My head hurts just watching it. And the language that she is using towards her child – I mean, I curse around my girls but I don’t curse AT my girls. All of it is just indicative of a bad situation. That mother needs parenting classes, among other things.

I flagged this video on YouTube months ago. Apparently, they don’t think this is wrong or cruel or disgusting. So, I’m asking you – do you think this is child abuse? If you do, I suggest you flag it as well. If you don’t, pleaseeeeeeeee tell me what your thoughts on it are.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. It Never Ends…On my iGoogle front page, in my news gadget I...
2. If you have a shitload of kids…you may not want to read any farther, lest you...
3. I’m Semi-Hot and Super-Annoyed.Bangable Blog Babe Damnitt! Only ranked @ 3! Gotta get...

It’s such a common thing to say, but it’s not true.

Not always.

All relationships are different, just like the people in them are.

It is very, very possible to hit someone that you love.

Love and violence are not mutually exclusive.

Just because a person is not capable of handling their anger in a proper way does not mean they do not care for you,

and while I almost understand why someone would say this,

I don’t. Not quite.

They need to get help.

It is never ok.

But just because they did it, doesn’t mean they don’t.

Maybe they don’t enough.

Maybe they don’t at all.

But maybe they really, truly do.

It doesn’t make someone weak to believe that someone that beat them loved them. Love is not enough, love should not hold them to someone that hurts them in any way, but attempting to convince them that the person that loved them really didn’t is arrogant and cruel on your part. You weren’t in the relationship and you don’t know. And sometimes, that belief is the only thing that keeps them sane; sometimes it helps them maintain their self respect when they can’t for the life of them figure out why they remained in such an awful situation for longer than they should have.

Either way, “If he loved you, he wouldn’t have hit you.” doesn’t help.

FYI.

—————-
Listening to: The Smiths – This Charming Man

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. Stream of Consciousness: DaughtersWe went outside today. It hadn’t been so beautiful in...

This is an anonymous post from a dear blog friend of mine.

My daughter was a miracle. I don’t mean that in the religious sense or even in a devoted parent sense. She was a scientific miracle. For a year my husband and I tried to get pregnant with her. We went to many doctors and had more tests than I can enumerate. I was diagnosed with “unexplained infertility”and put on the infertility treadmill. Nothing worked. Then six months later, while we were on vacation and had no medical intervention I got pregnant.

If you have any inclination to say anything related to relaxing, shut your fucking hole. Being relaxed doesn’t cause pregnancy.

I always knew that I was incredibly lucky to have her and that I should never take for granted how she was finally conceived. I also always knew that I wanted more than one baby. When she was six months old we started trying again. More correctly, we never actually started trying to prevent pregnancy but I jokingly said to my husband when she was about six months old that if I were to get knocked up again I probably wouldn’t slit my wrists. My ideal would have been to have two babies 18 months apart.

After another year and a half it became clear that we were not going to get pregnant on our own again and we went back to a doctor. After multiple barrages of tests I was told that I have incredibly old ovaries. While I’m only 34 my hormones and ovaries act as if I were in my late 40s. Fucking beautiful. The doctor said that while nothing is impossible he did not believe that we would be able to get pregnant without medical assistance. Being that he is a doctor I suppose I wouldn’t expect any less from him. His recommendation a year ago was jumping straight to IVF a) because of my hormone levels b) because we had been trying for so long already and c) because I had expressed my wish for MJ to have a sibling close in age. After discussing it for a month my husband and I decided we should try some less invasive techniques. IVF seemed excessive to both of us since I had already had one baby and the cost was not something we could manage easily.

Jump forward one year, 4 IUIs, and 2 miscarriages. This time when the doctor said IVF we said yes. We borrowed the money from two exceptionally generous family members and started the process. I won’t go into the details. That’s not why I’m writing. I just thought a little background was necessary.

After all we had been through, I’ll be honest, I did not expect even the IVF to work so when the doctor called me that day to let me know that my blood test had come back positive I was in shock. “The numbers are low, but the hard part is over. You’re pregnant.”

The hard part is over.

I wish that had been the case.

