"Bad Words" 101

I taught my daughter the meaning of the word FUCK last night.

 Please stop reading now if you are already offended.  I don’t actually care that you are offended, I just don’t want to hear about after I tell the story.  Should you feel the overwhelming need to comment on my parenting or personal style, please rethink that position, and then carry on with your life.

 So, back to the word FUCK.  As a wordsmith and writer by design, I love words.  All words.  I have always taught myself, and consequently my children, that there are no bad words.  (My mom would disagree, and I can recall the taste of soap in my mouth as I say that, but that is besides the point.)  Some words have just got a bad rap by being used so frequently as ways to hurt people that the word “bad” is applied to them without regard to context.  And sadly, because we have often ignored context, some hateful words are seen of as okay just because they don’t have a label as “bad” attached.  Case in point, kids calling each other geek, gimp, tard, fag, ho, and a plethora of other names have no idea what they are saying in relationship to how hurtful they might be.  Say the word fuck in the mix, as in “fuckin’ tard”, and even the youngest kids know that it is a problem.

 That is sorta how the conversation with my daughter started.  She wanted to know why fuck was a bad word.  Giving her my usual answer of “there are no bad words” was not going to cut it.  So I wanted to know the why and how of why she wanted to know.  Turns out some kids were having a conversation about a disease they heard of called “blue waffles” that only girls get from fucking.  Blue waffles?  Yeah, I hadn’t heard of it either, but my radar of kid slang always being on , I did know that “waffle”, like the words cookie, or muffin, was another name for a woman’s vagina.  A blue waffle would be a really nasty disease that you get from fucking that turns your “waffle” blue. 

 The internet was rife with info on this. Or should I say mis-info on this.  Yes, there is a graphic picture of a woman showing her vagina with obvious bruising and infection, and some colorful photo-shopping to make the whole thing look blue.  This blue waffle is all the talk among middle-schoolers, spreading the idea that a) the internet has the most accurate information, b) sexually transmitted diseases are only one sided (only women get this, apparently), c) that fucking was something bad and that if you did it, the photo is what you get for your effort.

 So when I told my daughter that no, you would not get a blue waffle for fucking, it lead to a further discussion of what FUCKING really was. 

 We started with the basic review that I had been teaching all along; where babies come from, what sperm is, why you have a period, how to keep yourself clean (with the vagina being self cleaning), and how boys are different in reproductive activity.  She was attentive, but rolled her eyes a few times because, really, she knows all this stuff, having had a very honest and open door childhood (for which I am grateful!).  “So what does FUCK have to do with all this, Mom?” “It is just a word that got a bad rap when it means having sex.”  “Oh, okay, I didn’t know that.  That’s cool.  Then why do people use it the way they do?”

 I was a little stumped here, and just told her that sometimes people are dumb.  That if some boy comes up and whispers in your ear that he wants to fuck you, it could mean that he wants to actually make love to you, or that he wants to hurt you.  Like every other word, it was all about context.  A guy yelling FUCK YOU to another guy, while drunk, in a bar, probably did not mean for it to be a good thing.  A woman saying FUCK ME in the midst of making love probably was just enjoying herself, and like everything else we do in life, had a preference right then for sex that was a little harder.  We jointly came up with things that sometimes we liked in different ways, such as running fast, or foot massages.  I told her sex was the same way, and as an adult she would probably choose with her partner all kinds of different things, including being fucked by consent.

I will stop now, because the conversation changed to all kinds of different roundabout topics that nvolved health and safety, and love, and respect, and disease, and more love. But mostly my daughter now has the knowledge of what the word fuck means in all it’s contexts.   I was more than a bit thrilled (secretly, because outwards signs of it would have been too uncool for my daughter) that she trusted me enough to ask, and that by the end of the discussion I think she had figured out that nothing really was off limits with me and her.  I mean, how fucking awesome is that?

 

 

 

What DOS did not teach me

This morning, after waking up without a hangover (thank god, and damn the wine was delicious), and deleting the drunk FB posts (also, thank god) I read a post by a friend to my own post.  I had simply said “delete…” to which the reply was “+ctrl+alt= new start”.

So it made me think about new starts and what is required to make them.  Could it be as simple as hitting three buttons at the same time, getting the desired result?  Ctrl+Alt+Del.  My next mantra.

Last night, in the midst of large amounts of wine, I had a conversation with a man, that until last night, I had been lusting for off and on for a few years.  Also, in the midst of large amounts of wine, this same man talked about himself, his previous “relationships” (read that as paid escorts), his current obsession, his neglect of his daughter, and his wife.  Yes, a wife, a girlfriend, a daughter from one of the “relationships”, and an empty bank account.

In the midst of the conversation (with large amounts of wine) I suddenly was no longer attracted to him.  He had crossed over, in my head, from someone worthy of my interest, to a creep.  The more he whined about how his daughter’s mother just wanted money from him, how his wife wouldn't let him get out of his husbandly duties (read that as they still fuck), and how the woman he is currently “in love with” (read that as wishing he was fucking) is using him for money like a whore and would not let him kiss her, I started laughing.   I had been drinking (large amounts of wine in case you missed that before) and all of a sudden this man was ridiculous.  Not just as a guy I lust(ed) after, but as a man in general.  He was pathetic and pussy whipped and neglectful.  He was digging himself into a shit hole and was trying to find a companion to join him down there.  Last night (in the midst of large amounts of wine) that someone was supposed to be me.

But that is not what this post is about. 

This is about how this morning I get to remember that conversation, and it gets to be like the three buttons on the computer.  CONTROL:  Yep, I had stayed in control (despite the soft lips and the large amounts of wine), ALT (as in alternative) I gave myself the alt of being fine with him leaving, and me going to my (very pretty clean sheets) bed alone, and the DEL (delete) of a mental block that large amounts of wine usually makes for me seeing men (read that as the guy in my house with the soft lips) as something I require. 

So the combo of CTRL+ALT+DEL really meaning a new start struck me as profound.  I get to control who I pick. I get to come up with the alternative.  I get to delete the old tapes and expectations, and more importantly the need to please someone (everyone?) when I feel like their hardships are so much worse than mine.  Yeah, this morning, fuck that.  It is how I am doing fine, and that I don’t just want the next thing or relationship in my life to be the same as the others.  Men who (with the help of large amounts of wine) feel fine about cheating on their wives can just get Ctrl+Alt+Del-ed.  Men who (with the help of large amounts of wine) decide that their children are expendable can also just get Ctrl+Alt+Del-ed.  Men who (with large amounts of wine) use sex as a way to control and then get offended by women who do the same, calling them whores, well, they get Ctrl+Alt+Del-ed too.

Me?  Well, I get to Ctrl+Alt+Del my evening by having a morning of writing, and drinking coffee, and being just fine with it.  New Starts all the time. How luck to have found those reset buttons work on me, too.

Table for three..oh, and the turtle

If I have to define family, I am pretty sure that I can't use the traditional definition.

I have me and my kids. The three of us are for sure the strongest bond of family in each of our respective lives.  We have rules.  We have expectations.  We have love.  We also have all the funny shit that only families will have, like being naked for breakfast, stealing each other's socks, and laughing hysterically at farts during the intense part of a movie we are cuddled on the couch together to watch. We have discussions, situational learning and teaching, and a whole lot of growing up.  We play.  We sing. We cry.

We also have other people in our family.  Yes, we count their dad.  At least we try to.  Every other weekend.  And when something is left in his car.  We count grandparents.  At least we try to. Once a week or so.  Or when we need a walk and some cookies.  We count friends. At least we try to.  As often as possible, because really, they are our family of choice, even when we only see them once a month, for breakfast, at an awful restaurant, halfway between houses, because we just had to see each other.  Or dropping everything we had planned so that we could go swimming instead.  Not a bad trade off on most days.  Family is like that.

We are connecting to other people through Social Justice Causes.  No, my kids don't actually call them Social Justice Causes. They think of it as just the right thing to do (and a damn lot of fun) when we volunteer to clean up the beach, or go to a dance party in support of Marriage Equality, or write letters through Amnesty International to help free a prisoner of conscience.  Yeah, building world family, too.

