Nick

 I've been postponing this one.

My family recently went through a nightmare.  Specifically, my sister Alicia and her husband Nick were on a cruise when he had a heart attack and died.  Fun fact, dying internationally is a pain in the ass and super expensive.  Not only did we have to deal with the hole that Nick's passing put in our lives, we had to wait several weeks to get his body back and so were in this limbo hell of not being able to go through one of the central parts of grieving, the funeral.  

We were able to get him back before Christmas.  Now, I have to live without one of my coparents.

Wait, isn't Charles your coparent?  Well, yes.  He is a very involved father.  But Nick and Alicia...they were the surrogates.  They were present in my children's and grandchildren's lives.  They were THERE.  Nick was there before Charles was.  He was present for Elizabeth's infancy.  And now Nick is not here.  It still feels unreal, months later.  I can't imagine how my sister feels.  All of the future things with my kids, he will miss. He never saw Charlie play volleyball. He will not see Delilah dance, or Willow grow up.  He won't be there to go to haunted houses with Elizabeth or buy jewelry from her, or watch Jewel progress in her teaching career, or see Alexis graduate from college. There are no more playdates in the backyard, with extreme bocce ball (don't ask...) and beef jerky from a local farm.  I won't have to make him any cakes or cookies for his Knights of Columbus stuff, or curtains for his new office.

There's a hole.

Nick was instrumental in keeping Charles functional after Josh died.  He called him daily for quite some time, as he knew what it was like to lose someone very important. His mother has now had to bury two of her children.  I can't even begin to imagine that. My sister does not have her husband of over 20 years.  I also can't imagine that.  It has always been Nick and Alicia.  Hey, were Nick and Alicia coming out?  We are going to Nick and Alicia's house to watch Michigan get spanked by Ohio State. (He 100% facilitated that victory this year, I can tell you that much...).

I will never understand the why of this.  Nick did SO MUCH GOOD.  He had his faults, of course. Mostly related to his choice in college football teams.  But he also had a big heart.  He did things like driving past a house that I had seen burning down in our town, killing two people,  just to see how bad it was for me, as I had not been able to look myself.  He was a surrogate parent for many children besides my own. He did all kinds of charity work for his church. Roman had imprinted on him and decided Nick was his person. When I told him Nick died, he sat down and just looked at me.  He knew.

This post feels very discombobulated. That tracks.  Just...do me a favor and love your people.  Love them so hard. And live your life.  Nick LIVED. And loved.

Miss you and love you, brother.

Recital II

 We have all seen the posts about how parents "don't pay for dance" (or insert whatever sport or activity your child is involved in).  Most parents recognize that their child is not going to go pro at whatever childhood "thing" they do.  We put the kids in these activities for a variety of reasons...sometimes it is to relive your childhood through the kid (in which case, I will see them in my office shortly due to their neuroses...).  Sometimes, it is because the kid really enjoys the activity.  Sometimes it is because, goddamnit, you will not be on your phone all day long and get the fuck up and DO SOMETHING.  But whatever the reason, these posts go on and on about how they are learning all kinds of lessons about teamwork and hard work and heartbreak and successes.

But what about the parents?

I have been a dance mom since 2009.  Fifteen years in a row.  If you count my time with Elizabeth when she was in dance, that total goes up to 18 years.  I've been around, so to speak.  I own a bedazzled and have purchased butt glue and nipple petals and hair mascara and enough bobby pins that I could have probably started a retirement fund from all the recycled metal. I can put eyelashes and a full face of makeup on a sleeping child. I have sat through countless competitions, put thousands of miles on various vehicles, and have an extremely large tote of costumes in the attic as well as an entire room full of trophies.  I have videos of dances from 3/4 of my children.  I have purchased dozens of bouquets, have years of dance programs, and know the local high school's backstage area like the palm of my hand.

There is so much more to it, though.  There were lessons that I learned as a parent.

I learned that I could genuinely care for a group of other people's children like my own.  That I could get super excited for wins and commiserate with their not-so-great performances.  I learned that their successes, not only on the dance floor but in other areas of their lives, could make me burst with pride just like it was my own kid.  That their sadness and grief when life was not so good to them would be mine too.

I learned that there are terribly rude people out there.  People who will try to sneak all kinds of shit over...sitting in seats not their own at a recital.  People who will walk in front of other people when there is a dance on stage.  People who will deliberately stack a dance number to put an advanced group in a younger age group or even a lower level to increase the odds of winning.  People who will go so far as to steal parts of other studio's costumes.  People who will leave a recital early because their kid has already performed.

But I also learned that there are some really great people out there.  People who raise their children to cheer for other studios when they win.  Strangers who will stop to help when you have a child who is injured.  Strangers who will help you when you have two garment bags, a rolling duffle bag, a purse, a portable refrigerator, a huge ass mug of coffee, and a full flight of steps to carry them up.

I learned that it is ok for other women to mold my daughters.  To call them out on their bullshit when needed.  To push them.  To take them to the next level, when even I, their mother, who thinks they are perfect and capable of anything, would not have insisted on it.  That some of these role models would influence every aspect of my children's lives.  That I would cry with these role models when it was all over because it is so bittersweet and that part of our job is over.

I learned that I can arrange multiple bouquets of flowers into various vases, too.

I learned that my husband is the ultimate "girl dad", as much as that makes my teeth hurt to say.  He was a steady fixture at the dance studio until Alexis learned to drive.  I'm pretty sure most of the teachers and staff liked him better than me.  Some of the girls really looked up to him as a father figure and would talk his ear off.  He even once got conned into doing a pushup contest at a comp because he can't tell these girls no (mind you, only a few months post-surgery from a bicep tear, to boot...).

I learned that I paid for dance as much for me as for them.  Because it does take a village.  And bitchez, that village has helped me to raise some phenomenal daughters (and a granddaughter, too, because Delilah is up on that stage as well).

So to my dance family: Thank you for all the memories.  Thank you for helping me to raise my girls.

Thanks.

Encanto

 If you have children under the age of 12, you have probably seen Disney's Encanto.  It's a cute movie with catchy tunes written by Lin Manuel Miranda and since I am pretty much obsessed with Hamilton, it seemed a solid choice of movies to watch.  There's the very catchy tune "We Don't Talk About Bruno" and "Under Pressure" is basically my own personal anthem.  There's a play on swear words with the whole "Miercoles" thing and a house with not only a name, Casita, but magical abilities to help the family with daily tasks (side note: my life goal is now, besides having my own Wikipedia page, to own a house with a really pretentious name.  Like, Casita is not a little abode like the name implies.  It's fricking huge.  And has a tower.)