The next week I was on cloud nine. After everything we had been through we were finally going to have another baby. It had taken 2 ½ years but it was worth it. Another baby was on the way. I was going to be due in June. I’d figured out the day to be June 18^th, although MJ had come early so who’s to say that baby #2 wouldn’t have as well. In either case, it was going to be a summer baby.

Things started going south on a Saturday. My husband had taken MJ to Ikea for the afternoon so she could play and they could look for big girl beds and get her mattress off the floor finally. A big sister needs a big girl bed. (No, we weren’t stupid enough to say anything to her about it). While they were away I developed a sharp pain in my right side. I’d been having cramping the whole week but as I had cramped on and off for a month when I was pregnant with MJ I didn’t think anything of it. This pain was different. It wasn’t uterine, it was on my right side. Just as I was starting to actually worry about it, it went away. I chalked it up as possibly intestinal. Until that night. 10:30 pm just as I was getting in bed the pain came back, worse than before. I spent a few hours lying in bed trying to breathe through it but that just wasn’t possible. Finally at about 2 am Jim convinced me to call the on call doctor at the clinic. He told me is sounded like I had a twisted ovary and I should get to the ER immediately to have it checked out. A friend came to stay in the house with MJ while we got in the car and went to the hospital. I started bleeding. A lot. I was terrified I was losing the baby.

After 7 or so hours of testing and waiting the ER doc came back and said that my blood tests were still positive, the pregnancy hormone was rising at the proper levels and that my ovary was not twisted. His best assessment was that I had an ovarian cyst that had ruptured. There was some fluid in my abdomen and that would without a doubt cause both the bleeding and the pain. I made a follow up appointment with my own doctor’s office for Monday and spent all of Sunday relieved and on bed rest.

Monday: I went to the office for routine blood work and an ultrasound. I was told by the on call doctor that he saw what looked like either a(n embryonic) sac or a blood clot in my uterus but that it was too early to tell either way. He was not optimistic about the ER doc’s diagnosis of a ruptured cyst and told me he was concerned that my pregnancy might be ectopic. In other words, he thought I had an embryo implanted in my right fallopian tube. He thought that was possibly the cause of my pain and the bleeding.

I was crushed but I refused to give up that easily. If the pregnancy was ectopic, why had the pain subsided and even gone away. I was told to continue bed rest until all bleeding had stopped. It never did.

Wednesday morning I woke up to heavy bleeding, just as I had had with the previous miscarriages. I knew that I was losing the baby. That’s what all the cramping and bleeding had been about. I was devastated and found it nearly impossible to get out of bed. It was only a matter of time before it was all over. After lying on my bed crying to myself for an hour or so while my husband got MJ dressed and fed, I got up and decided to carry on with my day. There was no point in lying round crying and feeling sorry for myself when there was nothing I could do. Yes, this had been my only and last hope. We had tried everything I could and it didn’t work. They couldn’t get my ovaries to produce enough eggs to have any to freeze and try again for a later cycle and there is no way it would be financially feasible for us to try again, but at least I had done everything I could. Move on. I got up and went about my day, bringing MJ to do her daily activities. By 5 pm, just as I was about to pick her up from a play group I went to the bathroom and there it was. Grey, twisted and looking very much like a fat little tadpole.

Have you ever held a 6 week old fetus in your hand? I have. And let me just say for the record: There is a HUGE difference between a 6 week old fetus and a baby. I’ve held both in my arms. I’ve loved both of them and I’d NEVER call a fetus a baby. What I went through was not a desired abortion, but it was an abortion nonetheless. It was a spontaneous abortion. It was a fetus and I wanted to to be more and I was horrified and crushed by my loss, but it wasn’t a baby. I know what it feels like to hold a baby and this was not it.

I picked up MJ with a fake smile plastered to my face. I went home and kept my shit together for the few hours that had to pass before her bedtime. Her father put her to bed. I sat on the couch feeling vacant. I called the doctor’s answering service to leave a message asking for an appointment for the next day to verify the loss of my pregnancy. I called my brother and told him it was over and that I thought MJ and I might want to fly up to visit him. I fell apart after (or maybe during) that. I was heart sore and thought I might never feel worse.

I had no idea. I had no idea there were two.

