opus" about my mother is up at Motherless.

The formatting is all messed up sadly, which detracts from how I wanted it set up. Which sucks, so eventually, I'll post the entire thing here. I'm rather pleased how it came out, but I want to tweak it a bit more in the future.

Bonus points if you name the song I used for the title of the post.

I'm sad, and my brain is going 4 ways from Friday on this one.

2006-10-04T13:24:00.000-03:00

After one too many school shootings in a random period of time, I’ve started wondering: what prevents carnage?

Many people sit back and pontificate on the reasons for these events-they listen to “goth” music, they’re crazy, someone hurt them, they like power, they like the idea of posthumous fame. I find people talking about how it’s all because we don’t beat our children anymore, we let them do anything, it’s all about what THEY want, and we don’t actually punish people, we allow more rights to the criminal than the victim

Let’s assume that it’s true, that we are easier on children, and people in this day and age. How do we know? It’s like saying that there’s more snow now-it’s difficult for me to judge solely on experience since my memories of snow tend to be from when I was 3 feet tall. My experiences have been colored by who and what I was. If my parents used corporal punishment when I was a child, perhaps I might feel that kids these days “get a free ride”.

Most statistics will show that violent crimes, overall, are lower now. What’s changed? The constant influx of CNN and Fox and papers on our door steps every morning. The internet, showing us every single bad event from every corner of the world if you want. Bad news sells papers, and draws readers.

Bad things have always happened. They will continue to happen. There will always be the anomaly in the crowd, someone will always be a little off. This is part and parcel of being human, of accepting the limitations that are placed on our race at birth. Some of us are crazy, but not homicidal. Some are nudged in that direction, and a few, the rare few, just don’t care. Are they evil? That seems to be the simple explanation that helps make people feel better. It’s so much easier to sweep the explanation under a carpet of “bad” instead of really understanding what happened, and working to prevent it.

How many cases of child abuse, physical, emotional, sexual, are never discovered, never reported? What is the effect on the psyche of a child, especially in a culture which revers guns, torture and war as a valid solution to a problem, and glorifys these things? How long can a mind resist the constant barrage of violent physical solutions before they act on them? How long can a mind resist the lure of fame for no good reason? How long can a mind stay strong when rooted in a society which does not truly value things like progress, mercy or compassion, despite is supposed “Christian” overtones and beliefs?

I read comments and posts from people saying we’re too soft on crime, and yet no one addressing the issues that cause the crime-poverty, loss of hope, lack of opportuniy, apathy towards those less fortunate. I hear people talking about “moochers” on welfare, and how single mothers should have been more careful who they breed with, in case they turn out to be wife beaters. Because we all know that the victim is responsible for someone else beating them down, figuratively or not.

Society doesn’t care-it doesn’t care about you, or your children, or your friends, because it’s easier to ignore, to walk on by, to believe the person on welfare is a junkie instead of someone who had a bad break. It’s easier to assume that the single mother was “dumb” enough to enter into a relationship with someone who beats them, than to assume that the abuser is the one who deserves to be punished. Isn’t it always easier to blame the victim? And isn’t that what we used to do to rape victims, say “they shouldn’t have worn that dress/danced that way/talked to me/walked down the street?”

Let’s assume that the victims in the latest school shootings were “stupid” to have not known that some strange man walking in their parking lot shouldn’t have been there. They were foolish enough to not be protected from him.

But why should the victim assume the guilt? And should they? Are they less blameworthy being “innocent” Amish people than say, an abused woman down on her luck who can’t catch a break? Are they ‘bad” as well? Should they be locked away too?

You blame the victim, you blame society, you blame everyone except for the person who did the deed, and you create people who will never ever take responsibility for their actions when they DO commit a crime. If someone kills little girls because he was caught with his pants down years ago, does it make it the fault of those little girls, and by extension, not the killer’s fault? Can we claim that those little girls are the true root of their own murder?

Of course we can’t. But so long as we insist on finding blame and reason in the events of the past, in slights, mistakes, in the TV and music, we will never find an acceptable reason. People deal with problems violently because they lack the capacity to do much else, and they life in a world where every single sentence must be validated and applauded. They live in a world that insists you’re special, even when you aren’t. And when the chips fall as they may. And you discover that you aren’t actually special, what then?

You pick up a gun, you find a reason, and you go to town.

I believe that our culture is at a crossroads of sorts-that we can go one of two ways. We can decide to become compassionate yet firm “keepers” of each other, or we can decide that our friends, our coworkers, the people we live next to, aren’t worth our time or effort, and say the hell with it, because ME, I’M more important.

How we live reflects who we are. And it’s high time that we all hitched up our big girl pants, and acted accordingly.

Ah....one day left until work

2006-10-03T12:25:00.000-03:00

You know you've been alone with your kids too long when work seems alluring. Despite my "I'm not working while I'm off" ordinance, I'm actually craving going back to work. And not just because I want to walk to work and play with the new toy the Dorf got me for my birthday.

He came back yesterday, smelling slightly beerish, but otherwise ok. (Some jackass CHECKED BEER which then exploded on it's way to Toronto, going all over the suitcase-who travels with beer?)

After we got reaccquainted, we ordered in from Pizza hut (just a small personal for me thanks-I was good and had Lentil Soup for dinner). He ordered the wings.

7 hours later he wakes me up to hold him because he's freezing and shivering because something was wrong with the wings. Once again, the boy had a mild case of food poisoning. So he's home from work, and resting upstairs, destroying my sleep in chances, since he was up puking half the night.

On a good note, he came home with my new favorite album, by The Essex Green, and older one by the Decemberists (waiting for the new one to arrive-it's out today I believe) and this damn cool Wonder Woman book I was almost going to buy with the GC someone gave me for my birthday.

I love presents, and he's finally beginning to realize this.

So, all is almost normal again here, thankfully. He seems refreshed by having a break, which was why I bothered him to go in the first place. You can't spend all your time around your kids now can you.

She loves me...but then, I'm very very lovable aren't I?

2006-10-02T12:26:00.000-03:00

Look what Eden went and done did. She gave me this:

The long road home.

2006-10-01T17:39:00.000-03:00

Yesterday, while walking back from the "blue circle park", the double umbrella stroller we got from a friend fell apart. Totally. And me being me, I refused to leave it in the bushes or something, since that wouldn't exactly fall into place with my "don't litter, cause we aren't pigs" philosophy.

So I walked home with Vivian, Rosalyn, and this big stupid broken stroller. About half way home, while trying to keep Rosalyn out of the ditch, and out of traffic for about the 20th time, and trying to keep Vivian going in a forward motion, I lost it.

I totally, and utterly lost my freaking mind.

The scary thing was how similar this rage was to when I was in the midst of full PPD-it was blinding, painful and disturbing. I just wanted to throw one of them into traffic, I wanted to throw the stroller, or better yet, myself. I had one crawling almost on to the road in pursuit of something she picked up, one actively trying to run away, and this hulking stroller falling from my arms.

I saw white for the briefest of moments, and just wanted to sit down, and cry my bloody stupid eyes out.

It was a short moment, but it was frightening in it's intensity. And it was a flash back to a time when I was, well, freaking nuts.

I try not to admit to myself that I have these moments, times when all I want to do is scream at my children until my throat is raw and I cannot speak, and not because they are bad, because they aren't. But because I have this RAGE buried in my chest, rarely seen, well hidden, that is usually smothered in a smarmy layer of sadness. Yet some days, it yearns for release, just as I some days yearn to die.

I thought that after coming to terms with and dealing with my PPD, these moments would end. They didn't, since it turned out that I AM certifiably nuts, being diagnosed bipolar II. And again, I believed there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, that I would suddenly feel everything like normal, that it would be "sunshine and lollipops, and roses everyday."

It isn't. I don't want to kill my children anymore, but there are the usual days where I want to run and hide in the woods behind the house, or stick my thumb out on the highway and see how far I can get. Some days, I find myself calmly evaluating if today would be a good day to die, and how I might do it, sounding much like someone deciding what to eat for dinner. I catch myself staring at my wrists, wondering what keeps me from it.

I stood on the sidewalk screaming at my girls like a fishwife, and I immediately felt like shit over it. I remembered that feeling from when I screamed at my daughters as babies, their cries increasing in shrillness and fear. I felt on that sidewalk what I felt way back then "I can kill this, I want it gone."

But now, unlike then, it passes like a stray cloud against the sun, instead of lingering around my eyes for weeks. I can accept and move on from it, acknowledge my rage as a momentary lapse, and keep walking. I can remind my girls that I'm mad, but I love them, because it's not their fault that the stupid stroller doesn't work, or that my meds some days don't seem to do it for me, not completely, and I'm scared to try too many options, instead content with what seems like 90% of me.

The spectre of PPD will likely always haunt me, in quiet moments, in mad moments, when I'm alone and reading about the love others had for their babies. But it is, irrevocably, part of me, and always will be. And I tell myself, that despite this, I AM a good mother, that I love my children, and always will, even if the outset is a wee bit bumpy.

Sometimes life reminds me of my shortcomings, or my failures, and allows me to use them and stop and smell my roses, my girls. We took the long way home so Rosalyn could stop and touch nature, instead of the scary sidewalk on the busy road.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Tired I yam

2006-10-01T11:00:00.000-03:00

Oh gods I'm beat.

If any military parents who are regularily stuck with their kids for months on end alone are reading this, I feel for you, and you have my utmost respect.

I have NO FREAKING IDEA how you do this every day for months. It's been 3 days of total alone for me, and already I want to run screaming towards a bookstore and hide in the biography section. I'm exhausted.

Of course, priming a room, mowing the lawn of doom, carrying/fighting with children because the goddammed stroller broke half way home, and generally being aware that no one hurts themselves has done a number on me.

Today I find myself coming back to the computer frequently, hoping that something will wake me up. Especially since I've spilled 3 glasses of diet pepsi in the last few days.

I couldn't be a housewive, I just couldn't. I need people, I need quiet time, I need to be able to pee in silence. Last night I was so beat, I had a bag of Doritos for dinner.

You read that right. Doritos. With applesauce for dessert.

I miss my husband, but mostly, I think I miss just having someone else around to talk to, to hug. Banana kisses from a toddler aren't that impressive, all told.