Anyways, as I am watching it, my therapist training took over as it often does to ruin entertainment for me, and I noticed two things: 1.) Generational trauma was all over this fucking movie.  Like, trauma begetting trauma begetting trauma.  That whole family could use some EMDR after Abuela got a hold of them.  And 2.) The family is also a perfect example of the family roles in addiction.

What, say you, are family roles in addiction?  Well, addiction is a family disease in that it does not just affect the addict (no shit, Sherlock, right?  Just wait...)  What most people DON'T know is that there are roles that people tend to fall into in these families.  There are six different roles, and many people can have multiple roles in the family.  But usually they are all present in some form.  So let's dig in.

First, of course, there is the addict.  In this case, that is definitely Abuela.  Her addiction?  The magic that the family has been gifted.  In alcoholic/addicted families, we very often see an attitude of "brush it under the rug.  Put on the happy face and pretend everything is OK.  What happens in this house, stays in this house."  Abuela is OBSESSED with preserving the Madrigal family magic, to the point of "punishing" her granddaughter Maribel for NOT have powers. (Ironic, because she does not seem to have any herself...)  I will also say here...I have NEVER met an addict or an alcoholic without a history of trauma.  Never.  And Abuela...well, I don't want to give too many spoilers, but they address her what her trauma is in the movie.  And it's a doozy.  I will also note, addicts are very often charming and "give you the shirt off their back" kind of people.  And we do see these traits in Abuela, unfortunately at the cost of her family.

Next, there are the enablers.  And I would say, as is often the case, the entire family are her enablers.  There is so much focus on their gifts and what they are able to do because of the magic (Abuela's "addiction".)  There is not much said about people who marry into the family because they do not fit into the narrative of the gifted people giving back, therefore they are not much "use" to Abuela other than to continue to produce the next generation of gifted citizens, therefore perpetuating Abuela's addiction.

Then there is the hero.  I actually kind of detest this label, as it implies someone who swoops in to save the day.  That is not the case.  This is someone who the family can point to and say, "Look.  We aren't that fucked up.  Look at what we produced."  They are the visible sign of the family's success.  There's a few heroes in this movie, the most prominent being Isabella (who hopes to continue this role by marrying Mariano even though she does not really want to.)  One could also make the argument that Luisa is a hero as well as she keeps on working and serving the community as Abuela demands, even as she questions if she is even worth anything if she cannot continue to produce.

Next is the scapegoat.  There are two apparent scapegoats here: Bruno and Maribel.  There's an entire fucking song about Bruno: "We Don't Talk About Bruno".  He is blamed for the family's problems, and then when he disappears, they act like he never existed.  Then Maribel, when the house is LITERALLY cracking, is blamed for that as well.  At one point, she even says point blank to Abuela "I will never be good enough for you".  Addicts often demand perfection from those around them, because they need to maintain things for their addiction to survive.  In this case, Abuela needs everyone to fall in line so the magic can continue.  The scapegoats job is to take the focus off of the addict, and both Maribel and Bruno do a great job of doing this.

Mascots come in next.  These are the funny guys, the clowns.  This would be Camilo as he literally changes himself to create humor in any situation that he sees.  He is the comic relief.

Finally, there is the lost child.  These are the forgotten ones, the ones brushed aside.  Luisa would at times fit this role as she is often left to fend for herself and to carry her anxiety all alone.  Dolores would be another example of a lost child.  She hears things not meant for her ears and is brushed aside as a partner for Mariano as she is not "perfect enough" like Isabella is.  These ones are often the ones who provide a sense of relief for the family as "we don't have to worry about them."  Unfortunately, they often end up as the ones with the most anxiety.

And like so many alcoholic/addicted families, things will fall apart eventually.  You can only do so much patching, Bruno, before the house crumbles.  And just like treatment for addiction, you need to develop a completely new foundation before another house can be built (hopefully a more healthy, functional house where things are aired out and not swept under the rug.)

Josh

 

My husband's best friend of 37 years, Josh, died a week ago, very unexpectedly and abruptly.  We had his service today, with military honors, and I was going to speak on Charles's behalf at the celebration of life afterwards, as I did not want to do so at the actual service itself.  That never happened, because no one made a move to do so before we left and quite frankly, I was not going to bug his family about it because it was not about me anyways.  I am going to put it here, however, so my husband can come back and look at these words whenever he needs to.

For those of you who do not know me, my name is Laura.  My husband is Charles, Josh's best friend of 37 years.  When we got the news that Josh had passed away, Holly asked me if Charles would want to speak.  He said no, but asked me to do so for him.  I agreed, and then promptly panicked.  What am I supposed to say about a man like Josh that is not going to come out as trite, canned, and overused?  Being the self respecting Xiennial that I am, I turned to the internet for ideas, specifically social media.  Here are a list of words that various people used to describe him:

Friend.

Shit-eating grin.

Good man.

Hard working.

Stubborn.

Fun.

Family.

Softy.

There was one word, however, that was in nearly every post that I scoured about him.  

Love.

Josh loved completely, with his whole heart.  I got to witness 19 out of 37 years of his and Charles's friendship.  Most people do not have this kind of friendship.  They were truly more like brothers.  As Holly said, they probably talked to each other more than they did to me or Holly.  After Josh died, Charles told me he estimated that they talked to each other about once a week.  When I told Holly this, her response was exactly what mine was. "Once a week?  More like daily."

Because Charles loved me, so did Josh.  He accepted me without question, because I made his boy happy.  I am not going to tell stories about their shenanigans.  Mostly because some were *just* this side of legal, plus I am not sure what Timmy and Peggy know or don't know and I am NOT going to be the one to tell them.

Brendan, JJ, and Libby...you kids were his life.  I remember every year after fair, your dad would start grumbling about how "we're not getting any animals again next year".  And every year, I told Charles I wanted to put money down on how many cows, goats, sheep, pigs you were going to get.  He did this because he knew it would benefit you.  Every thing he did was for your benefit.  Even when you would fight with him, he wanted the best for you and was fighting with you to get it for you because he wanted you to succeed.  And I think that he did a pretty phenomenal job of it.

I will say, this world will never be the same without Josh in it.  But we sure can make it a better place if we all loved like he did.  We'll miss you beyond words.  Don't worry, Josh, I'll take care of him for you.

Drill

I have been volunteering in Charlie's classroom on Tuesdays.  Mostly because my parents always modeled the importance of being involved in your kids' schools, and by God, if  I am going to be judged based upon my children it is going to be for inappropriate parenting, not uninvolvement in their classrooms.

I like going in and working with the first graders, helping them do things such as form more coherent sentences than our commander in chief is apparently able to and differentiating between long o and short o.  Of course, Charlie gets a kick out of me being in there because I am still cool in her eyes.  All to change in the next few years, I am sure, because Alexis sure as hell is sliding into "my mom is embarrassing as fuck" territory at an alarming rate.