So when this morning I received an email, asking that I support the use of a "Stop and Discuss" form (I wrote about "fix it" tickets in my blog titles "All things can be fixed with duct tape") that my ex wants to use with the kids in his home (on those "every other weekend"s previously mentioned) I was actually amused by the list of family he has for the kids.  Seems there is him, his wife, my children, her three adult children, and the the household pets, including a turtle, who qualify as family.  Not his wife's children's father.  Not the roommates that also live in the house.  Not the grandparents, not the aunties, not the friends.  The pets.  Not me.

My children had already told me about this new form, the reworked fix-it ticket, and the whole "family" expectation.  I asked them about it, and how they felt.  The answer was predictable: they were pretty much ignoring it since the whole idea was, in their minds, stupid.  I asked them why they thought it was stupid.  And again, the answer was predictable: families don't work like that.

I explored it more with them as we drove home.  I learned they like our little family of three.  We have rules.  We have expectations.  We have love.    We are funny.  We play.  We sing.  We cry.   We talk about stuff immediately.  We respect boundaries.  We say we are sorry. We mean it when we do.  We don't do it again.  We have a lot of growing up to do, and damn, we are having fun in the process.  And family, well, giving each other "tickets" and "forms" was just not how we roll, and would not be used with those that we love in our real world.

I have now labeled the email, and pulled it into my "I'll get right on that" file.  And while I did a "I-need-some-validation-as-an-awesome-mom-and-beautiful-kick-ass-damn-right-I-am-a-member-of-my-children's-family-fuck-the-turtle-you-can-go-to-hell" moments for about five seconds when I first read the thing, I am over it, and know that I will not be using the form, any other stupid tricks to get respectful behavior out of my kids.  I don't need to, because they already are.  REAL family is like that.

Teshuva

This week is the Jewish High Holiday of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

No, I am not Jewish.  I actually was raised Catholic. Most of my beliefs now center around some of the more mystical native traditions, with a core belief that there is no heaven to achieve, nor hell to avoid, except that which we create and allow in our life here on Mother Earth.

I attend a local Unitarian Universalist church.  I do so because with in my core beliefs also reside the need to *do* something besides think of myself.  It revolves around community, giving what you can, and seeing how others might both need from us, and share with us a desire for social justice and a liberal peace.  I mean, in my limited view of the meaning of God, a person can not rightly claim a genuine relationship if others are persecuted and marginalized, often at the own believer's hand. 

I want my kids to get this, too. It might mean that we do not eat our favorite strawberries if the farm workers that picked them were paid less than a living wage.  It might mean we attend the wedding of a same sex couple while the grandparents look away and shamefully shake their heads.  It might mean we cook spaghetti, or risk getting arrested,  or speak up when a "respected" individual is acting like a bully.  All in all, it means action both in our hearts, and in our deeds. Finding a path that is not created by throwing stones in another person's way. 

So why mention Yom Kippur?

On Sunday, while thinking I would get a little kick in the spiritual pants with an upbeat sermon on justice or something or other, I got a revelation-kick-in-the-head-god-is-talking-to-you-dumbass moment.  Damn it.  The topic: forgiving the person who has injured you.  Fuck, really? The answer: Yes, because if not, you are just a-smug-little-rat-bastard-who-thinks-she-is-perfect-so-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way.

Okay, the minister did not actually say that.  He was much more polite as he talked about seeking forgiveness in two different ways.  If you had injured your own soul, and needed to right it with your own spiritual power, then do so, and move on.  But if you have hurt someone else, even by the act of denying them forgiveness, you need to right it with them. A bunch of different examples popped into my head as he talked it through: Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's; Steps 8 and 9 in the Big Book; The Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz.  Yes, strange and varied things spinning their way through my conscience all coming back to the same message.  If you don't forgive someone, you carry the burden yourself. If you don't forgive someone, you set yourself up for all the rest of the bad stuff to happen. If you don't forgive someone, you are throwing rocks in their path.  If you don't forgive someone, how would you ever be deserving of forgiveness yourself when you mess up.  And you know you will.  I know I will. Eventually. I always do. Shit.  I can only save myself.

So while contemplating my grudges, and realizing my nature of holding forgiveness like some kind of prize, I had actually come to the conclusion that I suck at forgiveness. I don't wanna forgive.  I like my little badges of hurt and resentment.  I get to be a victim, damn it, I earned it.  Be a nasty bitch to me, I get to hate you forever.  Make a crude or vile comment to me, and I will not only know when you said it, but know your tone, inflection, and what color shirt you were wearing right then as well.  I might go away to lick my wounds, but is only so I have enough strength to come back and hold your nastiness over you at some later date.  I mean, it takes a damn strong person to climb that high up on my high-horse.

So if in the recent, or not so recent past, I have done something to hurt you, please forgive me. I am sorry.  Let me make amends, and atone to you my desire to change.  If I am your target, and you have asked for me to forgive you and I have held it over you instead, I will try to do better, and forgive so that we both have the opportunity to put down our burdens.  Don't, at least right now, expect that it means friendship.  But please know it means civility and no worsening of your pain, how ever I may have contributed to it.

So I hope you find your own path. I will be over here, trying not to wreck mine, saving the only life I can save. No hell or heaven except that which we create.  I will stay out of your journey, with a little bit of atonement for possibly having blocked your way before, and not doing it today.

All things can be fixed with duct tape.

Last week my daughter got a "Fix It" ticket at school.  And while I could write a whole bunch about my reaction to the ticket, and how much of it had related to things that had already been "fixed", I really want to talk about how this got blown out of proportion in the days that followed,and how some people in my life (and hers) just didn't get it.

To give you a frame of reference, a "Fix It" ticket at school is a lot like the kind you get for your car.  A person in authority (a cop or a teacher) stops you when they notice something that needs to change.  If it was a busted taillight, or a cracked windshield, an officer could give you a fix-it and let you know the "penalty" to make it all good again.  I am all for this in society, when often the thing that need fixing is just because you were lazy, possibly didn't know, or otherwise just needed a point in the right direction to be in compliance.  All in all, the fix-it will ultimately get you in compliance and no-harm, no-foul.  Mess up a second time, and the fix-it is a kind of proof that you had a chance and chose not to take it.  Sorta like the DMV database.

For the school, it kinda works the same way.  The school tries to give you the chance to change the action or behavior if it is a "first-time" offense.  Maybe a kid just didn't know they were hurting another kid's feelings, or that dirty Kleenexes belong in the trash.  Whatever it was, the kid is getting the chance to make it better and do the right thing.  I say awesome to that.  If it works, and you don't have to constantly punish or remind, all the better.  Blow it by doing it again, and there is no excuses.

But I digress. 

On Sunday, a couple days after the fix-it was given to my daughter, an argument that a child should never have to endure happened.  Granted, I was not actually in the argument, I just felt the sting of it as my daughter came out of her father's house, barefoot and crying, and not able to function.  My son, the calm one of the two this time, explained that he had just needed to stand up for his sister because the woman my children's father is married to had just verbally slammed my daughter.  Actually what he said to my query of "What happened?" was " (insert psychopath name here) happened!"

My daughter (age 10)had just been called a bitch by her father's wife (age 51), and then heard the same person yell at her "You are going to grow up to be a bitch just like your Mom!".  She had to further endure her dad not only saying nothing, but nodding in agreement.

I got this first-person account of it after we drove away.  It will be an issue for attorneys and courts and blah blah blah par for the course bullshit.  But I believe my daughter and son unconditionally.  This is big enough that they would not lie about it.  I know my kids, and it happened, and will be dealt with.

Here is the part that ties in the whole "fix it" part though. Yesterday at visitation, my daughter's father suggested that his wife be given a "Fix It" ticket for her bad words and out burst.  BWAHAHAHA!!!  I just about peed my pants laughing at that.  A fix it ticket? To a 51 year old woman with a history of emotionally unstable angry outbursts? To an emotionally immature man who, through his lack of response, actually allowed my daughter to be verbally abused, even more so that he participated as a bully's henchman?  That is some funny shit.

Yep, even my kids could spot the bullshit flaw in that thought.  That was when I knew that not only would the "Fix It" at school work, but that the life lesson had transferred: 1) Authority figures (cops, teachers, and in this case, parents) have an obligation to point out and correct undesirable behavior. 2) The person who was the target of the unwanted behavior (say, the kid who picks his nose and then wipes it on his desk, or the 10 year old who rolled her eyes) does not have to do anything to both warrant the protection of the authorities, nor have to face the attackers. 3) Fixing it means changing yourself, not them (or replacing your light bulb, not yelling at the cop).