He's back tomorrow.

My house, is a very very very nice house..sorta

2006-09-30T15:58:00.000-03:00

Finally, I've begun painting our bedroom.

This week makes 2 years we've been in this house, and we've done nothing aside from a few items of "must" upkeep.

It's been driving me fucking INSANE.

One of the ONLY joys of owning a house is being able to do what I damn well please with it. And with two little girls running around, I haven't exactly been able to whip out the heat gun and crowbar. So with the Dorf being gone for a few days, and there fore no one around to whine about the resulting mess, I began my journey.

Now, I'm only doing half the room right now for two reasons.

If he hates the color, it's cheaper to only paint over half

His comics are on the other side, and he couldn't be bothered to move them before he left. And I swore I wouldn't touch them, mostly because, let's face it, if I touched them, it would be only AFTER I called the comic shop to trade them in for something I want to read like this or this. (Or maybe this)

So, after spending 100.00 or so at the hardware store, after standing behind Mr. "My wife wants the paint to EXACTLY match this butt ugly lamp I'm holding, and I'll take all morning to do it", I finally got my paint, ventured home, and began.

Now, first off, if I ever EVER buy a house again, and someone has smoked in it, they are paying ME to clean the walls. I had done a cursory sweep with TSP when we moved in, but apparently, I missed a few spots. It was disgusting the amount of shit off the walls.

Secondly, people should never, ever be allowed to use wallpaper borders ever again. That shit is hard to remove.

However, I am glad there is no stucco in the bedroom. There is some in the front room, and I have resorted to using a drywall knife to peel it off, since they were at least stupid enough to stucco over wallpaper.

So tonight, I shall pick up the tiny finger peeled shards of wallpaper backing, mask stuff off, and prime. Cause I'm not taking a chance that something won't bleed through, especially not after the story I was told about the previous tenant gangbanging a stripper here in the house. (IMAGINE someone telling you that story-dude who used to live here works for the company that closes our pool, and he sat there, calmly telling my husband, a STRANGER who lives here with his children that story. Now, everytime I look around, I wonder who's ASS has been where.)

But I really cannot wait to gut my bathroom-

photographic evidence here:

Underneath the lovely panelling is an even lovelier wallpaper, with what I believe are roosters. I also need to replace the flooring since, despite spending what looks like to be a good amount of money on it, they installed it wrong, and it's curling at the edges.

This entire house is like that-they cut corners on the stupidest things.

Let's not even talk about my basement. I do believe if I took pictures, the camera would die.

But hey, at least it's mine, right? Or, at least that wall in the bathroom under the window. I think I own that now....

Girls are Icky

2006-09-29T19:16:00.000-03:00

So I'm checking my site meter as a matter of course as the girls play "sleepover" shortly before bed. I check it every day or so since I occasionally find interesting sites, and I like to know what's generated traffic, and what squicky things people are googling that end up on my site, aside from the usual.

So to look today, and find what I found made me, once again, sick of my gender.

Someone who I have contact with through the "blogworld" apparently had some sort of spat with a group of "women". I don't know the real details, and frankly, I don't want to know. My life is full of enough bullshit and stupidity in reality thanks. But shit happens, and I realize that.

Stumbling upon a message board devoted to basically picking on someone in order to feel good is one of the more nauseating things I've found in a long time. I'm used to people using one or two posts to vent their rage, and get over it. It's what adults do. I'm not used to people googling someone's name in order to find them, and again go after them. Although I should be-I'm a woman, and I went through this type of behaviour-In grade EIGHT.

Is this acceptable? As women, are we ok with this? Don't get me wrong, I have my moments with some women, but they are generally kept to either myself, or to one person. Not online, not in a context that is meant to be read, is meant to act as fodder for feeding some type of fire built of bruised ego's and feelings.

Maybe being raised predominately by a man has colored my sight-I was taught that if you're mad, you tell the person, and move on from there. You don't act like a child, using the proverbial "nah-nah" to make them feel worse. And if they are the person who wronged you, attempt to fix it, and if all else fails, again, get the fuck over it.

Spending time, and energy on someone you don't actually like has always seemed counterproductive to me, because if I don't like someone, the cease to exist in my eyes, period. Which would seem to me to be the bigger insult. Acting like little girls giggling, passing notes in the back of math class? Aren't we past that sort of thing by now? Don't we have better things to do with our time, like perhaps, supporting other women instead of devoting entire message board threads to basically making someone out to be a piece of shit?

I'm not going to link to it because I'm that disgusted. It was quite literally the most revolting thing I've seen all week (and considering I watched Vivian eating lipgloss today, that's a feat). I don't care who's right or wrong-what possible good does acting infantile about any situation do?

There's a quote by Gandhi stating 'Be the change you want." If women continue to act this way towards each other, change will only come at the point of a gun, if at all.

I wish I could be disappointed. But sadly, this is exactly why I shy away from befriending women. Because it always ends the same, and they never, ever seem to learn that the world doesn't revolve around them either.

Where my love lies waiting silently for me..

2006-09-29T11:51:00.000-03:00

This morning we ventured out to Shoppers for a few items, including new books for the girls, since Mom, a literacy fan, can rarely, if ever, say no to that particular request. We're there browsing as the woman stocking the publications area starts commenting on my girls, how good they are, how sweet and lovely they are.

She tells me she has a 21 year old and...

you know the rest. She cannot believe where the time has gone. Yesterday he was just a babe in arms, and now, he's off, and gone, and she will not, she never can have those moments gone.

For this reason, we have elected to make less money, and spend less money by being home with our children. We've been so lucky to watch them become people over the last 3 years-we can decode their moods and their gibberish and know exactly when to ignore them and when to hug them. Could I say the same if they were in day care 8 hours a day, 5 days a week?

I don't think I could.

Sometimes I worry that I'm not adequately preparing them for school, or life, but not having them in some type of preschool. That's I'm keeping them behind. But then I notice Vivian explaining how things die, and how beautiful the day is, or how Rosalyn is transfixed by the workings of the blocks in front of her, or the gear toy next to her. My girls are not losing out-they're being themselves, they're being children, without any of the rush, or the stress or the illness that would accompany some type of group care. And they are smart-LORD are they smart. I don't know why I worry.

Daily I see people worrying that we don't allow kids to be kids anymore, and I think on some level, we didn't want to have that worry. I have Vivian to myself, without any external influence, for at most, 2 more years.

2 more years before Vivian has to go out, and begin the terrible, wonderful process of becoming. 3 or more for Rosalyn. And that's all I get. Sure, they're still "mine", but my influence lessens, me as the center of their world disappears. And that's hard to handle, and grasp.

Even if we could afford it, I could never put them in daycare, not now. I love them, their blue moods and anger, their giggles, finding Rosalyn in the garbage can, again. I love every wonderous thing that they do, and I almost cannot bear the thought of losing that, of it not being here with me.

We go places, and people tell us 'What happy kids!" Could there be a better compliment?

In my heart, I fear that I will lose those happy girls to the world at large. And I don't want to let them go.

Bringing the messy back..

2006-09-29T08:02:00.000-03:00

Karrie has redefined the new JT song, and it so totally rules. I like this version better than the original.

THAT'S IT

2006-09-28T19:48:00.000-03:00

I don't know WHAT the fricken problem with Blogger is, but I've had it. I just lost a post I spent 40 minutes on, and I'm A LITTLE BIT PEEVED.

I'm going to be a loser copy cat and move this shit over to wordpress. It will take awhile but ARGH

I'm SO fucking ANNOYEd right now. Piece of shit crap balls monkeyballs.

ich.

Diva in Training

2006-09-28T11:31:00.000-03:00

Apparently the drama training I had in high school was absorbed by Vivian in the womb.

Since the Dorf and I were both home yesterday, and he needed to pick up the suit of hotness for his friend's wedding, we walked with the girls down to the mall. We had the obligatory grease meal (I've had two greasy meals in two days-I want to die now thank you) and wandered into the toy store. Night was fast approaching, and so while he ran over to Moore's for his SOH, I walked over to the dollar store with the girls.

We purchased Vivian little fuzzy socks for her always cold feet so she's stop wearing mine.

Then, she lost her mind.

When Vivian becomes evil (aka-tired) she gets "the look". The look is generally, a glimmer of danger, mischief and badness, all in one eye, accompanied with a smile and giggle that loosely translated means "You will regret that we're missing my normal bedtime".

She ran off to play with balloons. I nicely told her to come with my and Rosalyn a few times. That giggle again.

I waled over, and picked her up, telling her to come with me. She giggled AGAIN, and still didn't come. I stood her back up, and held on to her arm, walking her towards the stroller, and out of the store. Then she pulled one way and I pulled the other and something went "pop"

ohgodohgodohgod

We've been here before, about this time last year. Her father took her for a walk, and the slipped, pulling her elbow from it's socket. And she was crying and upset like she was that time, and wouldn't let me touch it.

My heart sank to a level previously unknown, with visions of Children's Aid in my head, lectures, people telling bad mommy stories about me while they drank coffee wearing cpari's from Club Monaco. I felt HORRID.

And of course, both children then began to bellow. We tried bribing Vivian with ice cream. Despite the pain, she insisted it be one with a chocolate on top.

I should have had some suspicions right then.

She insisted I carry her, or she ride in the stroller, which she hates normally. We lugged her on the bus, me wondering how in hell I'm going to get to the hospital with her, and if they'll take her away since I must be a terrible mommy hurting her baby. I kissed away her tears and told her I was sorry, so sorry!

We get off the bus, and trudge home, when suddenly, the previously incapacitated arm is flung out so she can pull her sleeve back. The tears disappear and she tells us she's hungry as we walk up our front steps.

We were PLAYED. HARD.

This kid is 3 years old. And yet she knew exactly how to play us for maximum effect. And it worked, it worked perfectly.

I cringe to think what she'll be like at 15.

SPAM!

2006-09-27T14:17:00.000-03:00

Because she knows me only too well, I received this stunning piece de resistance for my birthday:

Am I a dork because I love this type of thing? Or am I a dork because I find it interesting that Spam is actually real meat?

Spam-great bedtime reading...

We're sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be reached by this method...

