Mary Poppins I Ain't

I can't be what you want.

2017-05-26T10:08:00.003-05:00

This post is going to make a number of my friends look at me sideways, probably lose me a few, almost certainly hurt several, and for that I'm sorry, but I just can't anymore.

I no longer identify as a Christian.

Haven't for a good three years at this point, and if we're being totally frank, I've been dodging this desperately since I was about fourteen. Twenty years. I saw the problems, had the proper apologist speeches and debate rhetoric memorized, and I was good at it, but in the back of my head I always knew I was singing for my supper, so to speak. I hurt a lot of people over the years, reciting those canned arguments, and I look back on that with shame that I couldn't walk away sooner. But I'm a coward at heart and social anxiety is a bitch. So now that I'm safe on the other side of a computer screen (told you I was a coward)...

There is so much toxic, abusive bullshit in the world of "The Church". Command-performance ecstasy. Emotional manipulation and outright brainwashing disguised as leadership and instruction. So much maneuvering people into speaking words they don't understand, expressing emotions they don't feel, and lining up behind philosophies, dogmas, and perhaps most tellingly, political positions that directly fly in the face of everything their own holy book instructs. Never mind that exactly *which* ideologies are enshrined changes every time you walk through a different church's doors, and each individual group is absolutely certain that they and they alone have The Real Truth.

Oh, certainly one is permitted to quibble over the nuances of Calvinism versus Arminianism(1), play word games with "a thousand years is as a day" to give the Earth another 7,000 years, even debate whether Paul really means that women should cover their hair and not speak in church, but the Really Important Stuff (abortion is murder, sexuality is 100% a choice, etc), these things are not negotiable. Yet somehow the Bible is inerrant and infallible and totally clear. And if you don't toe the line and shout Hallelujah with sufficient fervor, no matter your actual feelings on any given subject, then you're not really a good Christian. I can't do it anymore.

I have spent most of my life in that world, where no matter what you actually know in the core of your being to be true and right and good, only this constant hyper-emotive religiosity is sufficient proof of the state of one's soul. Despite specific prohibitions in the Bible against exactly that sort of "praying on street corners" performative faith. I have yet to encounter any Christian church that does not create the precise social environment which encourages such displays of useless virtue. Indeed, practically demands them, if one is to reap the benefits of being in the group at all. And my give-a-damn is all used up, folks. I'm done.

My core beliefs have not changed, and my spiritual path is as active as it ever was. I've simply let go of the idea that Christianity as an organized religion knows what the hell it's even talking about, much less has a hard-line to the Almighty. I'm full of the realization that those core beliefs just don't line up with what the Church teaches in practice, and never did. It doesn't mesh, and I can't keep on buying a place with my voice and my talents when at a fundamental level, what I am cannot be resolved with what the Church tells me I must be, must do, must put out into the world. Please know, those of my friends who still find worth in being part of the Church, this is not a personal criticism of any of you, but of the Church as a whole, of its culture and the problems therein. I still love you, I don't think you're bad people, and I certainly do not expect anyone to alter their beliefs or expression thereof for my comfort. I'm just done pretending adherence to a religion I no longer believe does enough to deal with its internal flaws, instead of just white-washing over them to make everything pretty for Sunday morning.

And I'm going to try really hard to stop being such a chicken-shit coward about it, so at least the people I love can know where I stand.

So this is me... owning my shit. I will never experience "faith" the way that Church culture requires, and I am out of spoons to keep trying. "Fake it 'til you make it" is a fine philosophy for artists and entrepreneurs, not so much for spirituality. But I will put my shoulder to anyone's load if they need my help, just like I always have. Yell if you need me, people. Just don't expect me to pray with you.
.

(1) "Bad Ecumenism:The American Culture Wars and Russia's Hard Right Turn" by Chris Stroop, of Not Your Mission Field

The Birth VS Choice Divide: When loving people means making space for choices you don't like.

2016-10-22T13:53:00.001-05:00

I've seen a lot of posts flying around, on both sides of the abortion issue. Rachel Held Evans posted a particularly compelling piece back in August that I recommend if you're of a conservative bent and open to some food for thought.