My kids got it.  Issuing their dad's wife a fix-it ticket would not do one damn thing to change anything.  It might make it worse because it would imply that it was the first time and could be corrected.  We all knew that wasn't the case and that, if by the age of 51, you had not figured out how to control your temper and not use ugly words, you really were beyond the "Fix It" ticket stage.  It did, however, help my kids to understand that they could change their behavior.  It might get them in some trouble with their dad when they truly start to ignore his wife, but that life lesson will just have to be okay, too.

I wonder if I will be offered a fix-it when this blog is read, again implying that something should be done to change it.  I don't think so, but I will laugh really hard if it is suggested.  I also have a roll of red duct tape you can borrow for that tail light.

This one, I hope he reads.

An open Letter to my children's father:

You have asked me to respond about Parenting Coordinators.  Here goes.

In 2009 we went to Tier I mediation.  You rescinded our Parenting Plan.

In 2009 we went to Tier II mediation.  We came up with an agreement.  It went fine.

In late 2009 we went again to Tier II mediation.  We came up with a plan.  You did not follow it, and then got mad at me because I did.

In 2010 we went again to Tier II mediation.  Some things in it were just not right.  This time since it was our last time allowed before another court date, I hired an attorney.

In 2010 we went to court and were ordered into Co-parent Counseling along with an Assessor.  We did the assessment, came up with agreements, and began orders.  We also talked to a co-parent counselor who gave up because we couldn’t even agree on a date, much less what to talk about.  I followed the orders.  You didn’t.  You repeatedly changed the time and place for exchanges, including having the exchange at a pullout on the side of the freeway.  You started the kids at a new church that I don’t agree with.  You listed your then girlfriend as my children’s mother, and lied to the school about orders.  You repeatedly asked me to change the orders and then got mad when I followed them, asking each time that you go back to co-parent counseling with me so we can start talking.

In 2011 we followed the orders until you decided that it wasn’t good enough and wanted more changes.  You still refused to go to co-parent counseling, and even got to the point where you called it LAME.  Your now-wife verbally abused me and you did nothing.  Your now-wife sent me nasty messages and you did nothing.  I asked again, to go to co-parent counseling, and got no response except to say you wanted “family” counseling to include a people who have nothing to do with our parenting, and even then you made no suggestions or recommendations.

In 2012  you took me back to court and got us back into assessment that got you, what?  An additional 2 hours every other Friday and 45 minutes every other Sunday. So far three judges, two mediators, an assessor on two different occasions, a co-parent counselor, the children’s counselor, two attorneys and both of us have agreed that co-parent counseling would be of benefit to us, and still you refuse.

So what happened?  I decided to stop co-parenting and start parallel parenting with you.  I follow the orders to the letter and have had no problems with the time share at all.  I just do it, and help the kids do it as well.  I inform you of things that are happening, and then send zero reminders or coordination beyond that. I tell you when they are going to the counseling appointments, and then I take them.  I don’t care one way or the other any more if you show up.  I make plans with the kids to do whatever we want, and don’t ask your permission.  I talk with the kids about what they can do to make their lives with you enjoyable because they are the ones who have to have a relationship with you, I don’t.  They have asked you to have family meetings.  You refused while I supported them.  Our son asked to play baseball.  When you refused, I took him anyway and let him know that your participation would be your choice and he would have to work it out with you.  When our daughter asked to stop playing piano I told her I didn’t have a problem with her stopping but that she would have to take it up with you.  She did and she also took it up with both her grandmother and her piano teacher.  I am very proud of her for that. And still you refused  Both have told you they don’t want to go to the church you take them to, and you refuse to listen.  I stay out of it. I don't need to say a word.  You are burying yourself and losing their respect.  I somehow think that doesn't really matter to you.

There are lots of things that I simply don’t like about how you parent.  I don’t like that our son has to sleep in a pantry without ventilation.  I don’t like that they both have access to violent video games and are allowed to watch violent movies. I don’t like that there is no set bedtime for them.  I don’t like the church you take them to .  I don’t like that you still have a renter in the house after agreeing to have the renter out in 2010.  I don’t like that our daughter comes home with sand flea bites from the house every weekend she is there.  I don’t like that you don’t even pay attention to her need to sleep somewhere quiet and has to try to sleep in a very noisy house.  I don’t like that they have to wait for breakfast on the mornings that they are there because someone else is sleeping.  I don’t like that the kids report that you spend all your time on the computer when you have visitation and that you are annoyed when they try to get your attention.  I don’t like that you have no idea what our daughter’s favorite color is, or what our son likes to draw.  I don’t like that the kids are pulling away from you because they realize you don’t actually know anything about them and don’t care, and worse, that you don’t even see it happening.  Our son, our daughter, and I have just learned to suck it up, ignore what we can, and blow off the rest to “that is just the way dad is. Sucks, eh?” and live our lives without your input, since honestly, we are doing completely great without it.  I live with it because they love you.  I live with it because I love them.

All this though, is nothing that can be litigated.  I can’t make you be a good dad.  So instead, I am just a good mom that reminds the kids that you are the only dad have, and they each are the ones that have to decide what kind of relationship they want with you.  I will only support their choices.

So back to coordinators.  I don’t want to see one because it won’t make one bit of difference in how I parent.  And since you won’t talk to me, your opinion is moot.  If at some point you want to grow up and actually be a father to your children, then feel free to talk to me, find someone for us both to talk to cooperatively, or man up and just do what’s right.  Until then nothing else will matter and I will just love on our children and guide them the way I choose, until they make the decisions for themselves.  And that is happening faster than realize. 

All this time you talk the talk, and still can't seem to make it a reality for yourself.  All the people you have dragged into our lives have not made any difference.  Adding one more, well, that is your choice.  Have fun with wasting even more time you could spend just getting to know our kids.  They are awesome and you are missing out with all these professionals you want to make your choices for you.  Too bad. The kids and I are fine.

And I am patient, I can wait.

So thank you. All my love for the amazing children I have in my life.  I am sorry you don't get it.

Elise,

You children's mother, now and always

Spinning

I have been spinning things in my head. Possibly because I am not writing often enough here at blog central.  Possibly because I stopped seeing (read that as stopped being able to afford) my counselor.  Possibly because I have not been taking enough Vitamin D.  Possibly because there are people in my children's lives who have no freaking clue who they are or what they need, and it has me just a touch freaked out.  Yep, that's it.  Sleep has skipped out on me.

Last night, while listening to the clock strike the 1:30am chime, I also heard a really loud thump against my bedroom wall.  Turns out it was my daughter's knee, and she was just as awake as I was.  Awake, and wanting to talk.  I got us some milk, used the bathroom, and cuddled us both up in her duvet on the twin bed. 

Turns out that she is kinda feeling a lot of the same things I am feeling.  

Yesterday, earlier in the evening we had her counseling appointment. The usual rules applied for the session in that the adult(s) (usually it is just me, last night her father joined us) get about 5 minutes of time at the very beginning to state some thing that has been happening that we think might need to be discussed.  Something about how things are going from a relationship status, friends, feelings blah blah blah.  It really is just a starter, and then the child who has the appointment goes in without anyone else and gets to direct the session. Last night my ex wanted to talk about the letter I gave his wife about no-contact, and why I had let my daughter (and son) know the contents of the letter.  He wanted the counselor to say how wrong wrong wrong that was of me to involve them.  He did not want to talk about his wife's crying jags, or that she called me a bitch in front of my kids, or that my kids don't like her. 

I stayed very quiet for the most part, gauging my daughter's reactions, and seeing her eyes roll a couple times, I knew that nothing I could say right then would make one damn bit of difference.

The counselor gave me a little reprimand for having shared "adult" topics with my children, and that those should be off limits.  A slight warning about courts and stuff.  Whatever.  I have been doing this long enough now to know the courts don't actually give a shit. Next.  My ex was told he need to get some parenting classes and was advised that his wife should learn to respect boundaries.  Again, next.