2006-09-26T19:43:00.000-03:00

Someone had been curious about my adopted back story (and OH! don't I have many) and so I decided instead of linking back to the badly written post from a year or so ago, I'd make a better go of it.

My biological mother (Jane) was 17 when she had me. Her parents were "upstanding" folk (read: high school principal) and I doubt she was given much choice in the matter. In fact, my grandfather accepted a transfer to BC for the year when she was in the family way, and the only came back when she was about to give birth. Or so I was told. It doesn't make much sense to me.

I was adopted by a man and a woman, Marie and Francis, who couldn't have children. They already had my brother, also adopted. He's 6 years my senior, give or take a few months. I had an incredible childhood, for the most part.

I always knew that I was adopted, just like other children knew they had blue eyes, or long legs. It was part of me, part of my identity. No one ever said it was bad. It just was. I remember my father telling me that they picked me special, and they still had the receipt just in case they wanted to take me back.

And they really did. I don't know what it was for exactly, but it was a receipt for 8.75 I believe.

As the years went on, it became obvious I was not the "fruit of their loins"-I hit about 5'9, my brother about 5'12 or 6'0, and our parents are/were about 5'0, Marie being about a half inch taller than Francis, which she exploited. But I didn't feel weird about it, it never bothered me. Of course, I was busy at the time with my mother dying and all. It just was. It was always a good lesson in acceptance.

Since I was young, I knew I would want to meet my biological parents. Like many adopted children, I made up stories about where I really was from, and who my parents were. I shared this story with a guy I hung out with once when I was 9 or so. All I remember is that my parents were from some planet called 'Jeremiah" and that I had to be safely stored on Earth until they could come for me. He had a similar story, but I forget it now.

It's not that I wanted to escape, I just wanted to belong. Heritage Days were hell for me, because I did not know WHO I was. Sure, I had a sheet of non-identifying information, but all that told me was, basically, my parents were skinny, into gymnastics and young. It claimed I had an English/dutch background, but nothing more. No details like the other children had, carrying heirlooms from their grandparents who fled the Nazi's. Nothing like what my father had done about his Irish background, pure Irish on both sides. He drew up his coat of arms, traced his lineage back.

I couldn't help but notice that his blood was dying out with him. Sure, his brother had a daughter, but it wasn't the same. (This is a very large part of why my daughters carry his name, out of respect and honour. Because a man as good as my father deserves to be honoured.)

I'd sit in the back of the room, close to tears because it was the one day of the year that reminded me I knew nothing about what I was. I knew who I became, but I knew nothing before. For a girl raised to be a history buff, it was painful, and irritating. I watched my schools be so careful to be inclusive to everyone, and yet I had the choice to either sit and watch, or "pretend" my adoptive family's history was my own.

I hated the idea, I hated the teacher who suggested it. I couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to be something I wasn't. And I knew I couldn't do it anyway, as I watched the pride on everyone else's faces.

They didn't get it, the teachers, my parents, friends. It solidified my resolve to find my family, my history.

A few years went by, and I didn't think much of it. After my mother died, it was rough, and it was really the last thing on my mind. I knew my father was supportive-he thought it would be crazy to NOT want to know who I was. I knew it hurt him to say this though. I'm sure the secret thoughts told him I might not love him as much, that they would be better.

I don't think I could have ever, could ever convince him that this would never be true. I love my father in a profound deep way, and part of that love is due to the fact that he never caged me or stopped me from doing the things that were necessary, even if painful.

A few more years, a lot more shit in my life, and I finally end up under his roof again at 17 or 18. I argue with my brother about attending a 'ParentFinders" meeting, something he is vehemently opposed to. (He's never had any interest in finding his parents, and we wish he would.) I go anyway, and add my name to a list, along with my "code" and the part of my birth name I was given.

I go home, deciding I'm not ready for any of it. But I don't remove my name from their list.

About 8 months later I believe, a few days after Christmas, I receive a phone call asking me if I'm sitting down. They found my mother, who had been searching for me. She wants to call me, can she call me? Am I OK with that?

Is anyone ever prepared for that phone call? Hi, we found your PAST, would you like to talk to it?

About an hour later, the phone rang again. It was my mother.

It was weird, and uncomfortable, and surreal. My MOTHER. The person who carried me and bore me and likely, if my own children are any indication, cursed me as I sat on her bladder for months. This is the girl who had to let her baby go. The person I wondered about for ages and ages.

I don't remember the phone call. I remember feeling that I should have been more excited. But I felt nothing. I forced myself to cry, but I really didn't FEEL anything.

And to make a long story short, the woman who is my mother and I didn't really get along. Too many expectations, too many assumptions. I fell in love, and wanted to go, get into the world out of high school, she wanted me to live with her. She wanted me to become some automatic daughter who listened and sat up straight and didn't smoke pot with her husband.

I wasn't what she expected. She had expectations, whereas I was just hoping she wouldn't be a bitch.

The only Christmas I spent with her, she became very ill, and I felt like my world was just shitting all over me, and I silently thanked myself for not becoming invested emotionally. I stood next to her while she was in bed, as she screamed for me to get out, to leave her alone, and I stood outside, shattered as the ambulance took her away. It was too real, it was too eerie and similar, and the rest of the family didn't know what to do, what to say and again, I was just a girl left out of everything, trying to find her place.

I can't say that I tried very hard after that. We'd talk, but when I got married, I could tell she was unimpressed, and the entire family (and my biological family is big) showed up for the wedding. I had no idea why. My mother seemed surly about the whole thing, and insisted on paying for the cake, despite me knowing she didn't want to. I didn't want her there, yet I did. From there on in, it only got more strained. The last contact I had was a birthday card unsigned. That was the straw on my back.

And who knows, maybe I did something, and I don't remember. That's always possible. I don't know.

My brother, who had sporadic contact with my family, told one of my cousins I was pregnant, and I received a call from my grandmother, who was awesome. I regretted not having more time with her. We talked about the family, she talked about my grandfather having heart problems, and how happy they were to be grandparents.

What she didn't tell me was that she was dying from terminal cancer.

3 weeks after Vivian was born, my brother called to tell me she had passed. I signed an online condolence book, leaving my email address. I regret to this day not knowing her better, the one and only thing I really regret. My mother contacted me again, and we talked on and off, via email. But neither of us ever called. And again, we slowly lost contact.

Some days I want her, my entire family in my life. Other days, it makes me feel like a traitor. I want my girls to know where they're from, I want my mother to be a grandmother.

But my emails go unanswered, And I'm too chicken shit to call, afraid of what might not be said.

So that's one of my stories, one of many. I know that many of us who have connected have similar stories. Please share them as well. I feel so alone with this sometimes.

It shouldn't be funny, but it is...

2006-09-25T19:36:00.000-03:00

So I'm sitting here, feeling like a bad mommy because it's the end of the day, I'm fighting off a cold and feeling one of those fever headaches coming on, I've smacked Vivian who was trying to put her foot through a wall, and the house is a mess, when I discover this in my feeds.

And Missy, I feel for you, but I nearly pissed myself laughing. Your misery and misfortune was just what I needed right now. So here's one just for you:

Quick? What's the number for 911?

2006-09-25T12:53:00.000-03:00

The other day I followed a link to a blog where the author was talking about her reactions to a neighbour calling the police due to her child's cries. I'm not going to list the link here because,

1-she received a lot of negative comments from it and
2-it's only relevant as the trigger for my thoughts.

It all ended well, with the policeman even calling his wife for some colic tips (how cool is that!) but the Mom was pretty upset, and I would imagine embarrassed that someone, likely a man or woman she would see on a daily basis, thought she was hurting her child.

Then a few days later, I'm coming home, and see a little boy, maybe 3 or 4, standing alone at the bus stop near the local low rentals, where the driver obviously told him to run along home. He walked, ran, walked, and generally didn't look like her belonged at first. Then he bolted into the interior of the complex, where most of the kids would usually be.

I stood staring at the little boy for awhile, thinking "I should call someone" It didn't seem right, there was something odd about the little guy running around alone. But the other half of me thought "his mother is right there, somewhere, or his father is, and they can see him"

But it weirded me out.

And I got to thinking-how many cases of child abuse aren't reported because we're afraid of offending someone, afraid to offend, afraid that someone will think we're bad people for wondering, for playing it safe, for saying "just in case"?

I feel for the woman who was upset on her weblog, I really do. I would be mortified if I received a visit, and frankly, considering the volume some nights, I'm surprised we never had. But I don't know if I would necessarily be offended. I think (and it's just theory, since it hasn't happened to me) that after I was over the initial shock of it all, I would be glad that someone took the time to say "just in case". Because really, what's the harm if nothing is wrong?

Her reaction made me think of how I would react, and if I would call in a situation that demanded it a little more than that little boy did. We're all so quick to turn away and not get involved, and we're applauded for that. But maybe instead of knowing exactly how many pounds Nicole Richie weighs, we should be busybodies a bit more when it comes to children.

I'd just hate to think that I could have saved a life, and yet I didn't.

It's that day again.

2006-09-25T11:17:00.000-03:00

Years ago, a scared 17 year old gave birth to me at 2:16am on this day.

I often wonder how long I stayed with her, or if they took me away from her immediately. Did she sing to me? Did she kiss me, and love me, really want me, despite her parents urging me away? Or was she glad to be rid of me, blessed with the knowledge of what her life would have been?

My birth mother told me she had miscarriages when she was trying to become pregnant years later, and she wondered if it was a punishment for having me and getting rid of me. She told me that on this day every year, she would get pleasantly drunk and pass out, waiting for the 25th to go away. She wondered who I was, where I was, if I was happy.

I remember telling her that I was, and that what happened, my other mother dying, my life turning to shambles, wasn't her fault. We couldn't fix it, or stop it. Life just is.

I was parenting even my biological mother wasn't I? She wanted so badly for someone to tell her what she did was the right and good thing to so.

And it was Jane, it was. My mother loved me so fiercely, I know that she did. My parents waited and prayed and begged for me, and I arrived, because of you. My mother celebrated my life on my birthday however she could, and I wouldn't trade those memories for all the money I could spend. I was happy then, so long ago.

I'm thinking about my mother a lot today, both of them really. I miss the mother who hid my presents around the house, letting me leave the dinner table to search. I wish I had a relationship with my birth mother, I wish I had that "mother" idea in my life right now, to share all my joy and heartache with.