This morning I saw two posts that threw the whole debate into very stark contrast for me. One from a woman who was pregnant with a single child when something went terribly wrong, and the amniotic sac was partially through the cervix when she arrived at the hospital. Because of the laws in her state, she was repeatedly sent home over the next four days, even after she started bleeding, because the baby was technically viable, had a heartbeat, and termination was not permitted for any reason. There was nothing the doctors could do. Her child was loved, named, wanted. And could not survive. But because the law in her state does not allow a pregnancy to be terminated once there is a detectable heartbeat, she was forced to wait for four days, knowing that her baby was dying, at home, with no support but her equally devastated spouse, and when the inevitable finally came, it was that much more traumatic for the waiting.

The other post declared in strident terms that "late term abortions" don't exist. That abortion isn't necessary at all. That if a pregnancy is a threat to the mother, that's what c-sections are for. That all abortion should be banned, no exceptions, and that "ending a pregnancy" to save the life of a mother isn't an abortion at all. No mention of the myriad real life accounts of women being forced to wait while committees debate and courts decide. No mention of rape. No mention of incest. No allowances for mothers who had birth control or sterilization procedures that failed, who have abusive partners or simply cannot afford children. No mention of the struggles that will be forced upon those mothers by a culture and a government that cares only for a child born, and scorns anyone who needs help supporting that child later on. No mention of the hundreds of thousands of children waiting in our adoption and foster care system for families. It was purportedly written by an obstetrician. And it was written with so much scorn, such an utter lack of understanding that I cannot imagine anyone who has ever worked with pregnant mothers being so completely devoid of compassion.

My heart hurts right now, for the women I know who have had to choose between their own life and the life of their wanted, planned-for child. Or had to choose between a short life filled with immeasurable pain for that child, or peace. The women who are being told that the brutal choice they had to make doesn't count as an abortion. Or that it does count, and they should have taken the chance of dying or letting their baby suffer and left it up to God, that they are murderers. The women who know intimately what it is to know that their baby is dying inside them, that their child cannot survive, that when the baby goes it may very well take mom along with it. What it is to be turned away from the hospital, sent home to await the end with no support because the laws in their state don't allow a "viable" pregnancy to be terminated for any reason. Or having to wait in the hospital while some faceless ethics committee they will never see passes judgment on their situation.

The laws are written by people who have never, likely will never face that choice. Who decide in comfort and safety, without understanding the distinctions and situations they are playing with, what a mother can do to save herself, or save her child from a life that can't be lived. That is the horror that late term abortion bans force on women. Having the ability to accept pain for themselves to save their child from ever hurting taken away, and put in the hands of strangers.

It's a devastating choice I hope I never have to face, but I know that if I ever do face it, I want me, my husband, and my doctor to be the only people involved in that decision. And honestly, I hope I'm strong enough to choose to live, for the children I have at home. I hope I'm strong enough to choose to return that innocent soul to an existence without pain, rather than force them to suffer to save myself guilt. Just like I hope that if I am ever faced with having to turn off the life-support for a child who is so damaged that they will never draw another pain-free breath, and they are unable to decide for themselves, that I would have the strength to let that child go too.

Ending a wanted pregnancy to save the mother's life, or to spare the child pain that can't be fixed or made better, these are choices no one should ever face. But some have to face it, and it's hard enough already. It doesn't need to be made harder by having their last shreds of control stripped away by politicians who don't understand how the laws they craft will endanger the women those laws affect, and care nothing for that child once it has slipped from the womb.

These aren't just stories on the internet to me. I know women who have been faced with that choice. I see how they struggle for the rest of their lives with the guilt, the shame, the aching never-ending loss. And I hurt for them, as they watch yet another round of pro-birth rhetoric threaten the already shaky ground they stand on. I watch their fear, as Roe Vs. Wade is threatened, as infanticide laws are used to arrest mothers who miscarry and mothers who access legal abortion services, as laws requiring funerals for miscarriages become reality. I see their helpless rage when the same people who took their choices away on the most horrible day of their lives are also the people who want to cut funding to social safety net programs that feed, clothe, house, and provide doctors for the children that women are made to bear against their wishes, beyond their ability to support. The same people who let our disgustingly ineffective adoption and foster care system go underfunded, understaffed, and plagued with abuse and corruption. The mothers who bleed over this are not strangers. They are friends. They are people I love. They are real. I see them. I hear them. And I can't in any sense of conscience vote to take their choices away.