What I didn't realize until 1:31am, cuddled around my daughter, was that she heard the counselor say all that too, and instead of talking to her counselor about her feelings, she talked about nothing.  Her thought was that the whole session was a waste of time.  I got it quickly, in that early morning flash of insight that sometimes happens; my daughter believed that her counselor had told her that the entire TOPIC labeled as "adult" were now off limits for her to talk about, too.  She was feeling isolated and alone because she had lost her outlet of the counselor and was afraid that my "reprimand" meant I was going to stop talking about the stuff with her for fear of some court reprisal. 

That was what the eye rolling had meant. It had meant, in her head, to convey to me that she knew better.  That she knew that was not the mom she got.  She got the mom that was going to say stuff to her honestly and openly, and counselor reprimands or not, nothing had changed.

Then came the spinning in her head, the self doubt, the over-thinking.  Oh how like her mother she actually is.  What if mom stops talking to me?  What if mom really does think I don't need to hear adult topics?  What if I can't trust my mom to tell me the truth in a way that I will understand?  What if she takes Dad's side, and I am stuck without any choices?  Wow, my girl can spin it.  This all came out in a rather heavy sobbing-and-grasping meltdown fueled by exhaustion.  She was afraid.

She got my reassurance, and commitment, to never treat her in a way that makes her less intelligent than I know she is.  I helped her see that I was not going anywhere and that my silence at the counseling session was not me abandoning her, but siding with her in knowing that nothing we said right then would change US.  I cried with her, letting her know that I was scared, too. Not of the courts, but that maybe I had forced upon her a growing-up-fast mantra she did not need to have.  She sighed a lot as I held her.  She was drained, but relieved, I knew, because her body softened, her yawns started, and she hugged me when I told her I loved her.

She fell asleep after I told her I would not leave until my butt started hurting too much from being squished in a twin bed, and that her feet stank.  She giggles, cuddled up, sighed and asked if we could talk more later because she was tired.  She made me pinky-swear-cross-my-heart-promise.  I did.  I fell asleep not too long after.

I am hoping for less spinning and more sleep tonight.  You might be seeing more blogs on the topic just so both my daughter and I can rest.  I think I will go buy her another journal, one with pretty spinning colors on the front.  One we can share.  Like mother like daughter.  Her next counseling appointment, should she decide she wants to go, will involve exploring adult topics. She gets this, and I am more than willing to understand that about her, even if no one else does.

Never trust Hallmark

I was handed a card a few weeks ago on a Wednesday evening.  It had my name on it. So I guess it was intended for me.  My ex handed it to me.  I took it, the way most people do when handed things, without even thinking about it much at first.  I mean I try not to take the flyer and other advertisements that hawkers at places like the Boardwalk and the farmer's market try to hand me. But usually it still ends up in my hands, with me shaking my head wondering what the fuck I am supposed to do with it now.  I also usually say thank you, trying to be polite in the most ordinary non-committal way possible.

When I was handed this particular card by my ex, in the split second it was in my hand, I read that it not only had my name on it, but both my children's names as well.  And get this, it also had my ex's name right there in black ink on the Hallmark yellow envelope.  I also tried to process, in that split second, what it could be, and who had not heard that the four of were not a family any more.  Invitation to a BBQ? Photos from an event years ago we all attended? Cash from a family member using both me and my kid's father as a filter for my children's potential riches?

But, suspiciously, instead of the words "thank you" coming out of my mouth, I said "Who is this from?"  It only slightly shocked me that it was from my ex's wife.


On Friday of that week, I handed my ex a letter I had written.  It outlined in no uncertain terms my exact expectation from his wife, and his own continuing belief that I somehow give a shit about her, him, or their continuing happiness together as  people, a couple, or as adults in my children's lives.  I honestly, at this point three years in, could care less if they are happy, sad, indifferent.  Basically I just want them both to leave me the fuck alone, and barring that, for her to never ever ever talk to me.  Seems completely clear in my head.

Having written the letter, I owed it to my children to give them the heads-up that there was going to be fall out from it in the form of whining and crying and convincing and name-calling, and that while I was not changing my position, I would not do it if they thought the outcome was more than they could handle.  My daughter, being the amazing relationship guru of all time said "About time you said all this." My son, the more ethereal of the two in matters of emotions was quiet but said he could handle it, and demonstrated his technique by pulling up the hood on his jacket and plugging his ears.  We all laughed, because it was damn funny, and then let it go.  I gave the letter to their father at pickup.

The fall out was as expected.  His wife called my daughter mean, while crying and saying how hurt she was.  Their father said that it was all my fault because I was just a bitch who didn't want any happiness in her life and was poisoning them.  The family meeting they held involved more crying on his wife's part, a decision (without my children's input or consent, mine either for that matter) that family counseling would be in order, and a plea for the kids to try to "bring your mom around, we all just want to be a big happy family".

I let my kids choose their own interpretation, and mostly it came down to feeling like it was all fake and manipulative. We moved on, and basically decided the decision was on my ex and his wife to abide by my wishes or not.  I expected not, but we could deal with that when it happened.  I was happy to have said it again, even if they paid no attention to it at all.

Yesterday was Father's Day.  My kids spent it  with their dad.  I also knew his wife would be around, doing whatever it is she does, and that being the newly self-appointed guardian of my children's well being as it relates to their father, she would have her hand in all the plans.  What happened falls in to the category of the truly weird.  She came up to my daughter on her own on Sunday morning, while my daughter was peacefully munching Coco Puffs near the pool and told my daughter about how much she wanted to start hanging out with me, be my friend, and join in on the five of us (that would be me, my ex, the two kids, and her I suppose) becoming a close family. To that end, she promised to start coming to my children's counseling sessions so she could be recognized as an important mother figure in my children's lives. 

Um.. what the fuck?

My daughter got home and told me all about it, and asked if she could call her counselor right then.  I dialed and handed her the phone. She articulately told her counselor that she did not want her dad's wife there, and could the counselor call her dad and tell him too. Thirty or so minutes later, my ex texted, asking my daughter to call.  I let her. He proceeded to try to tell her that she had misunderstood his wife, and that she didn't really mean all that , and that she would come to the counseling session and sit in the car and that my daughter needs to be nice.  I heard the whole thing, saw my daughter's face of confusion, took the phone and said to him that I believed every word my daughter had to say, that I didn't appreciate him calling her a liar, that I was so proud of her for doing the right thing and calling her counselor and that his wife was not welcome, period.

He tried to spin it. It is his usual MO.  I am poisoning the kids, I am negative and unhappy. I want him to suffer and never have anything positive in his life blah blah blah.  Before I hung up I said, feel free to do what you want, but that I would be happy to help my daughter call him a liar to his face at the next counseling meeting.

So now we wait.  I could predict what this will be like.  He will show up, chickie girl will stay in the car.  He will try to say my daughter misunderstood, but wouldn't family counseling be a good thing for all of us so we can all be happy.  He will basically be ignored and he doesn't even know it yet.  His wife will not even exist, and the kids and I will go have See's candy and pizza and laugh a lot.  They will not be invited.  They don't belong in our world and they are desperately trying to figure out how to hold on to the happiness and strength my children and I exude from our whole being.

All this started because I thought a big yellow envelope might contain something fun.  Damn optimistic streak! Moral of the story?  Stop taking those damn flyers, and keep saying no when you mean it. Counseling on Tuesday can't come fast enough.  Bring it!

Mixed Geek Metaphors

It is May the Fourth.  For every geeky kid out there, playing with light sabers while wearing a bathrobe, today is your day. 

I have these children. I am these children. 

My son, if given his way in all things, would live to play baseball, Star Wars, and Legos, all while carrying around a pen and engineering-type notebook designing very complex video games with multi-player, multi-level actions sequences.  These sequences would revolve around baseball, Star Wars and Legos.  I think it is divine.  He is a second grader who can not only understand 6th grade math, but can teach this math to his sister, a 4th grader.  He builds miniature robots and droids out of whatever is around. Cardboard, painter's tape, spoons (yes, I have had to dismantle things so we could eat dinner), Legos (of course) and recently Q-Tips, popsicle sticks, and the arms and legs off of Barbies. (My daughter gave him permission to borrow them as long as no permanent markers or scissors were used, and he gave her a cash deposit.)  It has been adventure.