I'm almost 30. I never imagined I'd live to be 30. The last ten years have been, thankfully, free of trauma and pain, unlike the 10 or so before it. Today the sun is shining, and while I mourn for what I have lost, I can also embrace the fact that years prior, a girl had to make a choice that ultimately affected how my life played out.

She made the right one.

Postcard RECEIVED!

2006-09-24T10:42:00.000-03:00

So we joined in with Thingamababy to have a "Postcard Exchange" for the kidlet. And here is what AJ's daughter sent Viv! (who LOVED THIS btw)

I thought it was so cool to get a glimpse into another little girl's world, especially since one of my favorite things to read about as a child was the redwood forests. Someday, I will see them with my own eyes.

We sent CJ a postcard as well, and hopefully she gets it, showing her some things from the east coast. It's an amazing thing, considering she's on one end of the continent, and we're on the other. OR, I'm easily amused.

Vivian LOVED the idea of getting, and sending mail (and CJ, the scrawl on the postcard is, according to Vivian, a mosquito and a kite.)

And you know what, I love this idea SO MUCH that I want to continue it from my end as well-if anyone would like to trade postcards with Vivian, email me and we'll figure it out. Cause who doesn't love fun mail?

Uh...maybe you can't leave after all.

2006-09-23T10:10:00.000-03:00

So, I'm sitting here, procrastinating part of my morning away at work. I still have to go grab a coffee, so I spend the time reading my feeds, going thru my links, eating an All-Bran bar which actually tastes good. (I shit you not. I'm officially addicted to the things, and my bowels seem rather happy about that.)

I look at the calender, where I see 4 happy little "OFF" words on my work days this week. The Dorf's bestest friend is/has gotten married, and he's off to the reception this week. (they're getting married in Scotland the bastards, and it's only them and their witnesses since the rest of us are broke. Wait, they have twins, so I don't know how they did it.....)

He even went a got a suit. Fucker. He's never worn a suit for me, but his friend tells him it's a FORMAL affair, and off he goes.

Anyway, I look at the dates and realize I will basically be ALONE with my children for a week and a half. Not a few days. A WEEK AND ONE HALF.

What in the FUCK will I do with them for that long? We don't have a car (on purpose-we're cheap hippies that way) and the transit system here is so bad it's not even funny. Going to the mall is about as amusing as poking myself in the eye with my crochet hooks. We've been to every park within a 30 minute walking radius.

I'm good for my three days a week of my children. I love that I have that. But I am so NOT a housewife it isn't funny. Too long around my kids and I go batty. Simply put, I NEED adults around me, or at least people pretending to be adults. I don't know how I will hack this.

And when I think about it, I know that if I dumped the kids on HIM for this long, he's go batshit. He really would. So I'm getting a little pouty about the entire thing....

On another note, Vivian ratted me out to her Dad this morning as they talked about my birthday present. Vivian starts talking about "Martian Manhunter" and then says

"That's what we got you Daddy!"

followed by

'I'm not supposed to tell you Daddy."

Thanks kid...thanks. So now I have to figure out some OTHER surprise to get for when he comes back (his birthday is at the END of this week). Everything he likes is generally only found on the internet, and I have no Credit Cards. So I dunno. Maybe I'll buy him some porn.

Guys, is porn an acceptable birthday present? If so, what kind?

Oh, it's gonna be a great week isn't it...

Forget my birthday-I deserve presents ALL DAY LONG!

2006-09-22T17:12:00.000-03:00

My birthday is on Monday, and The Dorf keeps tormenting me by reminding me that my present is "a good one, and I better not ever call him cheap after this one"

While I'm hoping that means I'm getting this, I sorta doubt it.

So I'm on messenger with him earlier, and he's talking about going to get his comics tonight, and make a pithy comment about him hitting the sex store for a present for me. I get the "it's not your birthday" speech.

Whaaa? So?

I tell him I always deserve presents, and he laughs before returning to burning CD's. Now yes, he already got me my Made Out Of Babies shirt (LOVE IT!), and I got him his Voivod one, but frankly, I want more presents.

And I've always felt badly about that. I'm supposed to be a modern girl who renounces material things. Of course, that goes out the window with this dress, which incidentally, would go great with my cute shoes. I have trouble being the girl who wants nothing. She doesn't get along with the girl who wants to be spoiled.

Should I expect more gifts? I can never figure out if it's shallow to want some actual tokens of affection. I know, I should appreciate that I have a guy who loves me, loves his kids, stays home with them, blah blah blah. But once in awhile, I'd like a surprise, flowers at work, chocolate that he doesn't eat if I don't eat it right that minute, something, anything.

It's terrible, I know. I try and resist, but I still always hope that just once, I'll walk up to our bedroom and find a SURPRISE.

I try to surprise him when I can, which is difficult without a creditcard since he doesn't like anything I can get him around here. And I don't believe it's only a man's job to do this crap. He just rarely if ever does it. And having to do it for a birthday/anniversary/Xmas, etc takes all the fun out of it.

Peeps, tell me if I'm being shallow. But also remember that I'm a girl who writes him love poems before ye judge.

Also remember that I like presents, and did I mention it's my birthday on Monday?

Reason 4,569 I'm glad I'm Canadian

2006-09-22T12:23:00.000-03:00

Reading this post put a knot in my stomach, right next to the fire of rage.

Morality Clauses, EC and Broken Condoms

This is the USofA? The land of the free? Bring us your huddled masses?

Americans, is this the country you want? Is this how your women should be treated? Is this what you want for your daughters?

I cannot freaking imagine. I just can't. If anyone told me I couldn't have Plan B because I was unmarried and had not been raped, I would LOSE MY MIND. I would do what this woman has mentioned-mail them the abortion.

I cannot believe that in this day and age, people like the doctors and nurses in this post exist and take care of your children. It's nauseating.

Go read. My lunch is coming up the back of my throat.

Step right up! Pick your baby!

2006-09-21T09:49:00.000-03:00

We all know I'm not a big fan of reproductive technology at this point, right? So seeing an article on CNN about how people are "selecting" for gender more often made my coffee want to come back up.

42% of the fertility clinics surveyed stated that they had selected for sex. Not to avoid disease. SEX.

Monkey wants a boy, monkey gets a boy.

According to one doctor "It performs a much desired service. We're making people happy"

We bitch and whine and moan that our current generation of KIDS are ungrateful little snots, who think everything is about them, and only want to be happy.

Where do you think that comes from?

Let's flash forward a few years-let's assume we have a country that's turned into even MORE of a theocracy, where boys are highly valued, and girls, meh, not so much. Keep a few around for breeding.

While this type of thing may support my lesbian island utopia, I don't like it. As women we are told that we cannot choose when to abort a potential being in OUR wombs, but if we want to manipulate said potential, then go to town? If we want to force a 50 year old body to have babies it wouldn't otherwise have, go to town! We can alter the baby before it's a baby!

How wonderful! We don't have to actually make a decision anymore, or accept life as it is, spontaneous and shocking. We can ask a doctor to make us "happy"!

While I'd much prefer that people carrying deadly diseases NOT reproduce (thinking about the gene pool here) I support using rep.tech. in this manner, because it makes sense. The ultimate goal is to reduce the suffering a child may experience. It's a benefit of a modern society.

But picking your child like a pair of shoes, chancing multiple births that you may not be able to physically handle, or financially afford-it's icky, and it's actually rather scary.

Individuals from China come to the US for this procedure. And we all know why. Because their own country bans the practice, and people want boys. So they get boys. Lots of boys. They've already passed laws to try and prevent sex selection abortions. Now, they can avoid that messy little part.

I don't get it. Of course, I don't get the drive to have "your own" child when so many children need homes and parents. I find it selfish to consider your own needs in this way. Sure, you get something with a penis-but what if he happens to be gay and doesn't fulfill your ideas of a man? What then, you try again?

I've thought for a long time that we've jumped into these technologies blindly, but also in a discriminatory way. And it frightens me. People will argue passionately for or against vaccines, and yet have no qualms with manipulating the beginnings of a potential life?

Regardless, I think I lost my appetite this morning.

Early

2006-09-20T07:01:00.000-03:00

Someone screams my name loud enough to wake the dead at 6:30 am. I discover that they've done so in order to regain possession on "Mama Elmo"-not because they have to pee, are hungry or otherwise needing of something real.

But because they've decided they want to cuddle Mama Elmo for 5 minutes.

I've decided that I want to throttle my three year old before I go to work.

Yesterday, she said "Mommy, you're annoying". That resulted in only getting to watch a Baby Einstein DVD, which in turn resulted in a nap. She hates nothing more than losing her TV priviledges, or being tricked into a nap.

When they were babies, I expected getting up early and in the middle of the night. I planned for it, and worked around it. I dealt with it.

But this? Sleeping til 7:30 on day, and the next being awake when it's still bloody dark and I still have sleep in my eyes and the lingering scent of a dream? Nu-uh.

It's also raining, and I love nothing more than to wake up and hear the raindrops beating on the roof, slowly, like a heartbeat lulling me into safety.

I didn't get to do that today. And now I sit here, rather annoyed and sleepy, wondering what to eat for breakfast.

Yip

2006-09-19T11:02:00.000-03:00

We voted (or, went looking for the boat if you listen to Vivian)

I've never, ever voted Liberal. Somewhere in my brain is a little girl screaming for hours because of this.

But, I cannot STAND Bernard Lord, and I could never find any info on the NDP in my area. I only realized we had a candidate when I was looking at the ballot.

So woo wee. We have a Liberal government. Watch me hold my breath for change.

Ha.

For some reason, I'm really freaking bummed out today, which is odd, since I haven't been like this for awhile, and frankly, it's rather scary. On the lower dose, I never had any problems. I'll give it a few more days. I might just be coming up on girlie time, who knows.

I made some bread, the sole accomplishment of yesterday. Doesn't it look yummy! It tastes yummy.

Today, I want to crawl into a hole and stay there, but since I'm not at work, no such luck. I think we'll go to the dollar store. That always makes me feel better for some reason.

2006-09-18T10:53:00.000-03:00

My husband gave me a gift the other night, and it's the best I've ever received.

Let's back up a second.