Chronic pain is a thing. We need to do more about it.

2016-05-13T21:09:00.004-05:00

I saw this article wander across my feed today... Taking Painkillers All the Time Doesn’t Make Me an Addict. In it, Ms. Jen O’Neal responds as an EDS patient to a doctor (who has been treated for addiction to painkillers) who thinks that all drugs across the board (except marijuana) are evil.

It struck home.

Chronic pain is something that we demonize in this country, because for decades we have taught ourselves that anyone who depends on medication to survive and function is an addict, and addicts are weak, failed human beings. (No, they're actually not, but that's a different rant.) And because we equate medical dependency on pain killers with addiction to painkillers, people like me, who don't have mountains of medical history paperwork because our cases are relatively "mild", well, we just choose to live in pain, because getting treatment is adding one too many battles to a life that is already a war.

I have enough on my plate without a years-long fight for disability benefits, or presenting my case to doctor after doctor after doctor, praying I get referred to somebody who remembers the two sentence description of Ehlers-Danlos in the single lecture on chronic pain from medical school. I'm not exaggerating, I've actually been told straight up by the best family GP I've ever had that the single chronic pain lecture is where she remembered hearing the name "Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome". She had to look it up. I've had other doctors blink at me in absolute seriousness and express some variation of, "You have ... what, again?"

The one time I was on pain meds that worked, the doctor I was going to came under investigation for writing too many pain scripts, so he referred me out, to a Rheumatoid Arthritis specialist. Who took one look at the way I was standing (knees completely locked for stability), asked me to touch the floor, and wasn't the least surprised when I did it with flat palms without bending my knees. She knew exactly what I had, and sent me away with a new script for the same medication... at a dose that was half of what I had been taking. Without telling me. And because I was so relieved to have a proper diagnosis at last, because I trusted her, I didn't look. So I ran out (even though I only took it on days I was working), 10 days before I could get a refill, and because it was a bad pain day and I had to go to work that night and was facing a 10 hour shift on my feet, I burst into tears at the pharmacy window. Not my finest hour.

I never picked up that refill, because that one experience of "okay, we've got a druggie" looks from the pharmacy staff and every shopper within earshot was humiliating enough. I toughed out my job (that I loved, and was GOOD at, dammit), for another month, and then I quit because I was losing any semblance of stability in the face of that much constant and aggravated pain.

I haven't been to a doctor for the EDS since, and I can't bring myself to apply for disability. Which means I walk two miles every day, good day or bad, because it's teaching healthy habits to my kids, knowing that I'm buying myself hours of significantly increased pain. It means that my resume, which is 90% food service (I was a manager, for fuck's sake) does not qualify me for any job that I can physically handle, and even though I would totally kick ass as a secretary or an office manager or an executive assistant (because I'm also autistic & keeping stuff & people organized is my JAM), I don't have the experience to be considered against people who have been in the field for a decade. So no job, because I can't face convincing a doctor, and another doctor, and another, and then the pharmacist every time I pick up a refill. No disability, because the idea of that process of apply - deny - apply - doctor - deny - apply - doctor - doctor - doctor - deny - repeat until it goes to court - approve ... the thought of it looms before me and laughs as heartlessly as any cartoon villain. I can't. Just can't. Don't have the wherewithal.

And then I find out that Ohio legislators are thinking about legalizing medical marijuana, which the studies are showing does wonders for chronic pain conditions... except the proposed bill only recognizes 20 conditions where patients would be eligible (you guessed it, EDS didn't make the cut), and even then it's so restrictive as to make consistent pain management nearly impossible...

