Courtroom confessional

I was raped in 1991.

Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.

The list does not include either of my ex husbands.  This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated.  This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends.  This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins.  Not my brother.  Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.

I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.

Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh".  I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me.  I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually).  I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas.  What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.

Here is the story.

I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party.  It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast.  Dan and I hit it off immediately.  He was smart, and funny, and sexy.  We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.  

The first date was fun, and we talked for hours.  So were dates two thru five.  Magical even.  Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden.  Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned.  Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day.  Heaven.

Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was.  I never took my coat off.  He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me.  He did both.

How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.

Fast forward to today.

I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general.  My answer came in one simple word: fear.  Not fear of being raped.  Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically.  My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere.  So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.

So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall.  I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs.  Fucked up, much?

So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them.  Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step.  If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.

"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