After being diagnosed with Bipolar II a few months ago, I began using Trileptal to treat my aching, broken brain. Being me, I was too, whatever, to ask my doctor for a refill, so I was existing on a lesser dose for awhile, before the shrink gave me shit and a new prescription. I upped my dose, then upped it again, as instructed.

The last move upwards triggered what I can only call a crazy manic episode. I was smilely, I was giggly, I was yappy and amused and glowing. I felt like I had taken speed. Nothing bothered me. Not a thing. I was walking on air.

I was also a wee bit violent, something I remember from my past. When I'd get happy, I'd "lash" out in a way that I thought was friendly but was, apparently, hurtful and annoying. It's like I can't contain the feeling, and I need to vent it out like that.

The Dorf was a little irritated, and bothered by it. After the second night of it, he was more than a little irritated, and we had a major fight at 2 am.

Not a fight, not really, more like a purging.

I have to admit something right now-one of the best parts of being drugged is actually feeling the love I have for him, feeling it deep down in my belly, where it started so many years ago. I almost can't stand knowing how much in LOVE with him I am, how he still makes me giggle so, how he laughs at my lame jokes, how comfortable we are. There has never been, never was any moments of awkwardness between us, no uncomfortable silences, just like I had been gone and I came home. And it's amazing to think he loves me back like this, and that we love our kids and our life.

Got a little spun there didn't I...

In the midst of our fight/not fight, he broke down. I was getting my back up because it seemed like he was attacking the treatment, and not allowing it enough time, and I was so angry because finally, I found something that worked and it was wonderful!

But no, he was scared. Scared of losing ME, the person who had emerged in the past few weeks, the person he had glimpsed from time to time, the girl he fell in love with so long ago. He felt like I was disappearing before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.

It was terrible, he said, to be happy for the first time in a long time, and to watch it slowly slipping away.

And it is. It was. I'm so afraid that these pills will one day stop working, and he'll finally give up and take the kids and go. I'm afraid everytime I get mad at one of the girls that something might snap. Life on the bipolar express with kids and a husband and all that jazz sometimes seems harder than I'd like, and I'm worried that I'm not up the the task.

But he gave me the gift of knowing how deeply in love with me he really is. And for a girl that always felt unlovable, ugly and stupid, it really is the best gift ever.

It's Sunday again

2006-09-17T16:08:00.000-03:00

My feet hurt. I just walked the asses off two children, which, while resulting in some quiet time and an opportunity to prep dinner (orange ginger chicken with sweet potaoes...YUM!), also left my feet aching. I keep feeling like I sprained my ankle, but it comes and goes, and when it returns, it's accompanied by PAIN in my heel when I walk. Any thoughts internet?

It's so nice though, to have them at the age where we can go out for a few hours and not worry about freak outs. 3 hours seems to be the max before little persons lose their minds. But Vivian can walk and walk, which is so awesome. I never thought I'd ever look forward to getting rid of strollers. But the bastard bus service here says strollers must be folded (although those giant walkers you can sit on are a-ok) and whomever invented the unbrella stroller made them for midgets, cause lord knows, I can't use it without wanting to die.

Best of all, was listening to the laughter of my girls as they tormented each other in the buggy (I got lazy at the mall), and watching other people REALLY smile as we walked past. And really, is there anything better than the crystal shot of a toddler laughing? I grin from ear to ear to hear them so happy and free.

And I barely got suckered into anything. Which is a victory. But we had to buy the Dorf's present from the girls (a 3 pack of Martian Manhunters if you must know) so I felt I had spent enough. But what is it with all the babies in Toys R Us? That's enough to make anyone have some baby lust I tell ya. So many new parents around. Suckers. I wouldn't want to go through that again for all the tea in China.

So that was my day. I had a rant all lined up about how I have to vote tomorrow and I don't give a rats ass, but the Liberal in my riding is young and fresh and I like that so I'll likely vote for him, but I don't care enough to rant about it. I love politics in Canada, don't you?

And because I have the Daniel Cook theme song in my head...

"This is Thordora squinting.."

Trust your kids? Screw THAT action.

2006-09-16T09:40:00.000-03:00

There's a reason I don't frequent Blogging Baby much lately.

I've linked to a post about random drug testing in school for anyone ATTENDING extracurricular activies.

The idea of random drug testing irritates and insults me to no end. But what REALLY gets on my nerves is that people think it's "A-OK" to test anyone, because really, "kid's safety" is paramount.

How exactly does testing a kid who showed up to watch a ballgame helping keep him safe? If they decide next year that they want to test all female students for pregnancy, or all male students for the clap, will that be ok?

Why is this ok? Someone mentioned that they'd rather their pilots, teachers, everyone be tested because it's "safer"

Ever watch American Beauty? I can't help but think that's occuring more often than not. It's not hard to fool a drug test, and it's also not hard to have a false positive. It's insulting and demeaning to anyone, teenager or adult, to have this occuring.

You want to make sure kids don't do drugs, or adults for that matter? INVEST time and energy in people. Get involved with their lives-the few years where I had what could be termed a drug "problem" NO ONE was paying any attention to me, not my father, not my teachers, no one. If anyone noticed, they just wanted me out of their hair so they wouldn't have to deal with the potential fallout.

No one stopped to help me. And if I had been tested, I would have likely been busted, and what would have happened? I would have been expelled, and likely, little else. I stopped using drugs because I didn't need them anymore, and I saw with my own two eyes what could happen.

But some kids aren't that lucky. And what will they do with some kid who maybe smoked half a joint on a whim? Throw him in jail? Expel them? Beat them with sticks because they aren't perfect?

People talk about being "sick" of touchy feely ways of dealing with drugs etc. Would these same people consider beating their kids a way of not being more "touchy feely"? Would they leave them to cry in their cribs because "they've had enough attention for their problem"?

If you do not attack the core REASON for why a kid wants to do drugs, and I mean REALLY do drugs, not a few bowls at a party, you will not win. PERIOD. The "War on Drugs" in the US is pretty zero tolerance, and what has it done? It filled up your jails, and now drugs like meth are everywhere, because people will ALWAYS find a way to fill a need. And there is obviously a need. If getting "tough" on drugs worked, hell, y'all in the states wouldn't have ANY problems.

But you DO. In spades. And instead of stepping back and taking a hard look at what doesn't work and what does, you lash out and start treating people like rats in a cage. Not as trustworthy human beings. It's like walking into a Wal-Mart with 60 cameras, greeters, people from loss prevention walking behind you. Instead of assuming that you are innocent, they assume you will eventually do something wrong. Instead of treating you with respect, you're treating like something under someone's shoes.

And sure, the odd time, an adult will have an addiction. But do you think those tests are there to protect you? Nu-uh-they're there to protect the company, plain and simple. Who wants to deal with a pesky rehab if we can just fire the dude and wash our hands of it. Which just plays into a cycle that fixes nothing.

Seek and destroy isn't working for drugs anymore than it's working for war right now. When I was using a lot, I wanted someone to be there for me, and no one was. If my father would have then tested me and punished me, it would have done nothing but push me farther into the arms of the drugs I loved so much at that point.

Don't your kids deserve better than that? Don't they deserve thinking, feeling parents, instead of blind automatons who will let themselves be led by people claiming to look out for them and their children?

My children, and their privacy and self respect are worth FAR more than that.

Agony, Ectasy

2006-09-14T21:07:00.000-03:00

Today was just another random day in my life-another day where I cam home to two grinning, bouncing tigger like children who were totally blissed out to see me.

I was especially attuned to them tonight, after overhearing a teenager on the bus talk nonchalantly to her older friend about leaving a baby alone when crying, and how she was likely going to lose her kid soon.

How does anyone say those words so simply, so easily? They fell off her tongue like poison into the air. And I wondered inside myself what I should say, what I could do.

I saw them walk into the low income housing up the street from me, and I felt bad about assuming, about letting my brain run away and play "all around the mulberry bush" with itself, thinking that this is exactly what I should expect from people who live "there".

I know it's wrong, but I can't help but think it. I could see the life of her child, I could fast forward 20 years and see that repeating, my feet could feel the slow rumble of desperation and apathy that groaned out from her. She had no hope, she had no happiness, nothing surrounded her besides her own personal predestination. And I hated her for it.

Staring out the bus window as red and gold leaves fell past me, I thought of the agony I go through all the time, questioning my parenting decisions, my lifestyle, my words, my actions. And I thought about this girl having to be reminded that you cannot leave a baby alone, even if they are sleeping. I thought about her life, her childhood, and what causes a person to get where she is.

I thought about her child ending up dead because she forgot not to leave the crib near the window, and the blind cord became wrapped around it's neck, and she wasn't there to save it.

I stopped thinking about that quickly.

My heart bleeds and beats for my daughters, for my children, for the beings I created and brought forth from my womb. I cannot imagine even thinking, for a second, of seriously leaving them as she spoke of, or having them taken away.

Just the thought leaves me rather breathless, like I've drank too much water too quickly.

To hear this apathy are carelessness in someone who looked not a day over 18...it was agony. She should be lusting for life, she should crave newness and wonder. She should be happy.

As I am.

My only revenge is to raise my children right, and proper, and well, and suck in their sweetness while it's still able to make my teeth ache.

*********
**Note: If you've been trying to comment and have received a big "fuck you!", it's because blogger's new "beta" is fucking EVIL, and if you aren't on beta, you can't sign in and leave a comment. Bastards.

For now, just post anon, and put yr name on it with your web address so I know where to find you, if I don't already.

And yes, I'm a wanker for signing up for the stupid thing...sigh...****

So Thordora, how was YOUR day?

2006-09-13T21:30:00.000-03:00

SOOO glad you asked.

The laptop, henceforth to be named "Shebeast from dregs of Hell" decided that the sickness it suffered from last week was terminal. Hard drive, she is toast. Thankfully, a coworker is off on vacation, so I can abuse his desk.

But then, as I was already super fucking dopey from raising the trileptal dose, and have a huge freaking headache which seems to be a lovely side effect at first, the Dorf comes online to ask why my phone says it's disconnected.

Say WTF?

I call my phone, and yup. Disconnected.

At this point I shoot an email to my boss asking, 'Am I being FIRED and no one bothered to tell me?"