My daughter, if given her way in all things, would live to have her hair be like Princess Leah all the time, while simultaneously wearing one purple high top and one pink one, and carrying a copy of Harry Potter under one arm, and a diary under the other.  Her diary is a complex grouping of stories and friends and thoughts and poetry, and dreams.  I think it is divine.  She is a fourth grader who has no interest in boys, but understands almost intuitively the complexes of relationships.  She pays attention.  She knows from her heart when things are done with a mean intent, and calls people on it.  Her friends are drawn to her because she is quirky but confident, out-spoken but kind, independent but social.  She seems to do a great job on balancing the fine line between being funny and being weird.  She is honest, and I marvel at how intelligently she can speak about what she sees and feels.  She shares these insights with her brother, and they have come to an understanding somehow that she voices his concerns to the letter, and then defends him completely. 

Me, if given my way in all things, would live to write down every random thought that pops into my head.  I own a really nice fountain pen, but would prefer a whole bunch of gel pens in various shades of red.  I would write all day about how I see the world, what I have learned while sitting at the beach, and describe, in detail, the shape and color of seaglass collected on the many walks I would be taking.  I share these thoughts with my kids sometimes, who roll their eyes and sigh.  When I catch them using the seaglass from the big bowl we have of it sitting on the end table in the living room, I smile and know they are listening, and that I have done my job.  They are well on their way to thoughtful geekness, and I am proud.

If you have children, you might get some of this.  This overwhelming need to have your children be independent, and be exactly like you, at the same time.  My children look like me, and not at all like their dad.  Some days I wish they had inherited their father's denim blue eyes. But 99% of the time, I am glad there is no doubt who got the majority of the genes.  This works totally in my favor at places like the Tech Museum and the Exploratorium when I play, too, and can just blame it on my kids by just pointing and shrugging my shoulders.  They get to go off and teach me stuff from their areas of interest (like my son building a drawing bot, or my daughter using the CrazyCaptcha Hair camera site) and I get to show them how to make paper from gooey stuff and pieces of flowers.  It is a good match.

So this morning, when the May the Fourth thing was brought up, my kids both did something to "celebrate".  My son put on a Jedi Robe from the costume box over his Star Wars T-shirt.  My daughter asked me to help her put her hair up in two buns on the side of her head.  She is carrying a collapsible Barbie sized light saber in her backpack that she will NOT take out (the whole weapons at school rule she was quick to remind me) but will make her happy to know is there.  I changed my ring tone to the Star Wars theme song.

Then they asked for Reese's Pieces. (We have them for a penny out of an old gumball machine in our kitchen.) When I asked why, they said that they could use ET instead of Star Wars to celebrate if it meant getting candy, since there is no Star Wars food.  Yep, geek children.  I love it. Today is a great day.

I am with the Government. I am here to help.

So today, one of my employees (who also happens to be a friend) walks into my office regarding a tax withholding question.  It is my job to explain the leave and earning statement so I ask him to take a seat.  He says that it is not a question for him, but for a friend in the department.  I said I could answer general questions, but nothing specific for the person unless he or she wanted to bring in the right paperwork, but yes, I was willing to help.

This is what I got instead:  How could a woman who is married  to a man who was previously married and is in arrears in his child support make it so the government would not take their tax return to pay the debt?

It was all I could do not to take the baseball bat I keep under my desk out and smashing the employee’s head in.

Yeah, I said it.  I wanted to kill him.  I kept it together, but only just barely.  I told him that no, I could not help someone figure out how to defraud the District Attorneys’ Office out of the legally mandated way to collect due child support.  I told him that no, I did not know how to have the employee change her withholding so that none of “her” money would be considered in their joint tax return.  I told him that no, I could not recommend a good tax attorney or accountant, and that no, the tax center here could not help.

I gave him the brochure to the Employee Assistance Plan, and the links to the online pay site to share with the employee who did not come in.  Then, I asked him to close my office door.

***(Disclaimer:  Most of the serious profanity happened in my head.  Some slipped out, I am not saying which, but some did. The intent was loud and clear though.)***

I asked him if he knew if the other employee knew her husband had a child and was not paying his child support? (She does.)  I asked him if she knew that she, as his wife, was responsible for the debt if they filed joint tax returns? (She knows.)  I asked him if she was stupid to stay married to the husband? (He said “Probably, but she loves him.”)  I was angry, and let him know that while I can support a woman’s right to be with whatever prick they chose to be with, fucking with his kids from a former marriage was a total douche bag thing to do.  What the hell was she thinking when she whined about her tax return being seized?  What the fuck was she doing to get herself involved with, much less marrying  a guy who doesn’t care about his past responsibilities?  Why the fuck didn’t she pay, or make him pay, the child support all along?

My friend tried to defend her, saying she was a good person, the guy was being screwed in the custody, that they were poor… blah blah blah.  I wouldn’t have any of it.  I said that custody and support have nothing to do with each other, that children still need to eat.  I said that burying your head in the sand as you stand by and watch your man screw over his own children  makes you just as much of a worthless piece of shit.  I said that if she was doing nothing for his children and their tax return got taken, then good, they deserved it.  Fuck them.  I also asked him why it mattered to him at all.

This was about the time that the movie plot happened, and the phone rang, saving me from having to hurt him, and him having to lie about where he got his injuries.  I had been rolling the baseball bat around with my foot during the whole conversation.  I came back to my professional voice and when he stepped out of my office while I was on the phone I asked him to keep the door open.

About 15 minutes later I get an email from him apologizing for asking me about it.  I apologized for anything I said that was rude, and told him to please give the paperwork I had previously given him to his co-worker.  He wrote back and said he had already, and thanked me for the information.  We had lunch two hours later, and it was fine.  He got it, I got it, our friendship intact without apologies about stupid people.  The burrito was delicious. He paid my tab.

I know exactly why this whole thing angered me.  If you have read my blog you will know, too.  What I didn’t know until I started writing all this down is how strongly I feel about it.  My next step, I just realized, is that now I have to figure out what to do about it.  Simply being a woman who might periodically stand her ground, to a person who’s friendship quells the fire I was feeling, will not be enough.  Not in the long term.  So having now told the story, I will have to do something about it.  Damn.  Just when I think my life is on a smoother than usual path, the stupid path-less-traveled shows up.  More work.

Time to research agencies looking for people to help them empower women and children  even more.  I am soliciting mentors.  Any takers?

A little blogging on the side...

I am completely amazed (in that good kind of way) by my friends with blogs.

I have a friend who has been blogging for about 7 years. It is a family commentary, social connection kinda blog, with happy pictures of the kids and dogs. I don't go to the page often. Not that I don't want to hear about the kids and dog (I do, and I like the Christmas card newsletter once a year). It is more that it is a lot of exactly-the-same. The same trip to the pumpkin patch. The same kids on the swings. The same family portrait in front of the fire. Yes, there are the blogs about the dirt-mess that the kids created while hunting for lightning bugs. Yes, there are the blogs about inspirational bible passages. Yes, there are even blogs about volunteer efforts and good deeds. I am periodically inspired, but not enough to read it all the time. I don't have a life that is that routine, that captured in pictures, that similar to all the other once a year letters I have read. I suppose that shows happiness, and I can appreciate the need to have that spill over into the virtual world. I just can't do it.

I have another friend who just writes just poetry. Okay, not exactly *writes*. Sometimes the blog is just other people's poetry. Sometimes it is my friends’. Often it is awful. Periodically it is good. Rarely is it stellar. But the fact that it is out there is the part that impresses me. It is my friend’s expression. I love that. If I was going to write poetry, I suppose this would be my blog exactly. I don't write poetry. I write fiction. I also write a blog that I don't care if anyone reads. If I wrote poetry, I would want people to read it, and I guess that is why this friend posts the poetry to the blog. But since I don't, and I can't wrap my brain around the flowy or edgy or meaningful prose, I don't read it often.

I have a friend who has a blog all about fitness. It includes graphs and charts and links and advise and some calorie-counting-eat-this-not-that-protien-power-all-vegan-yoga-guru stuff. I have been there once in the last six months. Like my gym membership, I have let it lapse.

I have a friend with a world travel blog. I am too jealous to read it most of the time. I like the pictures.

I know a person who started out with a simple home-ec-how-to blog years ago. It was friendly, sweet, inspired. It was before Pinterest, but had a collection of links and recipes and likes. It was fun to look through and see what I could do in my bathroom or kitchen, and what was inspiring others as well. I stopped reading it the day the first ad went up.