Most days, this is mundane and routine and I leave and drive to work, no problem.  Today was not one of those days.

The fire alarm went off.

It has been documented that I have a propensity to attract fire and apparently have magical dragon powers, minus the scales.  I've not talked yet about how meaningful fire alarms are to my family, mostly because I keep forgetting to do so, but just know that they are.  Most of the time, fire alarms are a good thing for us (minus, of course, any actual fire.  That would be bad, probably.). 

Except.

Valentine's Day, 2018.  Florida.

Those kids in Charlie's class, man.  They had no fucking clue that when that alarm went off, I was internally freaking.  Now, the teachers seemed to know that there was going to be a fire drill that day (do they tell teachers this shit in advance?  I hope so cause that would really suck to be in art class taking a cast of your arm or some shit and have to haul ass outside dragging that with you...).  But...will there forever be that lingering doubt in their minds, that there is some asshole with a gun waiting out there to pick them all off?  What about times when the alarm goes off, because some kid pulls it, or God forbid, there is a real fire?  Will there always be that doubt in the back of their minds that they are actually going to safety, or to their worst nightmare?

What the fuck?  What the actual fuck?  How are we OK with this?  How is it OK for a scenario that would (let's be honest, here, cause it's me and I am a bit crazy...) normally just be my own personal crazy running through my head be an actual, possible, real life thing?  Hell, I freak out hearing an ambulance internally, convinced that my husband and/or children are dead.  It used to be hell working next to the hospital, when life flight came by and every single time I'd panic on the inside, thinking that maybe this time Charles really lit himself on fire good, or one of the kids fell and broke their neck on the playground, or, or....

Those are not realistic thoughts.  I am fully, 100% aware of this, and dear sweet mother of God if I could control them even starting in the first place I would.  But the fact that a shooter could pull an alarm and pick off my children, and everyone else's children...this actually happened.  THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

I look at those survivors from Florida.  You know, the kids that people decry as lazy.  As disconnected from actual human interaction.  As entitled, spoiled brats.  They are charging full speed ahead and making their voices heard, even as people try to discredit them as "too young".  These "too young" people have gone through hell because of the adults around them failing to act. And I have to admit, I am ashamed to be an adult right now.  We failed these kids.  We failed to recognize that perhaps an 18 year old is NOT mature enough to purchase an AR as their brain is not even fully developed until age 25.  We failed to acknowledge that domestic violence is a HUGE red flag for mass shootings.  We failed to protect the very future of this country, our most precious resources, because it is not financially wise for politicians to do so if they want to further their careers. 

We failed.  And until this country is willing to accept and acknowledge this...I fear that we will continue to fail.  And that, my friends, is a scary, scary prospect.  The stakes are too high.  For all of us.

Ph.D.

It is absolutely crazy, at this point in my life, to even contemplate getting one of these.

Yet I have.  And do.  Quite frequently.

It has always been a personal goal for me.  I certainly don't *need* it to do my job.  I  have no desire to teach, because that would be disastrous most likely as, despite having a Master's degree in education, I am decidedly NOT an educator.  I bow down to educators, in fact, and would like to gift all of you a virtual bottle of wine.  Virtual, in that my husband has still refused to show me where he keeps all the money I married him for, and because I am trying to start a small business and this last month I *just* cleared enough to cover rent for the office and that's it.  Yay me!

Research would be fun, but again that might involve teaching college courses.  Though I suppose if all I had to do was lecture, that might not be too bad.  As opposed to being responsible for the development of the minds of the future generation.  At least by 18, they already know how to read and shit, and both on the toilet even.

Most of my clients call me Doctor, anyways, so it would be nice to be able to stop correcting them.  Plus, I would for sure grow in my clinical skills, and supervision would be a possibility as well (long and complicated topic, but basically helping to train the next generation of therapists).  But again...it's not something I *need*, but more something I want.

And therein lies the crux.  I feel as though, despite having a higher degree than anyone in my immediate family currently does, that I am still not good enough.  That I still have not proven myself, that I am a failure because I got knocked up at 16, then graduated high school a year early with only a 4.2 GPA because I could not get straight A's while raising an infant and going to high school and I lost an entire year to bring it up, then graduated college with only a 3.5 GPA because college doesn't give 5 point A's and I had to work 40 hours a week to support my kid because my dumb ass refused to get cash assistance, then took 3 years off from higher education after my bachelor's because I got married and moved me and my daughter 45 minutes away from family, then got my Master's while being pregnant multiple times, giving birth once to a live child, and losing my son and multiple other pregnancies.  I don't have those three letters after my name, so all of that is meaningless.

What.  The.  Fuck.

Why do I feel this constant drive to prove myself?  I've been doing it for years.  Most people would look at all of that and be like, "wow".  I look at that for other people and I go "wow."  I look at that for me, and go "what the fuck is wrong with you that you haven't gotten your Ph. D. yet?"

I frequently confront clients with their thinking errors.  I often ask them what the would say to a friend who is going through what they are, then ask "what makes you so special that this does not apply to you?  That what you would say to literally every other person on the planet, you would not say to yourself?"  This usually elicits a smile (though, full disclosure, one time this backfired on me spectacularly...) and gets them thinking.

So, self...what makes you so special that this does not apply to you?  That what you would say to literally every other person on the planet, you would not say to yourself?

Physician, heal thyself.

And wait for the fucking Ph. D. until you are at least only working one job.

Words

In case you missed it, there was recently an election and a man was voted into the office of President.

Now, I am sure that it comes as no surprise that I tend to lean liberal.  Waaaay liberal.  As in, there's no leaning and I've already fallen over the wall into the water headfirst.  (For the record, not the wall that Trump wants to build 😉)  I am not one to argue much with people, as I tend surprisingly to be conflict adverse and a bit of a people pleaser.  It compliments my paranoia, anxiety, and the wall I've built up quite well.  (Again...not THE wall.  Apparently built by Schrodinger's immigrant...)

That being said...I need to get out some of my thoughts on words.  Someone told my daughter, "Trump isn't that bad.  It's just words he said."

Just words.  

Tell that to the grown men who sit in my office sobbing and tell me about how their mother used to scream at them that she wishes she hates them and wishes they were never born.`

Tell that to the woman who is trying to make sense of her relationship, when one minute her partner is calling her the love of his life and the next is giving her a fat lip.

Tell that to the child who was just threatened by his molester that if he/she tells, their perpetrator will hurt their family, or they will be responsible for breaking up the family, or that no one will believe him/her.

Tell that to the people who impeached Bill Clinton, for lying under oath.