But sure, go right ahead and judge me because I'm not a size 6 and there's a pint of Haagen Daz in my grocery cart. Go ahead and tell me "just apply for disability, since you're so sure you qualify", when you don't know that the genetic test for my condition isn't reliable because they haven't fully mapped out the human genome yet, so they have to go with a clinical diagnosis, which means I am at the mercy of the doctor, who may or may not have the slightest clue what Ehlers-Danlos is or how it presents or what it means for quality of life. Go ahead and tell me how self-hypnosis or prayer or crystals or dietary supplements or therapy or massage or yoga or gastric bypass (yes, the fat-shaming was awesome) cured your "constant pain". Go ahead and tell me I should just suck it up and get a job. Go ahead and tell me "wow, I'd love to be a SAHM, and with a sister living in to help with the kids too! I'm so jealous!" Just let me inject some ground up glass into your joints and have you walk around like that for a mile or so. Then we'll talk.

We can't keep ignoring and shaming chronic pain. It is destroying lives, and treating people like criminals and failures because they'd like to be able to stand or sit or breathe or work without hurting leaves far too many with nowhere to turn.

I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid...

2015-10-21T07:55:00.001-05:00

So, I got basically zero sleep. Anabelle slept just fine. JJ, for God knows why, was all over the bed and couldn't lay still to save his life. Wiggle, turn, kick, toss, cuddle, squirm, "Bud, lay still," or "Back to your own bed, JJ", all freaking night. And of course he's perky and rested, and I feel like warmed-over roadkill.

Wanna know the real kicker? The only computer we have that can cope with Netflix has once again decided that it's not going to play nice. So I can't even stick him in front of an electronic babysitter for the morning.

What I *want* to do is make him sit in an empty Pack & Play with a tray of dry cold cereal, a water bottle, absolutely nothing to do, and spank him every time he wiggles or complains.

Because that's what my parents would do if I had kept them up all night, and that's fair, right? My turn, right?

Because I am not my parents, I will not be putting my 3 year old on the equivalent of lock-down. I will not be slamming doors and muttering imprecations at inanimate objects all day long.

He has a breakfast dray consisting of fruit, a peanut butter sandwich, and sliced lunch meat, which he loves.

He has a pack of crayons and a stack of fresh paper to draw on.

He has a room full of toys and books with which to entertain himself.

And I have explained to him in the clearest possible terms that there is to be no whining, complaining, or fit-throwing today, and that pretty much everything he says to me had best start with the words "Yes, Mommy."

So far, he's doing surprisingly well with that bit.

I'm doing surprisingly well with reminding him when he forgets.

The cats keep trying to trip me, I can hear the hus-beast snoring all the way in the livingroom, the baby is still sound asleep, and oh yeah... the Road Works department decided that our setback was a good spot to put a construction warning sign. Once again I seem to be the only person who knows how to load a dishwasher or put the clean stuff away, and it's a damn good thing there's a crock full of dinner ready to go, because the kitchen's closed today.

*sigh*

I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid,
I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid, I love my kid.

It's not his fault he had trouble sleeping. He can't help it that he was restless. I have restless nights where I toss & turn all night long... or just get up and read a book.

*deeeeeeeeeeeeeep breaths*

Glass houses and the rule of law

2015-09-04T09:43:00.000-05:00

It's getting political around here lately, I know. I promise, once I have a computer with a working webcam again, I will return (mostly) to your regularly scheduled baby cuteness, crafting explorations, and assorted Nolan family updates.

But for today... Kim Davis. The court official from Kentucky who closed her office and refused to issue *any* marriage licenses rather than comply with a Supreme Court ruling and multiple orders from lower circuit court judges to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. Mrs. Davis has been incarcerated on a charge of contempt of court. Her lawyer has recently made a statement (here) that should have anyone with a working brain up in arms. Short version? She's being compared to a Jewish person living in Nazi Germany.

Just think about that for a sec. She is being held up as a modern day martyr, painted as a victim on a level with people who were murdered on a mass scale, because she refused to do her job. Her job which, so far as I can tell, does not require her to sin.

I was waiting on a friend's okay to share a response they had read, because it was simpler and better stated than anything I'm going to come up with, but I don't feel I can wait on this any further, so I'll just make my own. Fair warning, I am LIVID over this. I usually prefer to let the political stuff percolate for a bit longer before I open my mouth, just because it takes me that bit of extra time to order my thoughts well, but this directly insults and minimizes the history of four people whom I love fiercely, and I cannot be silent.