I have one friend who puts herself out there in a way that scares and inspires me. She is able to say the work "fuck" better than anyone I have ever met. She even wrote a blog about that very topic. I love that she is fearless in a way I am not. I read her blog, both her new one and her old one, whenever I can. I am a fan. She is living her life in a fast lane, take no prisoners, no holds barred way that leaves me breathless. I want to be her. I also don't. Her writing is beautiful, and raw. It is scorched and edgy. If is flawless and in your face, and makes no apologies. I find both humor and sadness in her blatant honesty. I love that she is real, and I could have drinks with her. I will read what she writes. It makes me think.

So I wonder what my place is in the world of blogs? I don't think I will ever add advertisement to my sidelines, so if you are reading this now, rest assured I will not be bombarding your viewing screen with cat food ads or vacation planning services. I don't think I will ever care how many people are actually reading the blog, so don't expect a hit counter any time soon. I don't write poetry, so that is not likely to come up either. What I am creating for my place is a bit of both laziness and necessity.  This blog, to date, has been a place to vent my frustrations, share my happiness, energize my mind, and enrich my soul.  I hope I do not bore people who do read it, but mostly I hope that the stuff I have locked up in my head that keeps me from my real life has a place to be.  Sometimes quietly, often loudly, always with my truth. 

So keep reading.  Maybe something will inspire you to start your own.  Let me know, and I will stop by sometimes.

 

Guardrail Gratitude

I got another "I am human" moment to add to my list.

Last night, I ate terrible spaghetti, and even worse salad, all in the name of fundraising for my son's baseball league. I am not really complaining about the food here, it is always awful and I enjoy it anyway. I am even glad I went because it is sort of a yearly ritual that lets me see friends and be silly. I kinda love it. Here is the kicker for me though: my children's father and the woman he is currently married to decided that this would be a good time to be supportive and family oriented. Barf.

Now up here on my high road, I can be supportive of their decision to help fund youth sports. It is a public event, and well, they can spend their money and time anyway they want to. I can even be grateful that he shows up at all to anything involving my children, and don't hold any grudges at all about his/their participation. But, with that said, the phrase "Oh Hell NO, I am not fucking sitting with them!" passed through my head. Even when they sat with my parents. Even when they tried to hold my place in line. Even when my children sat with them. I mean, it was his visitation night, he purchased their dinner, and the kids sitting with him was exactly what I expected. Did that mean I had to sit with them, and play nice? In my mind I don't think so.

So I didn't. I didn't sit with my parents. I didn't sit with my kids. I sat, instead, with my friends and fellow baseball parents, many of whom I had known for years, even some since childhood. I had a great time, laughing, joking, catching up. It was fun. I paid absolutely no attention to my ex, his wife, or, consequently, my parents and children for about an hour. It was fine.

What happened on the way home is my "less-than-super-mom" moment. My daughter said she didn't eat dinner. I was surprised since I had seen her in line to get food, had seen her sit down with the same plate of food in front of her, and had watched as she threw her plate in the garbage. I asked her why? She said she waited for me to come sit next to her and everyone, and that when I didn't she didn't eat. I told her, with a soft tone at first, that I was not going to come sit with her dad and his wife, ever, and that I was fine that she did, and she could have eaten her dinner without me. She wanted to know why I wouldn't come sit with them, since she (the wife) was not being mean right then. This is when I lost it. I said that I can't pretend and play nice with a woman who called me a fucking worthless bitch in front of my kids, and then told me I deserved to have my baby die in a follow up email.

My daughter was floored. My son was silent. I was pissed. So I went on a bit of a rant. I told them that I don't really care how "not mean" the ex's wife was being right then. She had already shown me who she is, and I don't want to be near her. I didn't care if she turned out to receive the Nobel Peace prize for her amazing work with the sick and homeless. I didn't care if she was angelic and nominated for sainthood. My experience of her is that she is vile and cruel. And that I never, not ever ever ever wanted to be around her, hear her, interact with her, or otherwise be in any setting where she existed. That she had crossed a line by being so vicious to me on more than one occasion that the cease and desist letter that was sent through the Domestic Violence center telling her in very plain language that I wanted her to stay out of my life forever would be my M.O. for all time. I would treat her as a non-person, not in my field of vision, non-existent and not even worthy of my sitting at a table eating crappy spaghetti, even if it meant I missed out on something.

After my rant, I cried. I did not apologize, but I did cook my daughter some dinner. I spent another half hour texting friends, ratting myself out like some catholic school-girl, seeking validation, and a little understanding. I got it, so a shout-out goes to JB and RA and BE and SC for keeping me sane.

This morning the kids and I talked, some about my emotions, and a lot about how when people in your life show you who they are, you should believe them the first time. And that it was what I had done with their dad's current wife. We talked about being fake for show, and how that doesn't really count if you are still mean behind closed doors. They "got it" immediately because they visit their dad and his wife twice a month and had seen the real side just the same. We talked about picking who you respect, and about standing up for yourself, and about not being fake yourself just to put on a show for others. Yep, I might have been angry, but I was not going to play nice just to have other people feel better. I had done that for too long, and just don't feel up for it. We laughed a lot during the conversation because, of course, all of our important conversations happen while we are half naked trying to get out the door in the morning. It is amazing the things you learn over getting dressed, packing up homework, and apparently spaghetti.

So today, I am back on my high road. Happy for a guard rail, and willing to take the hit for my momentary exit. One of my friends helped me by saying "Stay Real. The kids will find their own path." That is where I am at today. I am good with it.

A birthday of sorts: This blog turns ONE.

In just a little over 2 weeks, my blog turns ONE. A whole year of rants and raves and revelations that you may, or may not, have been reading and enjoying and sharing. I don't usually follow the counts, since I write for myself, and once in a while might have someone else read it. But today I could not resist, and I looked at the total. WOW, 1200 page views. Is that normal? What could I possibly be saying that has made 1200 people stop and at least read the title?

Here is what I have been saying from my year-out point of view:

1) Put myself out there. Take the opportunity to challenge myself, my perception of myself, and possibly other people's perception of me. I may be great. I may suck. But I own it, I am it, and I make it known. Being who I am takes some practice. Putting myself out there just gives me some accountability, even if just to myself.

2) Be fearless. Tell the truth, as I see it. I don't apologize, sentimentalize, or compartmentalize. I don't let anyone tell me that what I write is not worth the reading. I remind them they have every right to not read my stuff, and then I ignore them. I might lose some people, but they probably wouldn't be my support group anyway. I don't fear what "they" may think. They don't like it? Tough Shit. I don't write for them, and I don't lie.

3) Treat myself kindly. You know those people up there on item 2? The ones who were giving me grief for speaking my truth? Yeah, I don't want to be one of them, and I remember to give myself heaps of praise for everything, especially for putting myself out there to begin with.

4) Rant when I need to. It is totally necessary for me to let go of whatever is spinning in my head making me a little bit "touched". Maybe it is about my ex. Maybe it is about my parents. Maybe it is about my kids. Maybe it is about myself, and my lack of willpower over chocolate. Maybe it is about my world in general. Whatever it is, I need to get it out. Making that big old mess all over the place is allowed. This is my blog, and I feel free to use it for whatever the hell I need to.

5) History is all perception. I have written about my mother. I have written about my relationships with men no longer in my life. I have written about religion. I have written about my children, my wishes for them, and my fears as I have seen them. The trouble with that is that I don't don't get to decide how the history of all that makes one damn bit of difference. Ask my kids about the last year, and I am sure their history of it is very different from mine. Did they notice the supplements on the counter that helped their mom move away from depression? Did they hear me crying at night? Or did they, as I hope, just see the only mom they have being their mom, normal and weird all at the same time. Will they write a blog about it some day?

6) I am a real person. I am sexy and stupid and beautiful and silly and wonderful and mean and friendly and frail and logical and needy and lovely and shy and gregarious and evil and amazing and forgetful and studious and jealous and brilliant. I am amazing in all the different ways I can be while making huge mistakes in the process. I am okay with that.

7) I have a story to tell. I am writing this story here. It is my story of love and loss and being open to change while fighting it a the same time. I am also writing a novel (something I don't think I have admitted to in this blog until now, and yes, it is a shameless promotion for if/when it gets published). I have learned that I like my story, I like telling my story for the few (could that be 12oo? hee hee) others to read, and that I will continue to do it, so stay tuned.