Extreme examples?  OK, then.  Tell that to the women who are cat called walking down the street.  How do they know if those remarks were just "locker room talk" or if there is serious intent behind them?

Tell that to the three year old who innocently drops the F-bomb in front of your boss.  It's just words, right?  No need for correction here!

Tell that to the news reporter who gets in trouble for not using the word "alleged".

Tell that to the professors of the over-stressed college student who plagiarized a paper.

Just words, right?

The point is, words matter.  Trying to pretend otherwise is either foolhardy or an expression of privilege.  And when the words are coming from someone in a position of power, they matter a great deal.  Especially when those words tend to be backed up by actions.  Tweet much? 

Look.  I'm no politician.  I do not have the fortitude for it (despite my ongoing campaign on Facebook to be YOUR elected official, which I win by a landslide every election as 100% of zero votes is zero votes).  I do not have the knowledge of foreign affairs, the intricacies of government, or the ability to bite my tongue or moderate my words.  Though apparently that is no longer a requirement for the top office of this nation.  Ahem.  

It's not a matter of being a special snowflake.  (Admit it though, I totally am...)  It's not a matter of needing a "safe space" or being a crybaby.  It is a matter of the impact of words, and how they are used by people in power.  Both to uplift people and to break them down.  Gaslighting is powerful, sometimes more so than sincere positive affirmations.  And I am very afraid that the American public is being gaslighted.  

I do not condone the sometimes violent rhetoric and actions that are being used against our current president.  I have written before about the violence that is so prevalent in our society.  I also do not condone those who want protesters to stop being "crybabies because your candidate did not win", or whatever variation of that you want to toss in there.  It is a protected right to peaceably assemble, as is the right to vote and bear arms.  Why should it matter what those protesters say?

It's just words.

And therein lies the problem  Schrodinger's words.  Simultaneously meaningless and unimportant and an affront to a peaceful transition of power.

Village

One of the greatest joys I have in this journey of parenting, aside from passing down functional knowledge of how to appropriately use fuck as pretty much all parts of speech, is watching my children develop their talents and interests.

Elizabeth, for instance, is a pretty kickass softball player.  She definitely gets that from her dad's side of the family as I have never been able to get the hang of any sport that required a ball.  Or athletic talent, really.  If wine bottle opening was a sport, I'd be a fucking Olympian, however. I did run cross country in high school but I'm pretty sure that since most of us looked like we were dying out there I blended right in...that and back in the day before children and poor life choices destroyed them, I had a pretty nice rack so most of the teenage boys were likely fixated on that.  

I love getting out to her games, even when it is cold.  If you know me, you know that I hate Spring.  One year I swear to God every single game was below freezing.  Because Spring is an asshole.  But by God, every game I could get to I was there.  Unfortunately I usually forgot my coat, so I also have likely done some frostbite damage...but I was there.  Why?

Because that's what good parents do, and I like to pretend that is what I am.  And also, because those young women worked their asses off, most days of the week.  They came back, game after game, and played their best every time.  Despite losing most games.  Despite being down a ridiculous amount of runs.  It was a pleasure and a joy to watch them grow throughout the season.  It was a pleasure to watch a coach of a team that previously won against them pitch a fit like a two year old when, at the end of the season, they beat his team and he couldn't get it overruled.  Those players EARNED that victory.  Elizabeth was part of a team and was learning important life lessons and shit.  Totally worth frostbite and having to be out in Spring weather.

Charlie and Alexis are on the competition dance team, which thankfully is an indoor sport and does not require me to be outside in weather below 50* for long periods of time.  It does, however, require travel to dance competitions and fun shit like putting fake eyelashes on and learning the best way to bobby pin a hat to your child's head so it won't fall off (the answer, just in case you are wondering, does not involve a staple gun.  I am neither going to confirm nor deny if I ever contemplated that.)  Alexis had started out dance at the age of two and a half and cried.  Every.Fucking,Class.  She then soon got over her hatred of people and public and socializing and realized that she loves it.  She is now getting ready to do her solo.  Charlie...well, it's her first year on competition so we shall see if she decides to continue it or not.  I'm not sure how much of her being on the team is related to her wanting to be like her big sister; however at this point I am just grateful that it is keeping her from hiring herself out for murder or espionage or other devious deeds so I'll take it.

I recently watched the two of them dance at an informal performance.  I still get choked up watching them, just as I do when I see Elizabeth doing her thing on the softball field as well.  All of the work, the injuries, the practices, the tears...all culminating in a performance where they make it look so easy.  These girls go out there and dance despite injuries.  Despite life happening, like cancer or the death of a parent or being bullied at school.  The cost is well worth it, for a variety of reasons.  The life lessons that they learn.  The importance of  hard work.  Or camaraderie, especially with other females.  The sting of losing along side the joys of winning.  The importance of being a part of a team, but also of doing your part and improving yourself.

I simply don't know that as a parent, I can teach these lessons as well as others can.  I am too involved.  Too attached.  Too protective.  Too anxious.  Would I make them take risks?  Would I push them to their limits, even as they groan and protest?  Would I stand by and let them fail when they don't do that hard work?  As hard as it is to admit, the answer to all of those is probably no.  I can't be that for my kids, for a number of reasons (and the first is likely that I am bat shit crazy...)  I freely give them to other adults, professionals in their fields, to shape and to mold.  To make them what I cannot, to say the things to them that need to be said.  To shape them into the young women they will be (or are, in Elizabeth's case).

It does take a village.  So to all of those coaches out there...the dance teachers...the school teachers..., baby sitters... daycare providers...4H leaders...thank you.  Thank you for giving my child, and many others, a chance to grow and learn.  Thank you for believing in my child.  Thank you for seeing worth in my child participating, and for seeing potential.  Thank you for putting my child in their place when they need it, and lifting them up when they are down.  Thank you for taking your time, whether volunteer or paid, to invest in my kid, even knowing that she may not become a professional dancer, or softball player, or whatever.  Thank you for seeing value in children's activities.

Thank you.

18

Today is the last day that I have a minor child.  Tomorrow, Elizabeth turns 18.

This is a huge ass victory.  All of the people who thought I would never go anywhere or do anything because of her...wrong.  All of the people who thought I would not be able to raise a child as a young single mother...wrong.  All of the people who thought that she would be FUBAR'ed because of me...wrong.

Or maybe it was in spite of me.

My daughter is absolutely amazing.  I know every parent says that.  But.  She has overcome some pretty steep challenges against her.  A mother who lived at the poverty level for a pretty long time.  A single mother.  A mother and father who did not always get along so well.  A YOUNG single mother.  Somewhat dysfunctional families on both sides.