If anything had the power to make me ashamed to call myself a Christian, it would be self-aggrandizing bigotry like this. She is not a martyr, people, and shaking our heads and turning an embarrassed eye while she allows her attorney to present her as one is no different from openly supporting her rhetoric. Let's not forget that professing a belief in God as described in the Christian Bible is damn near an unwritten prerequisite for even running for an elected office in this country, let alone winning one, certainly anything on a state or national level. The idea that Christians are being "persecuted" in this country would be laughable if it weren't so disgusting, we have never been so free and protected as we are here and now. It is that very freedom which allows people like Ms. Davis to think that their religious beliefs give them the right to ignore the law.

Kim Davis is not being persecuted for her faith. She is an elected public official who refused, in the face of a lawful order from the highest court of the land, to do her job. She closed down her office, sent all her subordinates home (forcing them to flout the law as well, whether or not they actually support her views), and refused to issue any marriage licenses at all, rather than issue them to same-sex couples in compliance with the law of the land. And yes, before anyone says it, I'm aware that Kentucky law still defines marriage as between a man and a woman. Federal law trumps state, and the Supreme Court has come down on the side of gays having the same right to marry as everyone else. Render unto Caesar, anyone?

"But don't you believe that Christians have a duty to protest against laws they feel compel them to sin?" (Because someone's going to ask, so here we go.) Of course I do. If the law of the land required me to commit murder, I would refuse. If it required me to submit sexually to any man who took a fancy to my body, I would refuse. If it required me to give over my minor children to the total control of the state, I would refuse. (Oh, wait... home school... so, already doing that.) I absolutely believe that people of good conscience and sound mind have a moral obligation to assess the laws as written and enforced, and respond accordingly. And by "respond accordingly", I mean don't put yourself in a position where a compromising law would apply to you. For example, the Amish do not run for public office, as doing so would require the use of modern technologies which violate their beliefs, and if elected, would possibly involve them in military activities. For avowed pacifists, that's a problem, so they just don't put themselves in that position.

If you believe that same-sex relationships violate God's law (I don't, and I can argue the relevant Scripture as well as anyone), then it's really, really simple to avoid that sin. Don't be in a same-sex relationship. Last time I checked, the law does not require Mrs. Davis to join in marriage with a woman, have sex with a woman, shake hands with a woman, or even trade air-kisses. It requires her to issue marriage licenses to couples who meet the requirements of law to wed, which, following the recent Supreme Court decision, same-sex couples most assuredly do. The law says not one word about the issuing of a marriage license being indicative of the court officer's *support* of that marriage, and in fact we expect our elected officials to do their jobs as required by the law, irrespective of their personal beliefs. Therefore, even by her own definition, her job does not require her to sin, it just plain doesn't.

One further point... and I'd say this falls squarely under getting the plank out of one's own eye before remarking on the speck in another's... Mrs. Davis? Is on her fourth marriage. Her **fourth**. The same Scriptures which she uses to support her defiance of the Supreme Court ruling also mention that divorce is unholy except under very specific circumstances, and that remarrying after divorce is committing the sin of adultery. I fail to see how her fourth marriage, by literalist reading of Scripture, is any less problematic than the same-sex marriages the law now requires her to license.

From where I stand, the walls of Mrs. Davis' house are formed from a perilous amount of glass, and she's the only one throwing stones.

.

Privilege Check

2015-09-03T09:16:00.002-05:00

So I saw this on Facebook yesterday. And I had a moment of conflicting reactions, because of course all human lives matter equally. Duh, right? So I had that moment of "Yep", and my hand started heading for that share button.

And then my brain went, "Hold on there, cowgirl, privilege check."

Because, yes, all lives matter. But...

People have an instinct to demand that others notice them, acknowledge their story, validate their existence. When someone tags a post with #blacklivesmatter or #zebrastrong or #redinstead or whatever cause is dear to their hearts, there is a need to wave and shout and remind the universe that we exist too. That the lives we care about matter too. And they should.