So happy year ONE. Thank you for joining me on my journey.

A garage full of possibilities.

My kids are off on the first week of Spring Break this week. They get two weeks, so next week, when they are back home hanging with me is when we will do all the fun stuff. This week belongs to the Spring-cleaning Fairy known as Mom.

Okay, Mom is not fair. I will not be tackling my children's rooms at all in their absence. Truth is, we do enough reduce, reuse, recycle all year to not need the giant clean-out that comes with the month of March. We have established the "lost sock basket" for all those socks that mysteriously have no mates at the end of the dryer cycle; the "too small box" for all clothes that show too much belly, too much ass, too much ankle, or too much forearm but not a big enough neck; and an "I hate this" bag for all the clothes that are stained, torn, never did fit quite right, or have changed shape because of general wear and wash. Toys have a similar life cycle.

So no, not Mom, but instead, I am doing the garage. My stuff, stashed for keeping or hoarded for projects that have just been collecting. I found a box of preschool-teaching materials (I will tell you about my adventures as a Child Development Center Director some other time) that I used with my children before they started pre-school and have long since outgrown. I have been lugging these boxes around for years and years, full of art projects, and math games, and letter writing supplies. There is an entire program on Money and Time-telling. There are bulletin board cutouts. There are mini-report card/congratulations/graduation/completion/you-made-it forms and buttons. There are actual mimeograph stencil papers for use on those old (wonderful smelling) copy-turn-drum machines. What the heck did I still need all this stuff for?

Yes, I will do the right thing, and post it to Freecycle now that it is off my shelves and out of boxes, and let some homeschooler or kindergarten teacher have it all. It will get a new good home, or at least on that is not in my garage, thank you very much.

But, I also found the art supplies. I found glitter. I found glue sticks. I found string. I found PeopleColor pens and paint. I found origami paper. I knew I had origami paper somewhere. I wished I could have found it when my son was reading "The Strange Case of Origami Yoda" and "Darth Paper Strikes Back" but that might be worth a bed time story or two next week. I found stick-on jewels, and colorful plastic shapey thingys. I found my craft box full of paper edgers and punches and wavy/curly/zig zaggy scissors. I found jewelry supplies. All hidden behind-and-around-and-in-back-of. I had forgotten all about them. I think I am in heaven.

Yes, I started organizing all of it on the table and trying to decide how to create an art area so that none of it just ends up back in boxes and in the back of shelves. Having moved some of the teaching materials out of the way, I think I have the perfect spot for everything, too. I got tired last night, and realized that the excitement I was feeling at 10pm was not the same at 1am, and I had better get some sleep. Work and all that, you know. So when I go home, and it is still daylight, I will see what progress I have made.

I want it to hold the same magic I felt last night, and that I can share with my kids when I have the art area in a usable space. That will happen rather quickly now that I am motivated. I will get back some of the preschool magic, and get to play. I will also open back up the world I have been missing.

I had an art area once. In a basement. In a house. I lived there for 10 years with those art supplies at hand and ready to share with my then very young children. I wasn't allowed to use them because they were messy, and I had responsibilities to keep the "borrowed" space clean in case someone else needed it. It wasn't mine, and it never occurred to me that it was never going to be until I left.

Until I wrote that just now, I didn't realize just how afraid that made me, the idea of having a space to create but it not belonging to me. How someone could take it away, judge it, belittle it, and so I hid it. It is like my writing, and my parents expectations. And how since then, for over a year in my own house, I have not created that space. Sigh.. revelations.

It just became a mission. Damn, I love when I work things out by writing them down! I will get to work on the art area, and that creative part. I will share it with my kids, and hopefully be messy and spontaneous in the process. Spring cleaning just got better! Clean a garage, a past, and some old expectations in one fell swoop. Who knew having my kids be gone would be so productive for me? Spring. Bring it! I will write more about what I create, what we create. I am excited. I can't wait to go home.

How pillow fights are a God thing...

I am reading a wonderful work of fiction right now. It is about a relationship between girls who become women over the course of a decade and a half of their lives. Money vs. working class. Well-traveled vs. hometown. Divorce vs. parents who stay together, and the complications of each. It is about choices, freedom, sexuality, exploration and discovering who you are and how you fit into the world of morality and acceptance.

The central theme though revolves around religion. One is Jewish. One is Christian. There is a line in the story during one of the girls' conversations that sorta sets a tone for many more of their discussions. They are walking in a cemetery, drinking beer and dancing around with their teen-age summer boyfriends, and they come to the Hebrew portion of the cemetery, all walled off. The Jewish-faithed girl says "Hey, I could be buried here." And, as teenagers who are drunk walking through graveyards do, she lays down on one of the graves. Her friend, laying down next to her so they can look at stars together says "If there is only one God, what difference does it make to Him what part of the ground you are buried in?"

I haven't finished the book yet, so I can't tell you what the author wants us to figure out. What I do know is that it was heavy enough on my mind that I asked my kids about how they see religion in their world.

To give you some background, I am a former Catholic. My mother is still Catholic, and attends mass weekly. My father is an un-baptised Baptist who grew up with Jesus, but no church. I, at one point in my confusion-about-what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up phase, studied to take Catholic Order Novitiate vows. They would have worked for me, until a priest told me during one of my lessons that all women, and especially nuns, would be subservient to ALL men, not just priests, as all men are closer to God than women could or would ever be. Yeah, that was about the time I realized I was going to be okay with poverty and chastity, but would have a huge huge problem with the vow of obedience. I decided wearing a habit really wasn't going to work for me after all. I also decided that being Catholic was not gong to work for me, either.

I explored several "religions and churches" for a while, especially during college, always coming to the same conclusion: The religion wanted me to follow their rules without question and never, not once, ever have my own thoughts and communion with God without their guidance. I was not a good fit for any of them. I wanted to know the Whys, and the What-fors, and be able to seek what I wanted in my home, and through the sanctity of everything.

So come to today, and I am feeling more sure about my choices than ever. I had a five minute (age appropriate) conversation with my kids. What I had been teaching them about critical thinking, self understanding, and not needing a group to tell you what to do had been sinking it. They don't like going to the church their father insists they attend with his new wife. They call it baby church, like a bunch of people who don't really know what they want or what to believe, so they get together and light a Christ candle, and sing songs from Broadway musicals, and eat cheese slices and apple wedges in the common room. I have checked out their service and kid program, and it is all very fluffy. A little bit of you, a little bit of me, while claiming Christianity as it's umbrella. Wusses. My kids whine about going, but when made to, eat cheese and paint in the playroom. I think this is funny.

I bring this ideal to them: that God is not a person up in the sky moving the actions of humans in judgment like chess pieces. I tell them if you really want to know self-spirituality, question everything. Make the choices that work for you. Everything is sacred, and nothing is. Respect the uses of the world, not so that you can get into heaven, but so that living in THIS world is not hell. And that you leave more than what you took. And treat everyone the way you want to be treated. And that what you send out is what you get back. Three-fold in both blessings and in fear. And that there are many books that can help you, and friends that can speak to your heart. A little Buddha, a little Jesus, a little Mohammad, a little Dr. Seuss, a little Harry Potter, a little girl who sits on the other side of the classroom, a little cloud floating by, a little good sleep, a little 70's sitcoms, a little stream in the woods, a little cotton candy. It is all good, and can be all bad. It is how YOU make it out to be that makes all the difference. Oh yeah, and more than a little LOVE is probably the best thing anyone's got going on.

So from the a story plot-point asking about if there is only one God, who cares about burial plots, all the way to that my kids get love demonstrated for them everyday, I figure that was a pretty good way to have the morning before Spring Break start off. That, and the hysterical laughing fit we had when Haysten decided that God could be found in hitting his sister with a pillow. Yes, my life is good.

I will let you know what happens with the characters in the story. I hope the author figures it out for them, since I think I am doing pretty good in my world.

Rules are rules are rules....

I had my coffee pot confiscated last night by the coffee-pots-cannot-be-plugged-in-overnight police. It did not seem to matter that it had a build in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it was plugged into a surge protector, also with a built in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it is not a coffee pot, but a water heating pot with no actual burner or exposed element. Yeah, the rule is the rule is the rule, and I had it taken.