Just as I had the day before, I found it hard to get out of bed the next day. MJ’s dad took responsibility for dressing and feeding her but I rallied shortly after that. He offered to stay home from work and stay with me but I told him not to bother. I needed to get up. I needed to do something. If I sat around all day I’d go crazy. At least if I had to stay active for MJ I could put the happy facade back up. He went to work and MJ and I made plans for the day. We wanted to go to the park, after all there was no reason to stay on bed rest and she’d been asking me for a week to play soccer with her. We wanted to go to the library to get an Alice in Wonderland picture book. We got to the library before it opened and sat outside watching lizards.

The doctor’s office called me back at around 12:30 and asked me to come in for my appointment. I told MJ we could eat afterwards and maybe even stop off at the cafe and get a muffin. She was thrilled.

The appointment didn’t take too long. More blood taken and another ultrasound. He showed me my empty uterus, which I had expected. Then he showed me something else, which I hadn’t. There was what he believed to be a second embryonic sac and yolk. It had implanted at the juncture of my ovary and uterus. He said he couldn’t be sure, not on an ultrasound but explained that he was very worried about the placement of this possible pregnancy as if it continued to grow it would rupture not only my right fallopian tube but also my uterus. Did I have someone I could call to pick up my daughter? He wanted to schedule me for surgery that day.

Shock? Yeah, I think so. After all, I had thought it was all over the night before. All I had wanted out of this appointment was the ability to gain closure and move on with my life.

The details of the day are a bit fuzzy for me. My step-mother came to pick up MJ for a “play date”, my husband and father met me at the hospital. I spent the next few hours having my vitals taken, answering the same questions over and over again and looking at people strangely when they asked me “how do you feel?”. Seriously? How the fuck to you think I feel? I was mechanical, moving from room to room and person to person trying not to feel anything. I thought about MJ a lot and that thought made me smile, more often than not wistfully. I know I must have hurt my husband’s feelings because I kept telling him not to touch me. I didn’t want sympathy or understanding or any type of soft emotion. They would only make me break down. For the most part I held it together until they had me swabbed, gowned and lying in the pre-op room waiting for my surgery. Even then I only really lost self-control when a well meaning but poor thinking pre-op nurse said to me, “I know it’s hard, but everything happens for a reason.”

Everything happens for a reason? Oh really? Because, please, do tell me. What fucking reason is there for this? I’d love to hear a reasonable explanation as to why at the age of 34 after 2 ½ years and more money than I can afford instead of having a second baby I have to have a tube removed, effectively halving my already negligible chances at pregnancy. Really? What’s the fucking reason for that? Don’t give me that blind faith, God has a greater plan, bull shit. There is no reason.

No, I take that back. There is only one reason. Shit happens. That’s it, pure and simple. Shit happens, that’s the only reason. I wanted to yell all of that at the nurse but instead I turned to my husband and said, “Plain warning. The next person who says that to me gets decked.” He agreed.

The other thing I’ve been hearing a bit these past few days is “it’s unfair, but then again, no one ever said life is fair.” No kidding? Really? Life isn’t fair? Wonder why you always hated it when your mother, or anyone else for that matter, ever said that when you were younger or in pain of some sort. You hated it because it’s blatantly obvious, inane, vacuous, insensitive and thoughtless crap. No kidding life isn’t fair. Does anyone really think that’s an acceptable response to a painful event? Word of advice, if that’s all you have to say regarding someone else’s painful life experiences, take those words and shove them right up your ass because you’re helping no one and only alleviating your own sense of discomfort with empty prattle.

Today I’m sitting on my couch. My abdominal muscles are still sore but I’m getting up and down by myself again. I have no doubt that physically I’ll be healed in a day or two. I heal quickly. People keep asking me if I’m ok. I’m not. Not by a long shot but I dutifully answer “yes” because I know that’s the answer they’re looking for. I won’t be “ok” for a long time. My belly will heal and I’ll get on with my daily life but, no, I’m not “ok”, so don’t ask.

How do I feel? Angry, sad, sore, depressed and more than a little bitter. I hate fertile people. My hatred stems from a deep seated envy.