She is not a statistic.  She has grown up and evolved to be a pretty goddamned fantastic human being.

The kind of person who will make it a mission to make a perfect stranger she has never met, who got stood up for homecoming, have a great night.  The kind of person who will stop at Walmart on her way home from work to buy her baby sister five goldfish when the one she got her for her first birthday died.  The kind of person who will text her mother "go get em, tiger" when she is interviewing for a job that could potentially change all of our lives.  The kind of person who will stand up for her friends when they are persecuted for their religion.  The kind of person that other people tell me, without fail, is a genuinely nice, sweet girl.

Don't get me wrong.  That kid has her faults.  She is stubborn as hell.  I blame her father for that one.  She knows her mind.  Blame him for that as well.  She is messy at times. Again, him.  She has the Lambkins temper.  I don't know yet if she has the Lambkins tolerance for alcohol, nor do I want to know if she knows this yet.  I can't figure out a way to blame her father (or stepfather, for that matter LOL) for either of these so I guess I have to own those...

But the fact that she is not some god-awful hellion child that teachers wince and brace themselves for in the classroom...the fact that she is able to have a relationship with both sides of her family...the fact that she has an inherent sense of right and wrong and that she acts on this sense to make sure right is done...the fact that every employer she has had, every person she has babysat for loves her to pieces...

All of that is despite her parents' best efforts to totally fuck her up.  And trust me, all of us tried really really hard to do so.

Happy birthday, Elizabeth Carle.  Mamacakes loves you ever and ever so much.  And remember very very hard as you venture out into the world tomorrow morning as an adult:

You are my sunshine, 
My only sunshine, 
You make me happy, 
When skies are gray, 
You'll never know dear, 
How much I love you.
Please don't take 
My sunshine away.
 

Lying

There is a saying floating around the Internets, I believe coined by the Bloggess (or at least I am giving her credit.  Kinda like the whole I didn't say you were at fault, I said I was going to blame you thing)...it is simply "Depression lies."

It tells you you are no good.

It tells you things will never get better.

It tells you no one will miss you if you are gone, and even if they do they will quickly get over it. 

It tells you there is no joy in life.

It tells you that you are choosing to feel this way and deserve it because of a fundamental flaw in your make up and if you really really wanted to you could just get over it.

It lies to you.  Over and over and over again, and sucks you down into the abyss without you even realizing it.  And then when you are trying to climb out, the fucker greases the walls and laughs at you while you frantically try to get to the top.

To breathe.

To survive.

To be able to feel something, anything, besides that deep dark hole in the pit of your stomach that keeps sucking you in and making you slide back down.

And one of the most remarkable things about those who suffer from depression, is that they continue to try to climb back up those walls.  They continue to breathe.  Continue to survive, when their very being is screaming for relief and the only surefire way to get it is through death.

A person with depression is the opposite of weak.  Imagine trying to get up out of bed with a 500 lb weight on your chest.  That has weight added to it every day, so that you can never get accustomed to it and stronger.  That tells you that it will never go away and what a horrible person you are.  And then you have to try to accomplish daily tasks, like bathing.  Caring for others.  Working.  Living.  Maybe even laughing when all you want to do is scream and curl up inside yourself.

It's hard, but sometimes you start to climb out of that abyss.  The fog lifts and motivation returns.  Your capacity to feel joy comes back.  You want to bathe versus doing it just so the people you live with can tolerate you.

But it's always there in the back of your mind, that you could slip up and slide back down.  And then you do, and that just gives the depression more ammo to use against you. 

You were feeling better.

If you were a better/stronger/smarter person, you wouldn't backslide so easily.

You're fucking up your family/friends/relationships/career.

All that progress you made...for nothing.

And yet still, you climb up the slippery walls, ignoring the mocking laughter coming from the abyss.  Because you are going to survive.  You know it's a fatal disease sometimes, but you try and try and try.

Because depression lies.

Judging

I never knew the sting of a contemptuous stare until I had to stand in line at DJFS to resubmit my paperwork for the voucher for daycare so I could finish college.

I never knew the frustration of wanting to defend myself to those people because I was getting government help until I had to pretend to hold my head high as I walked past them and heard their not so subtle comments about the teenage mother.

I never knew that fake tattoos only stay on a child's cheek forever if you have pictures scheduled until I had to scrub one off of a pissed off child.

I never knew the struggle of infertility until I lost pregnancy after pregnancy.

I never knew that there would be women jealous that I could even *get* pregnant until I lost pregnancy after pregnancy.

I never knew the knife that twisted in your heart as a bereaved parent until I had to pick up the remains of a dead child from the crematory.

I never knew the soul crushing weight of depression until the day I did not want to get out of bed.

I never knew the hurt of losing a pet until I had to bury a dog.

I never knew that alcohol was not, in fact, the answer until I woke up the next day with a splitting headache and vague memories of what (and who) I *think* I had done the night before.

I never knew the stats about sexual abuse were so under reported that they are practically useless because they do not show the true story until I started to hear the victim's stories.

I never knew that people with schizophrenia DO want to work until I saw it be done.

I never knew that it was so hard to be poor until I was actually poor myself and had to figure out how to feed my child.

I never knew that yes, it is important to get regular oil changes until I blew up the motor.

I never knew that the parents who's child is screaming in the aisles at the grocery store may not be lazy, worthless, abusive parents of said child but may have a special needs child.  Or a difficult child.  Or a child who is simply having a really bad day.

I never knew that children had so much personality until I started to work with them.

I never knew that I would be judged on the quality of my womanhood if I had my uterus removed, until I had it removed.

I never knew that the food I was eating was slowly killing me until I lost, then gained back, weight.

I never knew the extent that men feel entitled to women's bodies and the extent to which they feel free to comment, stare, and then be pissed when they don't get what they feel entitled to, until I lost a bunch of weight.

I never knew the price often exacted from our servicemen and women until I had family members have to pay that price.

I never knew the agony of sleepless nights worrying about money until I had to rob Peter to pay Paul who was robbed last month to pay Samuel...

I never knew how much I judged others until I realized how much I in turn was judged by others, despite feeling that I had no reason to be judged.

And...I never fully understood the idea of not judging other's battles until your hands are clean until I was judged, found lacking, and then realized that their hands were just as dirty as mine.

Boxes

In my basement, amongst all of the other shit that ends up down there due to not having a garage and having a house that is set up in a more awkward fashion than a teenage boy trying to cop his first feel, there are three Rubbermaid containers.  One is almost completely full; one is partially full, and one does not have very much in it.

These are the boxes in which I put a variety of things from each of the girls.  Report cards.  Mother's Day cards.  Art from the art show.  Newspaper clippings in which they are featured.  Significant school projects.