Yes, I got the pot back, with a sincere promise that I would remember to unplug the damn thing every night before walking out the door. I wonder if it is worth for a cup of tea that couple times a week I need it. This however got me thinking about rules, and where they come from. And I suppose, how to change them.

I used to work for TSA. Yep, the people who make you miserable at the airport by insisting that your shoes and recently purchased bottle of water constitute a national security risk. I know how to use a hand wand, search a bag full of golf clubs, and run an x-ray machine. I also know that 3oz of liquid explosives will disable an airplane, and it might make it back to solid ground. But 4oz of the same stuff will blow a hole the size of a ping pong table in the side of the economy section and the plane will hit the ground without much chance of survivors. Even worse if it happened as it was simultaneously flying into the Golden Gate Bridge.

Having had this rule drilled into me, I had a small understanding of why we (I mean me, and my coworkers with the sucky airport security job) had to take away your diet coke (12 oz), your bottle of wine (750ml), your Lush lotion (10oz) and your hairspray (14.5oz). What I didn't like was there was no alternate choice. No redeeming value in pumped breast milk (4-6oz), coffee fresh from the vending machine on the outside of security (8oz), hand sanitizer (5oz) or a sippy cup of grape juice for a cranky two-year-old (less than an ounce because the rest was just spilled on your uniform or x-ray machine). I quit that job. Besides the 4am start time, I could not wrap my brain all the way around that compliance.

My mother had a rule about finishing everything on your plate. From a woman who lived through a depression and a war, this does not seem that unreasonable. Starving children and the Baby Jesus who will suffer if I don't eat my peas. The weirdness of the rule came from when you wanted more of something. Seconds of meatloaf for instance. In my mom's world, seconds of one thing meant seconds of everything. Something about a balanced plate that I never understood, and she filled your plate all over again with the desired meatloaf slice, the tolerable mashed potatoes, and the hated peas, in possibly smaller portions than the original go around, but not by much. A whole second meal was to be finished to the crumbs, again, to please the Lord. Rules are rules are rules. I am a fat adult. Duh. I quit that rule, and my kids never have to clean their plates.

My children create rules all the time. We can only eat See's candy on Tuesdays if having pizza. Milk, if it is fat-free, must be consumed through a swirly straw. Bed time is 8 o'clock, unless there is a Lego creation or picture or great book to finish, then bedtime is 8:15. You must wear matching socks, unless you are giving your extras to your brother. Honking horns in tunnels is perfectly acceptable and required, especially if no emergency requiring a horn exists. Stuffed animals are to be given confusing names (a tiger named Lion, a dog named Toast, and a cat named Tow Truck) and shoes that are too small must live in the bottom of the closet forever! I like these rules. The rules turn into routines. The routines turn into traditions. Traditions that make you happy and laugh, and that you want to continue are totally worth following.

But back to my original reason for thinking about rules to begin with, the coffee pot and redeeming value in having rules and complying. It has brought me somewhere I was not expecting. That is that there are no rules written in stone. Everything changes. I got my coffee pot back, I don't have to tell people that mascara makes them a terrorist, and I can say that I am fat and own it. I also get to explain and listen to things with my kids that work and don't work. The rule when they were little that said they had to hold hands with an adult has changed to being able to be within visual surveillance. I am okay with that. There was redeeming value in the hand-holding rule when they were 3, and it had to be let go now that they are 8 and 10.

So I have also learned to let go of my personal rules, be kinder to myself in my observation and judgement. I have also set up some new ones that are based in wanting new traditions. I like that, too. What I really want though, is someone to come unplug my coffee pot for me every night, because I know I will forget, and what will be the point of the rule then? Maybe I will find a way to change the rule. Maybe I will comply. Maybe I will move the coffee pot so it is not in my office any more. Choices. It makes all the difference.

Viral

I am going to rant today. It is my blog, and I can, so please stop reading now if you don't want to hear my point of view. I forgive you. Carry on.

I have seen several videos and blogs go viral this week. People passing them around like some kind of new online drug, and feeling quite indignant, or conversely, motivated, to let people know they are upset or in support of something or other.

Rush Limbaugh is a tool. He is a radio personality shock-jock. He has supporters who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. There are those who really think his message is clear and to the point and needs to be the way everyone sees it. Others think he is a bigot and a racist, and now, apparently, hates women, birth-control, and everything related to any person who speaks their mind, himself excluded of course. And the fact that this is shocking to people is all the more reason to do it, duh. I can understand. It is upsetting to hear demeaning words. It is a total mind-fuck to think they are true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?

Joseph Kony is a tool. He is the leader of a hatred filled rebellion group in Uganda called the LRA. This group, on a regular basis, kills adults, rapes little girls, and forcibly recruits little boys to serve in their army. The little boys are either beat or drugged into compliance. Some of the people who follow him see him as the Messiah. Others think he is Satan incarnate. He has people who listen and live his every word. He has people who hate him. The children and people of Uganda are fearful. It is upsetting to see the video of the conditions in which the citizens live. It is a total mind-fuck to think it is true. It is shameful in it's acceptance. So what to do about it?

Here is the rant part of the post. While I hate the words that Rush Limbaugh is spouting, I offer that he is allowed to say what ever the hell he feels like saying. We give him the power to shock us by ignoring that many people feel the same as he does. They have for years. Women have been told over and over that their place is behind men. We have accepted lower pay for equal work. We have accepted crappy child care so we could. We have let a right wing portion of the bible belt tell us that an unwanted pregnancy for any reason means that you are to be condemned. Yes, condemned, either to live the life of parenting outside of a desired time frame, or to be labeled as a murderer. We have let clergy molest our children and still ask them for spiritual guidance. We have let out elderly parents send their money to the Home Shopping Network and scam artists and mega-churches. We let drug dealers on our streets and in our schools. Who the hell let Rush Limbaugh have a voice? Oh yeah, that would be us.

I hate the actions of Joseph Kony, but I offer that he is allowed to believe whatever the hell he feels like believing. We gave him the power to have us believe that he is god. We have for years. We accepted that not only Uganda, but many parts of Africa have resources we desire, and we let whomever can deliver them to us be in charge. It was blood diamonds in Sierra-Leone and Zimbabwe. It is gold in the southern parts. It is petroleum in Nigeria and, as we all know, Libya. Women in Senegal are dying during child birth because it is not uncommon for girls to get pregnant at age 13 with "husbands" who are in their 30s. They are trafficked there because Senegal is at least stable enough that a life of enforced sexual domination is better than starvation in another African country. So who the hell let Joseph Kony have a voice? Oh yeah, that again , would be us.

So, for the unaware, let's count all the things going on in the world that we pay little or no attention to. We put pretty rings and earrings on from diamonds mined by children in Africa. We drink coffee harvested by children in Colombia. We wear clothes sewn by children in China. There are people starving, women and children being trafficked, men made into killing machines, elderly eating cat food, four year olds being given drugs, dogs being beaten and starved, pink slime being fed to school-lunch recipients, money being laundered, executives getting rich, homeless people with signs asking for beer, skinny models being held as the beauty standard, marriage equality being ignored, teenagers committing suicide over being mercilessly bullied, and snakes being held up while people calling themselves Christian talk in tongues and stockpile weapons. I can't get my ex-husband to show up for co-parent counseling, and I have no money most months to pay my water bill. Which one of the world's problems would you like me to solve first by hitting the "like" button on Facebook?

I want to have the world be better. I would like ass-hats like Rush Limbaugh to stop spouting what he is saying. I would like it more if the people who are listening would just stop giving him the power. I believe in people. I know that most people know the difference between what is right and what is easy, and given the actual choice, will pick what is right. The same goes for Joseph Kony. I would like to hope the video means an end to his reign. I would like it more if no-one was there to pick up his banner, and that from the beginning of the quest for things and power, people will pick what is right the first time. I have no guns to shoot these men in the head. I don't think I have the stomach for taking their lives either. Do you? It is complicated, isn't it?

Instead I will do the best I can do today. I will teach my children and love them and hold them close. I will be there as they fall, and are confused, and succeed, and love, and hate, and make mistakes. I will side with them in things that are right, because giving them hope is all I have. Maybe they will be the ones with the ideas that make real change. Maybe I can start, in small steps, by not buying a diamond and by remembering to look at labels. I can write letters and seek justice as I always have, and leave the violence to those that haven't learned from history yet. Baby steps with education. Yep that is all I can do today. What can you do?