I was so mad, and frankly, annoyed that I almost started crying. Crying is the alternative to kicking people. Finally, 2 hours later I find out that SOMEONE (and I do believe I know who it is) decided that I didn't "need" a cell phone and CUT.IT.OFF.

I don't have a desk phone. I work at least some of the time from home. My boss is in the US. Any thoughts on how much daytime calling to the US would be on my home line? Of COURSE I need my cell phone you asshats. But could anyone be bothered to, oh, I dunno, ask me, or at the very least my BOSS if I needed it.

In the end my boss had to send an email explaining where to bill it to because that's the main issue-I don't report onsite, and no one wants me on their budget (which is fair). But common sense would dictate that you ask people. It's glaringly obvious when you look at my desk that I do NOT have a desk phone.

Ok, it's glaringly obvious when my desk is clean, but still.

Add to that trying to work on a fun PPT presentation for my boss to impress her boss with, and my head wanted to explode.

That's all. Nothing deep. Just plain old, boring bitching.

Oh, and something amusing to take the edge off.

Jet passenger tries to open door in midair

CHANTILLY, Virginia (AP) -- A man wearing military fatigues and throwing punches into the air tried to open the exit door of a jet during a cross-country flight on Tuesday night, airline officials and passengers said.
United Airlines Flight 890 from Los Angeles landed as scheduled at Washington Dulles International Airport at 8:35 p.m., said Amy Kudwa, a Transportation Security Administration spokeswoman. No one was injured.
Ken Wolfenberger, of Whittier, California, who was on the flight, told The Associated Press in a telephone interview that he helped subdue the unruly passenger. The man wore patches on his fatigues with special forces and jujitsu champion logos, Wolfenberger said.
The man had been acting strangely for about 20 minutes, then sat up, wrapped belts around his hands and threw punches into the air, Wolfenberger said.
Wolfenberger said he heard a flight attendant yell for help and tell the man, "Sir, get your hand off the handle."
"Any time you hear a flight attendant shout 'please help,' you worry that something pretty bad is going to happen," he said.
Wolfenberger said the man was held down and punched by other passengers as he grabbed the man's leg. Air marshals then came and took custody of the man.
The passenger became unruly about 31/2 hours into the flight, said United spokeswoman Megan McCarthy.
"After the passenger was restrained, the pilot decided to land at Dulles," McCarthy said. "It wasn't an emergency landing."
Airport police and FBI agents met the flight and were interviewing the passenger, said FBI spokeswoman Debbie Wierman.
There were 138 passengers and six crew members on board, McCarthy said.

Breaking news or breaking wind?

2006-09-13T16:50:00.000-03:00

So, I'm subscribed to "Breaking News Alerts" through CNN to try and kill my CNN addiction at work. (It's a problem I tell ya.)

And in the last hour I received:

Grammy-winning singer Whitney Houston has filed for divorce from husband Bobby Brown, her publicist tells The Associated Press.

and

Several students were injured and two gunmen were killed inside Dawson College, Montreal, Canada, the administration office confirmed in a recorded message.

Can someone, ANYONE explain why someone getting a DIVORCE necessitates an email ALERT?

I mean really....

Where have all the mothers gone?

2006-09-12T11:56:00.000-03:00

and aunts and sisters and cousins and grandma's...

First off, let me admit that I have an addiction-and it's to Mommy Crack, AKA A Baby Story. It's a problem, I know, but it's one of the few ways I "bond" with being a woman. It affirms for me the sense that all around the world, other women are doing what I did for the first time a little over 3 years ago. It reminds me that I do belong to "Club Mom". And somedays I like that.

This morning, in an effort to stymie the Curious George obsession (timeshifting and a smart three year old do NOT a happy mom make) I put "Bringing Home Baby" on as I clean, since she likes to watch the babies, and reads after she gets bored.

I've always liked the idea of a show really showing how "bad" it can get the first little while home. But it saddens me that we need it-that we no longer have other women in our lives to help us, to prepare us for that female only rite of passage-labour and delivery. We don't have women to pass along breastfeeding knowledge, or how to soothe a baby, or the best way to burp. We have books, babycenter and TLC. Part of me is always screaming, "What have I lost, what have WE lost?"

I was so supremely lost when I had Vivian. But I read and read until I felt comfortable, because that's what I do. I study situations, I make logical decisions based on the knowledge given me. It's usually a good way to work.

But I didn't have anyone to show me how to LOVE her, how to BE her mother. I had no role models, no women around me to really emulate. I had me, and the four walls of my house. It was terrible.

And of course the shows on TLC are most certainly NOT representative of every woman. I never see me there, I rarely see single women, don't recall any lesbian couples delivering. Just usually a nice middle to upper class couple delivering their perfect baby. No real problems (unless you consider most episodes ending in C-Sections a problem). Sometimes I wanted a mother with PPD who couldn't get the baby to latch to come on. Or on BHB, a mother going nuts because her inlaws decide they MUST go visit relatives 2 hours away 2 weeks after giving birth, while in the throes of PPD. Or showing at any time a new mom, scared, isolated and alone. Showing reality, or the reality that I have experienced, would be welcome.

I wish that somehow would could begin to replicate the "village raising a child" that once was. And in some small part, the internet has been that for me. I've made some friends, and received oodles of support over the past year that has really helped me feel less alone. But I wish that village was here with me, instead of on the TV or internet. Sometimes, you just want someone to make you a cup of tea.

So to my village, here's my cup raised, a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey, thanking you. I realized this morning that my village exists, even if it's not here with me.

It Tickles!

2006-09-10T20:00:00.000-03:00

So...Vivian has noticed that "tickling" her vulva with things feel good. Not that there's anything wrong with that (well, the rubber ducky might have had words to say if he could, you know, TALK)

So far I've toed the line of "I know, just wait until you're alone." But then I start wondering if I'm not setting herself up for not being totally at ease with her sexuality around future partners-I mean really, look at home many girls won't do it with the lights on, or fake the big O. Obviously, they aren't trusting in themselves much. But she's three, so I worry that too many qualifiers will just confuse the situation. So I fall back on 'I don't care, but it's a private thing for you."

But tonight, she was so enamored of what she had discovered that I couldn't even say that. I could tell by the look on her face that it was like she had just noticed her feet were ticklish, and I'd never tell her to wait until later to play with her feet. She seemed so comfortable with herself at that moment, and I couldn't bear to interrupt that. She'll lose it too soon.

I know that this is a normal mode of development, and that she isn't pleasuring herself sexually-she's just found a new spot that tickles.

But I remember the time when I was in the bath, and I said "It tickles Mommy!"

I don't remember the words, but I remember coming away from that bath thinking "Don't touch it, don't acknowledge it, it's bad."

All of that because it tickled when my mother washed my vulva as a 4 or 5 year old.

Of course, she was none too pleased when I showed her how I "rocked" on my baby doll because it felt good. Baby doll disappeared after that.

My mother's upbringing only served to teach me that my body was "wrong and bad" and that I shouldn't touch it, shouldn't serve the needs of the flesh. It was implied that only "bad girls" did this, and I most certainly was NOT a bad girl.

I'm sure in light of certain events, my mother is rolling in her grave. A LOT.

Obviously, I now know that my mother was a TAD repressed-personally, I blame the nuns that taught her throughout school. But it's also my mother-she was a VERY old school lady. Certain things weren't spoken.

Hell, when I burst out excited that I knew how babies were born, I remember her freezing up. I explained that the lady on the show (Guiding Light?) was screaming and screaming, and then a baby appeared out of her mouth. It made PERFECT sense at the time I recall.

She didn't say much, but a day or so later, a pink book called "A baby is born" or some such nonsense. I remember it was VERY pink. And very detailed in a scientific kind of way. No one said anything, but suddenly I knew what and where everything was. I read it once, and put it down exactly where I found it, and never saw it again.

My mother's upbringing has colored my ability to deal with toddler exploration, but in a good way I think. I don't want to infringe on her discovery, I don't want her to think it's bad in any way. At the same time, I don't know if I'll ever be that mother who takes her daughter to buy her first vibrator. Maybe I will be. But right now, I still retain far more puritain than I'm comfortable with. My mother's conservative, thin lipped "proper" lady is never far from my mind.

There's a whole WACK of virgin/whore complex going on in here...

I guess I'm worried that I'm going to screw them up this way as well. Part of my own reluctance to tell my mother about my sexual abuse was that I didn't want to be blamed for it, and I didn't want my body blamed for it. And I worried she would blame it. I want them to grow into women in control of their sexuality, instead of growing up like many of the girls, yes GIRLS I see masquerading as women today. I want them to know that sexy is who you ARE, not what you shake out. I want them to always remember that they can control who and when they're with someone.

And mostly, I want them to have an orgasm before they turn 18. Because believe me, that is a terrible waste.

Pet Peeves a la office

2006-09-09T12:11:00.000-03:00

For the last day or so, I have been unable to listen to music (I don't know why-all I know is I stupidly downloaded the Google Web Accelerator last week, and noticed EVERYTHING going wrong. I removed it, but something is right fucked)

So all the things I can normally block out with the help of something loud and metal, I am suddenly privy to. OH JOY.

The one really bugging me today is "People who can't whistle and really don't know the song anyway trying to whistle along to some crap song on the radio." I never EVER listen to the radio aside from CBC (for something classical) or Soma. And dude, really, if you can't whistle, just shut the hell up, m'kay?

My other personal favorite is the guy who thinks laughing loud enough to cause twitching is cool. Not only does he laugh like everyone should stop what they're doing and pay attention to him, he also has this sneeze that I swear you can hear on the other side of the office. People have mentioned this to him. Repeatedly. He still doesn't get it.

Isn't the cardinal rule of working with people that you stop doing stupid annoying shit when people ask you to? I kinda wear headphones since not everyone shares my love of The Essex Green or Made out of Babies(or god help me, the new Justin Timberlake song-I know I KNOW). I try to minimize my impact because people are FREAKISHLY annoying.

However, all the people who bitch and complain about the music on my headphones being too loud (I kid you not) are the exact same people who are annoying and irritating. It drives me absolutely insane.

Oh, and the "let's have a loud conversation for 20 minutes right beside your pod and then pretend we didn't know you were there despite the multiple times you were typing, on the phone or talking to yourself."? I HATE THAT. You have an office. USE IT.