My daughter’s 3^rd birthday is in less than a month. My mother asked me yesterday if it was going to be a problem for me to have guests arriving not only with my daughter’s friends but with their new babies. My only answer was, “I hope not.” I’ll put that plastic smile back on my face, compliment my friends’ babies and I’ll die a little each time one of them asks me if I plan to have another. My plans have nothing to do with it.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. Melts in your mouth; not in your hands.Hi, Zoeyjane here. Maria was piteous enough to ask me...
2. Cheat or be cheated on?I was asked this question last night and I had...
3. Suffer Please, Repeatedly*This post was written by Anonymous, who rented my blog...

Now normally, when it comes to me doling out praise in braggadocios raves to strangers, it’s The Bella that gets most of it and you’re left with a “Oh, she’s just like me.” And you are, but that’s not what makes you perfect.

It’s that you embody everything of a child there is to love: in every one that’s ever been adored on television and in movies, in every one that’s been described as ideal in pregnancy and parenting books, every bit the sweet happy child with the balloons floating just off the ground in the paintings and sketches around the world. But also the ones we turn our noses up at during playgroups and read about as having auspicious behavior in the latest issue of Parents at the doctor’s office.

We spend all day together, every single day, and neither of us really tires of it. You’d always rather be with me than with anyone else, and I know it won’t last so I cherish it.  You let me hug and kiss and love all over you, you grab my hands and face and legs at random opportunities, and I’m the only one: physical affection isn’t your thing except for when it comes to mommy. I treasure it. I’ve seen with your sister that time is fleeting. I don’t have long to appreciate all your subtleties and nuances, your blaring characteristics, and blazing personality.

You are beautiful, and you are exasperating and you are the best and worst of me concentrated down and poured into a petite and big eyed frame; a girl with the biggest dark brown eyes that can convey any mood so heavily it becomes contagious, and most beautiful hair, even first thing in the morning, with it’s shine and chestnut highlights and cascading waves that everyone envies.

I love that you run with your chin in the air, giggling without a fear of a misstep, even on the uneven gravel. That when you tire me with so much to say that I reply an exasperated “Yes? Whhaaatt?” to yet another one of your “Hey mommy, hey mommy“s, you answer “Um, I love you.” and melts me.

You are the good and the ‘bad’. The the ideal and the less than ideal. You are my frustrating, enthralling, my knows all too well too soon how to milk being the baby, baby. That calls herself “Baby” in 3rd person, strips down naked at random occasions, whom I’m lucky to have running around in underwear at least, and who’s arms are still too short to fully hug around my neck, baby.

Today you’re not a baby – officially, like we discussed -  anymore. That hurts me so, but it makes me happy as well. Today you are four years old and you are so excited.

I hope you continue to be you forever. Maybe a little less like me, but still very much you: the perfect child.

I love you, forever, right now, and Happy Birthday, Goobalicious.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. [Read:***]I am a co-sleeper. Goobie still shares our bed, at...
2. Conspiracy theorist? I think not!French women don’t like me. Nor do French- Canadians. Seriously,...
3. Mi PobrecitaMy baby is sick. I mean sick. Shitting up a...

That may sound trite to you, but it’s not to me. It’s something I’ve done with them every year, usually just me and them. This year, their father’s one weekend a month includes Halloween. I’m not happy about it. But it is what it is.

Instead of looking at it like “it’s not fair, he’s pretty much completely disinterested in their lives but gets to have the fun days? That’s bullshit!“, I’m trying to see it as “well, he only gets them one weekend per month and they love it so whatever, it’s a good thing”.

Giving up my marriage was really difficult. I’m still working on doing it completely. Giving up my daughters, even temporarily, sporadically, is much more so.

I’m not really going to go into how I feel about how little their father is involved in their lives. How I have to instigate most conversations and interactions, how I have to make the phone calls and text messages or they don’t get made. How he basically comes across as an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ type of father except for paying his support twice a month. Bah. I could write a book on those things, but I won’t.

When Joey and Jason met the first time, Joey told Jason that he wanted to assure him that he didn’t want to overstep his boundaries or try to take Jason’s place in their life. Jason told him, pretty smugly, that he knew that Joey never could: that his daughters loved him and knew who their father was. It’s true, yes, but I wonder if he has any idea how that line between himself and Joey is being blurred in the girls eyes, by his own inaction.