I have stuff from Elizabeth when she was in daycare.  Class pictures from Alexis's preschool years.  The first time Charlie wrote her name all by  herself.

Let's face it here...I am not going to scrapbook these memories.  I tried it once and then immediately drank a bottle of wine.  I would much rather crochet the day away or create hair bows my children will never wear than scrapbook.  I also really suck at keeping baby books.  Do they even really do those anymore?  Charlie's might have like the first page filled out.  That is like some sort of cruel motherhood torturing device...let's give you a cute book that you have to write down shit your baby does because you will TOTALLY have time for that.  Fuck. That.  At least the wine consumption you can do while holding the child.  Ever try to write something with a child on your lap?  Or try to scrapbook?  Too many sharp objects and too much glue to do with a kid around.  At least with making the clips, if they touch the hot glue gun they'll learn.  And if they don't...well, you have bigger fish to fry my friend.

I am really trying to avoid thinking about the box that is almost full.  Elizabeth will be leaving soon.  And not just to go visit her father.  Like, leaving and being legally responsible for herself and having to manage her money and cook her own meals and take care of herself if she gets sick leaving.  Like having to manage her time and make her own curfew leaving.

She is an amazing kid.  Despite my best efforts to totally fuck her up, she is just amazing.  Her little sisters look up to her with so much awe (and totally call her out when she is being a turd).  That box that is full...that is a short lifetime of memories there.  Of growth, and learning, and accomplishments.

Some day  her sisters' will have full boxes too.  And I will know that it is time to let them go.  And I just have to hope that they remember touching that hot glue gun, and all of the other lessons that come along with that short lifetime.  Eighteen years does not seem long enough to prepare them for a lifetime.  And yet, somehow we do.

Body

I currently hate my body.

Not in the "OMG I am so fat and society hates me!" (though I am not going to deny there is some of that going on as well...)  It is more in the whole Sjogren's Disease is taking over my body kind of way.

Charlie was recently so nice as to share a stomach bug with me.  Sweet, huh?  It was a 24 hour deal for her.  And for my mother-in-law, with whom she also shared.  It took me twice as long to recover.  Hell, I am still not fully recovered but I am pretending that I am because if I don't I will just break down and cry.  Again.

I hate my body.

I hate complaining about my body.  But by God, I almost never do so I am going to do so now before I lose my fucking mind.

I hate that the medications that I take to keep my immune system from attacking my body are the same ones that lower my immune system so that I can't fight off illnesses as effectively.

I hate the judgement that I get from my boss every time that I call off because I am fucking sick.  Again.  Getting points, and possibly written up.  Again.

I hate that I now have to, at the ripe old age of 33, get FMLA papers filled out for a health condition.

I hate that I go into work when I shouldn't, that I push myself beyond what I should, and pay the price later, because that judgement does not just come from her but from others around me and people think I am whining when I describe the throbbing joint pain.  The unrelenting fatigue.  The stomach that occasionally will decide to throw a fit and rebel against everything that I eat, even in the absence of micro-organisms that cause this.  The not being able to eat much gluten because it makes it that much worse.  And do you know how many things have gluten in them?   The irritated, dry eyes that never really feel like the sand comes out of them.  The dry mouth that makes the three hours I am at the jail for work, where I am not allowed to have anything to drink to relieve it, sometimes a unique hell of its own (aside from the whole, hey I am locked in the jail at the mercy of the officers to let me out thing.) The dry skin, and, ahem, other areas.  The tingling and numbness and coldness that comes with Reynaud's, that is secondary to the Sjogren's.  The fear of getting a blood clot, again, related to a condition secondary to Sjogren's.  The very real fear that no matter how well I take care of my teeth, that some day I might lose them.  The very real fear that the next time I go back to the rheumatologist, this is going to be the time she tells me I have Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Or Lupus.  Or some other kind of autoimmune disease, because let's just see how many I can acquire because I apparently have nothing more to do than to add to my list of diagnoses and medications...

The very real fear that some day I might die like my father did,  drowning in the fluids from the lungs.  I joke about my cat-like fear of water; it is quite ironic that this could realistically be the way I died some day.

I hate the fact that to complicate all of this, I am now having some problems with my reproductive system and am losing, at certain times of the month, the equivalent of two+ pints of blood over the course of a week (and yes, I am able to quantify this.  Diva Cup)  Totally helpful for the fatigue.  Oh, and the calling off sick thing because I have had to leave work because I was bleeding so much that the front and back of my pants were soaked through.

TMI?  Probably.  But I am describing that to describe the hell that it has been to be me lately.  I don't want my children to remember me as being sick. Or my employer.  Or anyone. I don't want to be sick.  I did not ask for my body to turn on itself.  For my uterus to decide to turn the crimson tide into the crimson tsunami.  For my life to be run by physical limitations that only I can feel.

I want to go back to the time where I could abuse my body and know it would spring back.  Where I had unlimited, boundless energy.  Hell, I want to go back two months ago when things were somewhat under control.

I can wish in one hand and shit in another.  Wonder what will fill first?

Quickly

Last weekend, Charles and I took the little girls on a bike ride.  It was the first time that we were able to do this with Charlie, as she has really progressed nicely with riding her bike without riding it into a telephone pole (i.e., she is able to look up while pedaling).  Elizabeth was working, like she has pretty much all summer because her employer has a pretty flagrant disregard for things like child labor laws, so it was just the four of us.

We were riding through the streets of our town, and Alexis asked to decide which way we turned.  I had an intense flashback to riding the bike with Elizabeth, before Alexis was born, and even after with her in the trailer.  I remember the thrill, the freedom, that a child experiences with riding a bike.  I remember the sheer innocence of getting pleasure out of such a simple activity written all over her face the way it was Alexis's and Charlie's.  Those twilight rides, taken in that sweet time between the end of summer and the beginning of fall, are some of my favorite memories, with all of my girls.

It struck me how it seems like just a few summers ago that we were doing this with Elizabeth.  It does not seem possible that she is 16, going on 17 in a few short months.  I am keenly aware that soon she will not be living with us; that she will be moving on in life to start her own.

It really highlights the struggle that I have with having a family with such a drastic age difference.  It was part of why I was OK with Charlie being our last.  That 13 year age difference is a lot.  Elizabeth no longer enjoys the bike rides with her parents.  Hell, she avoids her parents as much as she can, except when she needs something signed or money.  And that is OK.  That is the way it is supposed to be.  Parenthood is working yourself out of a job, or at least a full time job.  You never really retire from parenthood, just semi-retire.  And when people tell you to enjoy it, you simultaneously roll your eyes because, quite frankly, we all retain a little bit of adolescent attitude and don't want to listen to our elders.  And because you know.  The baby comes home from the hospital, and all of a sudden they don't fit into their newborn clothes.  Overnight.  (Or in the case of the gargantuan babies I birth, the 0-3 months clothes...)  It does go so quickly, yet you are suffering from no sleep and the house never being clean enough and never having time to yourself and never pooping alone and planning dates around nap times and soccer games and sex what the hell is that...?  And hearing that is not what you want because you have so much guilt anyways that you aren't enjoying it enough.