And close your damn door if you're having a 2 hour conference call on SPEAKER. I don't CARE.

I hate this place.

UPDATE

So I'm sitting there and finally I lose it with the goddamn radio, and ask the other guy (the whistler) if he minds classical music, because the pop station was making my ears bleed. He says "no, go ahead and change it."

So I do. And it's a nice choral piece-a bit pompous, but nice after listening to Jojo and Rhianna and bunch of other crappy pon da reflux kinda people. So my brain is saying "calgon taking me away" when he starts whining.

"What is this? It's terrible. It's like bad horror movie stuff"

I tell him it's classical, choral, perhaps even from an opera. I don't know, but it's nice. A little culture won't hurt anyone. (I could HEAR the hurt feelings over THAT little comment)

"CAn we change it? Do you like classic rock?"

Do I like fricken classic rock? NO!! My ears have suffered enough what with the FREAKING goo goo dolls and theory of a deadman and a bunch of other PAP that people should pay ME for listening to. I don't want to turn on CRAP from 20 years ago! Tom FUCKING COCRANE?!?!?

I don't get it. I know that many people where I live seem to live sheltered little boring lives, but to not even make it through one choral piece? To not even TRY to like something new? I know that it's not force fed via Crapadian Idol or anything, so perhaps that's why it's hard? What is so bloody wrong with attempting to listen to something, especially since I listened to that fucking asstastic station ALL MORNING LONG! And believe me, I've lived in isolated little towns with better radio than here.

Of course...the scarier option would have been if he suggested turning to the christian rock station (assuming it still exists)

Man oh man that nauseated me today...what small worlds some of these people live in.

Motherless Part Two

2006-09-08T10:04:00.000-03:00

I'm over here again-Part two of three of my short prose about my mother dying.

I hope to expand it out someday-any comments or critques would be welcome.

It's makes me cry-I'm I a wuss, or does it do it to anyone else?

Bleeding is for Suckas

2006-09-07T17:36:00.000-03:00

When I was 13, I got my period.

How exciting you say. Just like almost every other girl who ever existed.

But there's a catch.

I was 13 when I got my period, and had no mom. I had only a father who referred to any menstruation related products as "Sanitary Napkins".

I kid you not. It's taken me at least 15 years to get him to say "pad".

I had a stash of various pads and tampons stolen from other people's mothers, figuring that I needed to be prepared for when IT happened. I thought having one a day would be fine. I had read all about it at the library, and took the claims of "teaspoons" of blood seriously.

I know, I know. I don't believe it either. Stop laughing and keep reading.

And then it came, and I spent the majority of a morning writhing on the linoleum in the bathroom from cramps, the kind of cramps they tell you are similar to labor pains. That day, I decided to beg any and all gods to remove my ovaries and uterus. I wasn't going to use it anyway, and this kind of pain was just mean.

Eventually I picked myself off the floor, stuffed my mouth full of Motrin and made my way to school. Wearing light blue jeans, and my favorite loyalist days shirt. The one with the ruffle that my mother had made.

Everything was just fine until I coughed an hour into the day. Suddenly, it was like the gates had been opened, and it had been raining for days and days. I imagined blood was pouring off my chair and on to the floor. I thought about what I could do, where I could run.

Instead, I stared straight ahead and tried not to move. Not.An. Inch. No coughing, no talking, no nothing. I would wait until the end of class, and tie my coat around my waist. I knew that the evidence on light blue jeans would be too clear.

At the end of class, I stood up after everyone else had left, and felt that torrent begin. All I could do was let it happen-it's not like I could close my legs and keep it in. I ran from the room for recess, and hid in a corner by a window, my coat tight around my waist.

I was not the first student back into the room, and when I entered, I heard the boys sniggering and all the girls pointedly NOT looking in my direction. Suddenly, one of the louder, ore boorish boys yelled out,

"Mr.. Dubeau, we can't sit here-she BLED all over the chairs."

In my defense, I only bled on one of the chairs.

Everyone in the room started to howl, and I managed to cover the red/pink spectrum in under 20 seconds on my face. And still, I felt the blood between my legs. The teacher was helpless-he was male, and everyone thought he was gay. In grade 8, that's a death sentence. (he eventually was finished off by the class after us, who caused him to hurl a computer monitor out a closed window). So he did what any male teacher would do.

He sent me to see a female teacher.

Mrs.. Adams quietly took me aside, and began to explain a few things about my flow, and how to use pads. I had been dumbfounded the first time I stood in front of the aisles of "Feminine Products". Wings? Super Plus? I had no clue what anything really meant, and she kindly explained it to me. I watched her almost waver into pity, but she knew better. I was deeply embarrassed because I didn't know what I was doing, and had caused the problem. I wanted help, not a shoulder.

Besides which, Mrs.. Adams was the most feared teacher in my school. You did NOT fuck with this woman, who was all of 5 feet tall. So I sat and let her explain that part of the birds and the bees to me. Then, she called my Dad, which only made me feel worse. My FATHER was going to know about this, and be just as uncomfortable and embarrassed about it. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I wanted outside for him. I couldn't bear to be in the school one more second. He came, and picked me up, and we drove home in silence. I cleaned up, tried what she had told me to do with the pads (double them up honey-some days are worse than others) and went back downstairs where he waited. The way back to school was silent as well, until we were almost there.

"I can't Dad. I can't go back. I'm so embarrassed.I bled all over a chair! Don't make me go back, please.."

My father stopped the car, and looked me full in the face.

"You have to go back. That's the only option here babe."

What he didn't say was what I heard in his eyes. That life has sucked for us, and this is just another in a long line of terrible, horrible no good things that might happen. That sometimes life hurts, a lot, and yet we have to soldier on. That he desperately wished my mother was there to make it all better, was there so he wouldn't have to tell his daughter to go back into school to a guaranteed roasting. That all his love couldn't make it better, and that this was what life was-doing what we don't want to do sometimes. And it hurt him too.

I knew I had to go back in. And I dreaded it like I had never dreaded anything ever before. But obviously, there had been "a talk". Likely a speech about being nice to the poor girl who had no mother. The offending chair was cleaned, but in my eyes, the stain never went away. I didn't look anyone in the eye. At first.

My father taught me one of the most important lessons I've ever learned that day-that we do the hard things sometimes because it's right, or it's the only way. Hell, I can even apply this to childbirth in some ways-the only way out, is THROUGH. More importantly, my father taught me that it's ok to be scared even when life requires something hard from us. That I'm human, and it's ok to feel, ok to be a girl. That losing my mother didn't mean I couldn't handle life.

Ironically, I also learned a valuable lesson about OB tampons from Mrs. Adams. Which, all told, may have been the most important lesson I've learned.

Oh lord, it's freaking SEPTEMBER already

2006-09-07T12:31:00.000-03:00

First, a disclaimer. if I haven't been commenting as often, it's because you're on blogger, and I'm on blogger beta because I had no IDEA the fuckwits would take forever to move everyone over and I can't leave a comment unless you too are on beta.

Sigh. And some of you (Magdelana) don't allow anon comments, so I can't even leave you comments to tell you how awesome your post was.

Sigh...

Otherwise, I'm super busy because it's month end after a holiday, and since I'm fermenting two post type things in my head for some other things, I don't have much room for anything else. Oh, and my Google Reader now crashes my laptop for no apparent reason, so I can't keep up unless I'm at home. Messenger does the same thing-I deleted a font that was causing a problem-could something like that cause crashes? Cause it's annoying. It's bad enough that this bloody thing takes 20 MINUTES to boot up, and Access SLOWS it down to nothing...

Sigh...

Vivian puked in her bed the other night, causing me to silently thank my mother for being who she was. However, when I puked in bed, I puked EVERYWHERE. She just got it in one little area.

The eating better must be working, since I was able to move one belt notch in! And I'm not cheating, it's comfy. I guess cutting pop out and eating less DOES make a difference. And we're not going to talk about the pizza I had last night, aside from saying it was wonderful until it wasn't.

sigh.....

In about a month, my Dad comes back for the winter. He lives with us, and it RULES because the kids LOVE HIM and we get breaks. Just being able to leave one at home and run an errand is wonderful. And he cooks and buys me stuff. I love my Daddy.

It's almost my birthday, and I'll be 29. EEK! But the Dorf will be 30.

HA!

And that's all I have to say about that.

oh BLISS!

2006-09-05T13:43:00.000-03:00

That sound that you hear is me dancing gleefully all the way to the bookstore. Steven Brust's new book is out and WEEEEEEE! Apparently it's GOOD.

Review on BoingBoing.

I LOVE the Vlad Taltos series, and I really think more people should read his books.

Cannot WAIT to go buy this! WOO HOO!

Crocodile Hunter: RIP

2006-09-04T16:00:00.000-03:00

As I'm perusing through various websites this morning, I notice that Steve Irwin had died. Because a stingray got him.

You remember Steve, the moron who poked snakes and tigers and basically anything that would, given the chance, either eat him, or do the most amount of damage possible.

I mostly remember him because of the spot on impression our friend Mike used to do in high school, replacing snake with...well, a piece of male anatomy starting with C.

We never understood the attraction, or the need to torment, oh, I dunno, a highly venemous rattler or mambo or whatever he was tormenting that week. It seemed like a lot of risk for no apparent reason. So I never watched the show. Quite honestly, the guy drove me freaking nutty.

So to hear he died doing what he loved was cool. But then I saw that he had two young children.

And in thinking about this all day long, I'm a little annoyed.

I lost my mother to a disease she couldn't beat. She fought it, and I lost her anyway. Since then, my life has been framed by this loss.

This guy had children, and continued to act in ways that I consider dangerous. Personally, I don't ever want to chill out with a stingray, or anything that could kill me. I don't play with guns either, for much the same reason. I read the reactions of people, most of them saying oh, how sad, and at least he died doing what he loved.

But at what point do you have a responsibility to your children and family? A what point is an adult who has reproduced responsible to say "enough" and stop doing things that endanger their life? I don't find my honor in leaving your children when they still need you. That three year old boy will never get to know his father, aside from videos of him handling wild creatures. That little girl won't have her father around for any of the big moments in her life.