Over the past few months, his role has been taken on by Joey. Joey plays with them in the yard, he sits and colors and draws with him. He gives them piggy back rides, he takes them to the movies. He buys them toys and plays their games. He comes with me to pick Isabella up from school. He knows more about their current personalities than their dad does. They talk to him, they see him more than their father.

It’s been hard: Joey’s not their dad and I wish it was their dad doing all of these things with them, but it’s not and it is what it is. I am glad that someone wants to be there for them, in all the ways their father should be – that their father should want to be. Maybe he does want to be; maybe he’s got his reasons and justifications for the way things are.

Growing up without my father wasn’t a big deal for me because I had my grandfather to fill that role, and I’m glad that my daughters have Joey. As they get older and realize how little they see their father and why, I hope having Joey in their lives eases whatever pain those realizations might cause a bit, like having my grandfather did for me.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. [Read:***]I am a co-sleeper. Goobie still shares our bed, at...
2. The Formidable Entrance of my Firstborn.I awoke @ 7am with my water broken, I believed....
3. My ‘Rocky’ RelationshipUnderstatement of the year. He took my girls from me...

Let’s not get into the fact that she was 13. Or that she had a rabid stage mother. Or that she looked older than she was. Or that now she wants him to be left alone. Let’s not bother discussing that he dealt with Nazis and murderous cults in the past. Or that the presiding judge was press hungry, or that Roman Polanksi is an old man now. All of those things are beside the fact, and none of them negate the bottom line that people keep trying to circumvent with minuscule details: Roman Polanksi raped someone.

She said no, repeatedly, while he raped her. While he orally, vaginally and anally raped her, after drugging her. It doesn’t matter that she was a child and he was in his 40’s – if she had been in her 40’s as well it still would have been rape.

So we can agree that he’s a rapist, yes? I mean if you don’t agree (WHOOPIE GOLDBERG) I don’t know what to tell you. Even Roman Polanksi himself agrees with me. He did plead guilty to it, you know. Anyway, I’ll continue on, assuming that you agree with me -

my question is this: Why are people petitioning for his release? Saying he paid his penance? Why are some of these people people that I greatly admire like Michael Mann and Terry Gilliam and Martin Scorsese? I don’t understand. He did something wrong – or for the sake of playing devil’s advocate he might have done something  seriously wrong  -  and he needs to come stand trial and/or pay for his crimes.

Do you know who Victor Salva is?

Victor Salva directed one of my favorite childhood movies, Powder. Oh how I love Powder. It’s not necessarily a good movie, but I love it. It’s great to me. Powder is also a Disney film.

Before directing Powder, Salva directed Clownhouse which was heavily supported by Francis Ford Coppola. Salva raped the 12 year old boy that starred in Clownhouse, and videotaped himself doing so. He plead guilty and spent 15 months in prison for it. When he was released, Coppola financially supported him and Salva (with Coppola’s help) was able to find more work in Hollywood. Work like directing a DISNEY film.

Salva is still making movies, albeit crappy ones, today. The last one I can think of was Jeepers Creepers and that had Justin Long in it, you know the guy from the Mac commercials? Adorable little dark haired guy? He seems like he has a good head on his shoulders. I’d like to know if anyone ever asked him how he felt about working with Salva, knowing Salva’s past transgressions much like I wonder if anyone asked Adrien Brody about working with Roman Polanski on The Pianist, knowing Polanksi’s past.

But there is a difference between Salva and Polanksi: Salva paid his debt to society.

Now, our justice system is fundamentally flawed, I know this. When people get more prison time for smoking pot than for raping little boys, something’s SERIOUSLY wrong. But, that was what he was given, and that’s what he served. I want to believe in the rehabilitation system, that when someone is given a sentence and it’s carried out that they should be able to carry on with their lives. If I don’t believe in it, if we don’t, what’s the point in having it? As fucked up as it is, we have to rely on it. If we’re going to continue punishing someone for what they have already been punished for, why release them at all? We’d might as well give everyone who’s been convicted of a crime a life sentence.

I could see Justin Long and Francis Ford Coppola saying that Salva paid his debt to society and should be able to continue on in the world. I would 100% agree with them, because that would be right. No matter if it turns my gut, no matter if I feel it should have been 15 years, not months served for it. No matter if I personally couldn’t see myself working with/for someone that could do something so disgusting and heinous. He served his time.