I want to hold on to those memories, though, even as I have to let go.  I want to remember that little girl who called Charles Spike.  The girl who used to fight naps like they would kill her.  The preteen with the braces, who then moved onto the requisite heavy black eyeliner that almost every girl does at least once in her life.  The woman who stood before me in her prom dress and made me cry. (Four times.  This will happen four times because she will be going to prom all four years in high school...)   I want to remember all of this as I see the absolutely amazing woman that my daughter is becoming.  I am sure she does not feel amazing.  16 sucks.  It is a swirling shitstorm of emotions and insecurity and a stunning combination of naivete and wisdom, all wrapped into a body that is likely to be the best you have ever had in your life.

Every parent says they are proud of their child.  And every parent is.  I strongly feel that it is a testament to who Elizabeth is as a person that she is not completely fucked up, given the crazy that is her mother.  It will be a testament to Alexis, and to Charlie, that they managed to survive in spite of my best efforts to emotionally scar them.  I consider less than ten years of therapy apiece to be a success story.

So far, they are all at least smart enough to hide the bodies.  It's the small things, really.

Frozen

I saw the movie Frozen today.  I had heard a lot about it from the whole "prince as savior for helpless princess" thing, and, without giving the ending away, I was pleasantly surprised (though of course there was romance...wouldn't be a Disney movie without the whole idea of a woman needing to be completed by a man, DUH).  I was also surprised at the fact that the movie seemed to be a decent allegory in favor of gay rights.

I figured that I could not be the only one who had picked up on this, and when I googled it I saw that most people seemed to get the vibe that Elsa was gay.  Now I have notoriously AWFUL gaydar...I have a story from college about that where I found out in the course of a day that FIVE people I knew were gay and I had no clue.  At all.  And looking back, one was pretty obvious and had basically every stereotype you can think of when you think of a gay man....what I am saying here is maybe that is the case in the movie and I totally missed it.  It's happened before, OK?

What struck me, though, was when the king and queen took Elsa to the rock trolls and the grandpa troll asked the king, "Was she born this way or was it a curse?"  As is the case with homosexuality, the response was "born this way."  Another scene that stuck out for me was when Elsa is building her ice castle and sings the song "Let it Go" and something along the lines of "I'm alone, but I'm finally free to be me".   Away from the confines of the kingdom, where her parents literally closeted her, Elsa was finally able to revel in the gift that she was given and be herself.

The persecution and fear that came from the people of the kingdom also stuck out to me.  Fear, revulsion, horror...all of what they did not understand.  She was something to be removed, hid out of sight...even the gloves were symbolic of her repression.  Don't be yourself, don't be different, you are dangerous to our society.  If you can't control yourself and who you are, we must eliminate you.  Very similar rhetoric that comes from aficionados of Fox News...

What sealed the deal for me was the ending.  It was love and acceptance that saved the day.  Elsa was still Elsa in the end...still had her powers, still was who she was born to be.  The very fabric of the society that she loved, however, was not worse off because of acknowledging her gift.  In fact, when she tried to hide and suppress it, she ended up harming not only the people she loved, but also society and causing herself emotional harm.  When her kingdom embraced who she was and not some false caricature of who they thought she should be, Elsa was able to enhance life in the kingdom and they all lived happily ever after in true Disney fashion. 

Raining

Mommy!  Moooooommmmmmmmyyyyy!!!

I look up from cooking, alarmed.  It is never a good thing when your children come running in from outside screeching like that.  I go over to the mud room and notice that it has just let loose, pouring down rain.  Relief enters my heart.  THAT is why they are screaming for me.  I open the door and Charlie and Alexis come in, laughing and shaking off the rain.  Charlie looks up at me, grinning.

"Mama, I was running in from the rain, did you see me Mom?  It was TOTALLY AWESOME!!!"

I couldn't help but think about how had that been me caught in the rain, the ensuing rage would have been of apocalyptic proportions.  I would have been pissed about getting wet, about the sensation of having damp clothes against my body, wet hair, and cold feet.  I would not have laughed at having to run in from playing.  I would not have had a first thought of it being totally awesome.

When was the last time that I danced in the rain?  The answer to that is probably never, though I do have a memory of playing in the puddles in the streets after heavy rains and playing in the one spot in the driveway that held water after my father washed the car.  The idea there is the same though...taking an awful situation and making the best of it.

This brings to mind the fundraiser I am running for JJ.  The number of people who are being so exceedingly generous simply astounds me.  It is amazing and I cannot think about it without getting choked up.  People who do not even know JJ are donating.  Something good out of something awful.

My challenge, then, is this.  What can you do to take a bad situation and make it better?  Not good, mind you.  Nothing good comes out of getting caught in the rain, or from having cancer, or any of the other myriad things that are awful in the world.  What can you do to make it better?  Dance in the rain.  Give to a stranger.  Pay it forward somehow.

The little things add up.  Change starts with the individual and vibrates outward.  Make some noise and stop going with the flow.  If everyone thought about someone else for just a little bit, what a difference that would make.  Will it eliminate all of the crap, the diseases, the storms?  No.  This is the world we live in and that we have been given.  All that comes with the territory.  We can only change what we do.

Dance in the rain.

Indecision

It is a common misogynist trope that women are notoriously flighty and constantly change their minds.  I sometimes fit that bill, though it is unclear if this is due to being female or being depressed/anxious or the pressures of society or because I am just plain old of the crazy variety.  Possibly a combo of all of the above.

Most days I am perfectly content.  I am content to do things like throw elaborate birthday parties for my kids and their friends with crazy complicated homemade cakes, to bake homemade bread and grind chicken for homemade gluten free chicken tenders.  I am content to spend my time at home with my family, and just occasionally going out.  I am mostly happy in my job and sometimes confident that I can do it without causing lasting harm to people.  I am usually happy living in BFE (though if the chance came to move back to where I come from, I would probably snap it up in a second).  I am happy with my house though I realize its layout is not ideal.

But.

But there are times I question just staying at home on the weekends with the children.  There are times I think that I might want to look at a new job.  Hell, there are times I consider moving into an entirely new FIELD.  I consider working part time.  I look at other states to live in as well as other cities.  I consider cutting my hair, painting walls, rearranging furniture.  Just...a change of some sort.