I find it rather unfair, and selfish, that someone would consider their job before their family in this manner. And perhaps I feel it more keenly because of my experiences, but it seems wasteful. The only thing I ever saw when watching this man's show was someone taking foolish chances with their life. Shouldn't having children make you at least stop and think about the consequences?

And why do we applaud this man? Women constantly today talk about how men are not at the same "level" as women in terms of being parents. What if the person who was stung and killed was his wife, and not him? People would be up in arms that a mother would throw her life away, and deny her children a mother, just to pet a stingray. So why is he treated like some type of hero?

Don't get me wrong-I find this death sad, and hope the family will come out of it ok. But it didn't need to happen, and I really do wonder if there isn't a time that everyone needs to grow up, and stop playing chicken with Wild America. While I can recognize the good he may have done for "science", there's something else that really bothers me.

Those two kids needed him too.

2006-09-02T15:50:00.000-03:00

Sniff....sniff sniff sniff....

Can you smell that? Take a deep breath. REALLY smell.

Autumn is coming. And I loves me some autumn.

I have this theory that I love autumn because my birthday is during autumn (it's this month if anyone would like to spoil me). Anyone else love the season they were born in?

Don't get me wrong, I love all the seasons in their own way, spring with the teetering awakening of life, summer with it's long hazy days, crisp and white in my memory, winter with it's quiet, subtle beauty and calm, long walks on crunchy roads.

But autumn, it always makes me think of my favorite sweater, curling up in a chair with a good book. I love to watch the world preparing to settle, to sit and ponder, to stay awhile and have the perfect cup of tea. Watching the world wrap itself on a crysalis of red and gold. Feeling the bite in the air after a long, hot summer.

Maybe it's because fall was also my mother's favorite time, at least I think it was. My mother LOVED halloween, and gleefully looked forward to it all summer. No stinking storebought costumes for us. She made them. The last one she ever made for me was a giant sunflower,with a headress that wouldn't fit through the door. I acted like I didn't like it. But secretly, I loved it. Once, she made me a poodle skirt that would twirl right up to my waist. We had a quiet talk about that I recall.

One year we made candy apples, and I remember how incredible and shocking the Macintosh was through the warm crack of candy. We ate them all that day, and they were wonderful. Our house was always warm on those fall days, and walking home from school, we'd jump off the stone fence in front of St. Mark's into the piles the groundkeeper left for us.

Autumn is full of back to school memories the eagerness the first week held, the smell of new pens and crayons and backpacks. New classrooms, new people. How exciting, and ultimately a let down that week always was.

It's nebulous, you know? But there is this peace that I feel when the air turns crisp, and the leaves begin to turn, and I can smell the wood stoves burning. It's like coming home. Sometimes I think it's the closest I can get to my mother's embrace.

Progress? I'm still hungry, I know that much....

2006-09-02T12:46:00.000-03:00

So I think I've lost a pound or two since starting to watch what I'm eating, cutting out all the crap and pop and tasty things I once loved. My pants are suddenly loose, that's fer sure.

On the other hand, I walked 5 miles the other day within the span of about and hour and 15 minutes due to forgetting about an appointment, and pulled a muscle in my ass.

Yes. A muscle. In. My. Ass. How in the HELL does that happen? And how do you fix it?

I backslid a bit yesterday and had somce fries with my lunch. Shortly after, I felt like I wanted to die. I didn't think that ACTUALLY happened. I thought it was some psychosomatic thing. So now you have proof-grease, after 3 weeks or so of no grease, will make you feel like HELL. Ugh...

So far, so good. I'm not going nuts-eating about 1800-1900 calories a day (is that good? It's within the range I got for my size). I don't want to eat to little, and hit that starvation place where you lose no weight. But I feel great (ok, I did until they upped my meds, so I don't know how much walking will happen for the next few days) and my husband tells me I look like I'm slimming a bit.

I think the obvious thing was all the crap and pop I was drinking. All told, I was likely eating 3000 calories, most of them in sugar water a day. The thought of that scares me. I just don't know what's a NORMAL caloric intake. Hell, I don't know what normal eating is period. I don't want to do any weird diets or anything-I just want to eat better, period.

And I hate being hungry. When does THAT stop? Or am I just not used to being hungry?

Yoo Hoo! I'm over here too!

2006-09-01T15:37:00.000-03:00

Sweet Beatrice

And yes, that means you have to go read my column. Even you in the back with the gum....

Well, it's Friday, and I'm thinking about school

2006-09-01T10:02:00.000-03:00

All day long.

I've been thinking about if I want my children to enter the public school board here, or if we should suck it up and either homeschool them, or send them to one of those weird private catholic schools.

I'm an atheist, and the Dorf is agnostic, but both of us went through both systems, preferring the catholic schooling. I can counter the religious issue, but I found the quality of the education, and many of the moral and ethical teachings preferable to my public school experiences, which included, and I quote:

" I don't care if you get high. Just don't come to my CLASS high."

Even at 17, I found that ODD.

We don't find that the results of the educational system around here are all that high. Don't get me wrong, there are MANY intelligent people here, if you look.

But there also seems to be a higher than average volume of not smart people, and we're a little scared of that. I want my children to be challenged by more than the number of bad words their friends can teach them. I want my kids to love learning like I once did, before high school stamped on that. I want them to enjoy school, and not come home with notes from the teachers saying they have "anger problems" when all they really have is energy to burn with no outlet.

So I'm wondering, for those of you with kids in school, what kind of school are you using? How do you find your kids are doing? Are they happy? Are they learning?

Dear Dave Navarro

2006-08-30T21:13:00.000-03:00

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

2006-08-30T09:32:00.000-03:00

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.

Go have a look-see

2006-08-29T13:09:00.000-03:00

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?

Drinking is not for parents.

2006-08-27T20:08:00.000-03:00

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)

Start drinking at 8pm shortly after kids are in bed. I want to be DRUNK DAMMIT.
Wait 3 hours for it to kick in. Soooo, apparently NOW I can drink people under the table. GREAT.
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.
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)
Booze kicks in HARD. Never notice what we actually end up renting.
2 hours later, stumble up to my bed around 1AM.
7AM on the fricken NOSE I hear screams. The birds, and the children apparently, are up.
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.
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.
Come home, attempt to make good for me New Orleans Red Beans & Brown Rice.
Shake head in wonder at how I can NEVER get beans to cook. Make kids lunch no one eats.
Afternoon spent cleaning a cupboard in a vain attempt to stay concious. Anyone want to buy a slightly used Avent Isis Manual Breast Pump?
Make dinner no one wants to eat.
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.
Gonna go knit.

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

Baby Picture?

2006-08-26T14:18:00.000-03:00

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

2006-08-26T11:20:00.000-03:00

OOH! Look, a bank robbery! Wicked AWESOME.

2006-08-26T09:51:00.000-03:00

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.

Sigh...

2006-08-26T09:32:00.000-03:00

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?

Here's the thing....

2006-08-24T18:29:00.000-03:00

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?

2006-08-24T09:58:00.000-03:00

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?

I'm not fat, I'm fluffy.

2006-08-23T18:37:00.000-03:00

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?

Fade into Me

2006-08-22T19:50:00.000-03:00

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.

Why yes, I do have a "life partner"

2006-08-21T19:59:00.000-03:00

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.

Hear Ye! People of the mall!

2006-08-20T17:30:00.000-03:00

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:

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.
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.
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?)
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.
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.
Don't give me that look because I have a buggy and you don't. Your kid is at least 8. He can walk.
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.
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
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.
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.

2006-08-20T12:10:00.000-03:00

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?

But the food made me eat it! Really!

2006-08-19T15:31:00.000-03:00

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!

2006-08-19T14:13:00.000-03:00

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"

Sigh....

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...

Yellow Submarine

2006-08-18T10:28:00.000-03:00

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.

Watching the watcher

2006-08-17T10:31:00.000-03:00

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.

2006-08-16T13:05:00.000-03:00

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.

One hand in my pocket....

2006-08-14T12:45:00.000-03:00

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 know...you made your own mother's heart stop too"

And I did. And she will yet again.

And she's fine...

2006-08-12T21:44:00.000-03:00

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

2006-08-12T11:14:00.000-03:00

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...

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

2006-08-11T20:13:00.000-03:00

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.

Vivian Dianne Sara...you're Three!

2006-08-10T21:32:00.000-03:00

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.

Honestly?

2006-08-09T16:17:00.000-03:00

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...

Baby Lust, and the tubal road taken.

2006-08-08T09:28:00.000-03:00

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.

Are manners that expensive?

2006-08-07T11:06:00.000-03:00

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.

I'M right DAMMIT! Admit it!

2006-08-05T11:09:00.000-03:00

Sigh...

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?

WARM FUZZIES!

2006-08-04T14:27:00.001-03:00

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!
Enjoy!

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!

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

2006-08-03T18:22:00.000-03:00

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.

2006-08-03T13:20:00.000-03:00

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...

2006-08-03T11:10:00.000-03:00

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.

How long? How many more?

2006-08-01T11:36:00.000-03:00

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?

Here Kitty Kitty

2006-07-31T12:04:00.000-03:00

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?

Uptonogoodness

2006-07-30T16:55:00.000-03:00

Uptonogoodness
Originally uploaded by thordora.

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.

2006-07-30T16:35:00.000-03:00

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!

SHUT UP about it already.

2006-07-29T16:36:00.000-03:00

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.

To Laura, ten years too late.

2006-07-29T12:28:00.000-03:00

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.

2006-07-29T11:24:00.000-03:00

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...

Me & a Gun

2006-07-28T10:30:00.000-03:00

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.

My choice? Get off the streets.

2006-07-27T09:08:00.000-03:00

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.

Gimme Gimme Gimme

2006-07-25T19:23:00.000-03:00

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.

Potty Training, the saga continues

2006-07-24T19:51:00.000-03:00

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?

Not dead....not that I don't wish it sometimes...

2006-07-23T19:45:00.000-03:00

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.

Sometimes, the good guys do win!

2006-07-21T14:03:00.000-03:00

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.

2006-07-19T15:15:00.000-03:00

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.

"We didn't realize it would get so hot"

2006-07-17T12:49:00.000-03:00

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.

Just the poop mam...just the poop...

2006-07-15T18:38:00.000-03:00

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!