I cannot however see how Adrien Brody and Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen can support Polanksi. (I know many people try to compare Polanksi and Allen but I’m sorry, they are not the same: Allen’s now wife was 22 years old and he was not legally nor biologically her father and as drastic as the age difference may seem to us, he did nothing wrong as far as we know and being as they’ve been together for almost 20 years now – they’re obviously doing something RIGHT) I don’t see why Whoopie Goldberg is willing to go onto a popular talk show  geared towards women and basically undermine all the progress we’ve made to ensure  that rape victims feel safe and secure in reporting their attacks by attempting to differentiate between rape and  ‘rape-rape‘. Especially when she herself is the face of strong rape survivors to many women because of her role in the film The Color Purple, where her character was an inspiration to me and countless others.

Roman Polanksi has not paid for his crimes. He’s lived the last 30+ years of his life in luxury and leisure. His age today doesn’t matter. If Charles Manson or the Auschwitz Nazis that made his life so awful had eluded capture up until now and then been caught, would Roman Polanksi and his celebrity friends be saying that they’d paid for their crimes simply by growing old on the run?

I don’t think so.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. What I do Best.I think too fast. I think too much. I’ve been...
2. It Never Ends…On my iGoogle front page, in my news gadget I...
3. My Mind is in the Gutter.While everyone, or no one, according to those pesky Nielsen...

You are NINE YEARS OLD. This is disgusting, it’s inappropriate and I cannot think of nar’ bit of justification for it.

EDIT: Video has been taken down (thank god). It was video of a little girl from Peru, reenacting Britney Spears’ music video for ‘Toxic’ - frame for completely over the top and way too sexualized frame. A NINE YEAR OLD little girl. In the same outfits. Making the same gesutres and faces. Same lyrics. Ew.

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. If you have a shitload of kids…you may not want to read any farther, lest you...
2. I’m Semi-Hot and Super-Annoyed.Bangable Blog Babe Damnitt! Only ranked @ 3! Gotta get...
3. It’s my test tube, it can be a boy if I want it to.When I was pregnant with Isabella, I was convinced that...

There have been all kinds of things said about it, negative and positive, but one that struck me as funny and sad simultaneously was someone saying that we are ’so un-classy’. They reblogged one of our posts and struck out the lines about sex.

At first I was like “WTF?! Hahaha this person is so crazy – what does she expect? Has she not read our previous posts? They’re insanely explicit – I mean that’s our thing, our little niche!!”

But then I thought about it more and I was like “hmm… I wonder why women discussing their sexual desires is so ‘ un-classy’.” I wonder why it’s not ok, why it’s frowned upon for a chick to talk about masturbating or giving blow jobs or fucking. Why in order to be a lady, in order to get respect, to be considered classy – you have to keep that kind of talk, those thoughts to yourself or between you and your husband. I mean of course there is a time and place but damn.

Women like to fuck, just as much as men do. Women fuck themselves, they fuck each other, they fuck whomever they want – there’s nothing classless about that. There’s definitely nothing un-classy about talking about it.

We’re not in the 40’s anymore folks. We have desires, we have needs and wants and we have just as much right to discuss them frankly as men do.

Talking about sex is not wrong or right, it just is what it is. It’s honesty.

This is not really in defense of the blog, or the post, or how badly I want to fuck Justin Timberlake’s dick off. It’s simply a statement on the fact that in this day and age? Women should be allowed to say they want to ride a man’s face if they want to, without being frowned upon. Because sometimes we do.

—————-
Listening to: Sam Sparro – Cut Me Loose

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. What I do Best.I think too fast. I think too much. I’ve been...
2. Ask AnythingSo. Ask me something. Anything. Seriously- anything. I’ll answer it,...
3. Poetical, Confessional, Multiple Craziness.So, I participate willing and happily in only one particular...

Today I will mourn The Sway. But I don’t want to cry anymore. So I’ll laugh, at this:

Other, possibly similar posts:

1. My Inauguration.My name is Maria. I’m twenty three years old which...
2. "Immoral Matriwha’?"I’m an Agnostic Atheist. I raise my children without God,...
3. Playgroup Escamotage…Well! Seems as if the ol’ Blogo got me into...