Where does this restlessness with my situation come from?  When changes are forced upon me, I get pissed at the lack of control.  It causes my anxiety to skyrocket and the crazy in me to come out in ways that probably adds months if not years to my children's therapy totals.  But when things get too mundane, too routine...I start to look for ways to change it up.  I am a mass of paradox that way.

Or ODD.  Really, either/or.

Variety is the spice of life, I suppose.  I always try to strive to be something unique and not like ordinary cinnamon.  Maybe cardamon, perhaps fennel.  Certainly not savory.  That spice just sounds like it is trying too hard with its name alone.

Just as long as I can control the amount of fennel, I guess.  Cause there is nothing that ruins a dish more than an overabundance of fennel.

Moon

Driving in the car with Charlie with the sun roof open at night:

Charlie: Mama, Mama!  The Moon!  It's so big! It's following us!

Me: (Trying not to laugh)  OK,  Charlie.  I see it.

Charlie:  Don't worry, Mama.  It won't come in the window.  It can't get us.


I laugh at this exchange because I distinctly remember being very annoyed as a small child that the moon followed us everywhere.  I mean, seriously MOON, don't you have anything better to do than to follow me like some kind of deranged psychopathic stalker?  They make movies about people doing that kind of shit...what makes you so special that you can just get away with it and follow me and be all SHINY IN THE SKY?

I of course grew up and realized why the moon "follows you" (just last week...KIDDING!) and now can kind of chuckle at the sweet innocence of thinking that the satellite that orbits the earth had it out for me and was deliberately fucking with me by following me home.  (Looking back, it shows that my derangement runs real deep if I was thinking like that before Kindergarden...)  That was back before I grew up and realized that babies don't always get born; that people die or are killed, and not just strangers but people I know; that people get sick; that people aren't going to be what you hoped or imagined they would.

Before I had to explain to my children that a little boy that they have known all their lives got suddenly critically ill. That he is in the hospital. That he has cancer.  Just typing those words out makes me want to shake.

No parent should have to go through what his are right now.  No parent should have to tell their children that another child is ill, and critically so.

I feel helpless.  I have avoided blogging for a while because I tend to write out some pretty raw things.  Facing the idea that a child I have known since age 3 months, with the big grin and the deep belly laugh, who has questionable tastes in professional football teams but is spot on with college teams, that he has cancer...the ultimate betrayal of one's own body, IMHO...I couldn't do it.  It is still hard.  Writing out that he has a life-threatening illness...I don't want to admit it.  If I feel this way, I can only imagine how his parents feel.

So I participate in fundraisers for them.  Hell, I am helping to organize one.  I re-post updates and wheedle donations.  The community response has been fabulous.  I do what I can sitting here.

But I still wish that I could go  back to a time when the moon following me was upsetting.  When I never knew what it was like to have to explain adult things to a child.  When these kinds of things happened to someone else.

He is your child.  Your neighbor.  Your son.  Your best friend.  Just because he does not live with you, next to you, go to your school; it does not mean that he and his struggles impact you any less.  This disease has an impact on you; just because it is not directly does not make it any less of an impact.

The same moon that stalks me is the same moon that shines down on him where he is getting treated for his lymphoma in a hospital room.  The same moon that shines on you where ever you are right now.

Be cognizant of this.   People matter.  They all have their stories; their journeys.  Perhaps if we weren't so quick to judge, the world would be better.  After all, the moon is equally obsessed with each and every one of us.

Rainbows II

I recently had to do an assessment that sent me to my knees for a variety of reasons that I cannot go into (HIPPA, yo!).  This was the kind of thing where I really struggled to maintain my composure and in fact, lost it during the session.  Luckily it was clinically appropriate.  I got back to my office, shut the door, and sobbed for about 10 minutes.

It was a rough day, to say the least.  It really did not get any better after that.  Thank God for 5 PM.  I went to pick Charlie up from the daycare.  She jumped up and down, she was so happy to see me.  That helped.

I take her to the Jeep and strapped her into her car seat.  There, across her cheek, was a small rainbow. I have hanging in my rear view mirror a prism that was my grandmother's.  I vividly remember it hanging in her dining room window, above her cart of houseplants.  She always had the most beautiful plants, and her  violets were always so vibrant and a deep purple.  Obviously I did not get the talent for growing house plants as they enter my house and just kill themselves instead of waiting for me to do it for them.  Anyways, this prism always shone rainbows all over her dining room and I always was fascinated by them.  This prism has always been in my car, and at various times does shine rainbows.  However, it had never done so at this time of day as it just did not catch the sun where I park.

Until this day.  There it sat, a small rainbow with no explanation for how it got there.  Never saw one there before, and have not seen one since.  A rainbow, just when I needed it.

I am not going to comment on beliefs about God, heaven, and the afterlife.  Mostly because I know that my  whole 7 readers run the gamut from the extremely devout to outright atheists, with everything in between.  And quite frankly, what I believe is what I believe and none of your business. Could the rainbows be a coincidence?  Absolutely.  Humans do look for meaning in the mundane.  I am incredibly comforted by the idea that my son is looking out for me in some way.  Whether it is true or just me grasping at straws, it was comforting.

Victim

I wept today.

I heard the verdict of the much publicized Steubenville rape case and I wept.  The trial frequently made my blood boil.  The sheer amount of privilege that is present in this case burns me up.  "I didn't know what rape was".  "She has a history of lying".  "Yeah, she was puking and I thought she was dead, but she consented."

All tired lines brought on by a rape culture.  All so insidious that no one really realizes just how damaging they are.

Women are still property.  Women are still meant to be playthings for the "good kids".

I am sorry, but if they were really "good kids", there would not have been a rape.

Probably an inflammatory statement, yes.  But there is such a pervasive sense of "I am sorry I got caught..."  One of those kids even said in his statement to the victim, "I am sorry that those pictures got sent around."  Not, "I am sorry I violated you and degraded you and raped you".

The parents stood up and tried to blame alcohol.  Not ONE SINGLE PERSON tried to stop and think, "Maybe we should just NOT RAPE.  Maybe we are NOT entitled to sex.  Maybe a woman CAN and SHOULD consent."

People are still worried about the "bad light" that has been shed on Steubenville.  This frequently happens when unexamined privilege and systemic biases are yanked out from behind the curtain.  This stuff does not happen in isolated incidents.  Violence, drugs, rapes...society supports them.  It is not just Steubenville.  They just happened to have gotten caught.  Everyone needs to change.

How many more victims do we need to have before this happens?   I just hope that it is not too late to rehabilitate those boys.  I hope that the victim gets some measure of peace, though I know this is unlikely.  I hope that the community looks within itself to change.  I fear that this is also unlikely.