Because we live in a society that has made the claim that all "men" (used here to represent humanity as a species) are created equal. That every human life is precious. We have come as a culture to the intellectual realization that even though those words, when originally set to paper, didn't really mean all people were created equal, but actually just meant all rich, white, straight, male people, they SHOULD mean that all human lives are equal. Equally worthy, equally valuable, equally precious.

The problem is that all our laws, our unwritten social rules, our habits and assumptions, they're all geared for the old system. And in that old system, various groups of people have been consistently treated as lesser. Less valued. Less worthy. Less human. Minorities when the ethnic majority is in charge. Women when the men are making all the rules. Non-believers when the religious leadership has the power. Children, because even a slave is bigger and stronger than an 8 year old. That's why even today incarceration rates for minorities are so horrifically out of balance, why women (all other factors being equal) still get paid less than their male counterparts for the same work, why we still fight over commandments on courthouses and prayers in Congress, why in this land of freedom and civil rights, it is still both legal and socially acceptable to hit, verbally demean, and publicly humiliate children in the name of "discipline". (Think about that, seriously. It's legal to hit kids, as long as you call it discipline, when committing the same assault upon the body of an adult would likely result in someone calling the police. And see? There's one of my near & dear causes taking over.) Point being, when the old habits meet the new mindset, there is friction. There are people who feel the need to say "Hey, don't forget us, we matter!", because the old system says they don't, but the high-minded cultural ideals say they should.

When someone feels that need to wave their arms and shout "HEY, WORLD, I MATTER!!!", it tells me they feel unseen. Unheard. Small. Pushed aside. Ignored. I know what that feels like, and I don't much care for it. So I try, really hard, to resist the urge to shout back "I MATTER TOO!!!", because it doesn't always have to be about me, and because of my skin color and growing up with relative wealth, it very often is about me, or the people I focus on. Someone else asserting that the lives they care about matter says not one word about the lives I hold dear mattering any less, just that their lives matter equally and they feel like no one is paying attention. So I try to take a breath, keep my mouth shut, and listen for a while. Acknowledge those lives that someone feels are being swept under the rug. Validate those feelings of powerlessness. Make eye contact, communicate that they are equal in my sight. (And that's a tough one, because autism & eye contact are not great bedfellows!)

Because I want my children to grow up in a world where those high-sounding words aren't just words. Where all human lives matter to an equal degree. I want them to see their mother taking that moment to pause and acknowledge another's situation, so when they grow up, they will remember that they matter, but so does everyone else. I want them to learn, when someone screams out "I MATTER!!!", to respond not with "I MATTER TOO!!!", but with...

I see you. I am listening.

Tell me your story.

.

So Fifty Shades opened in theatres today.

2015-02-14T00:08:00.002-06:00

Yet another time when I've kept my mouth shut because PTBs forbid someone who hasn't taken a flying leap into the fandom have an opinion... but here goes.

My father was Christian Grey. My mother was Anastasia Steele.

He was handsome, charming, financially comfortable, educated, experienced. She was young, bright, and terribly, terribly naive. He was funny, and brazen, and could talk her into accepting lavish presents. She was a beautiful girl from a very small town, running away with the man who promised to show her everything, if only she obeyed his every whim. He was an actor worthy of the reddest of carpets. She was fooled.

She told me once that she knew on her wedding night that she had made a mistake, when he flew into a rage over nothing and flung his ring at her head.

But she stayed. Because he didn't mean it. Because his mother was a hag who brought him up badly, not his fault he has temper problems. Because she must have done something to provoke the outburst. Because good girls don't get divorced, a marriage is a contract, after all. Because it wasn't always bad, sometimes he was amazing! Because she had moved with him thousands of miles from home and if she tried to leave he would take her children. Because if she could just pray enough, be perfect enough, love him enough, he could change. Because, because, because.

I'm not going to even touch on the two-bit half-assed ignorant portrayal of BDSM, except to say that a Dominant who behaved in such a fashion would swiftly find themselves blacklisted with nobody to paddle. As a whole, the community polices itself well, and abuse/rape/consent issues are not tolerated.

The problem with Fifty Shades is not the kinky sex. The problem is that it's practically a how-to manual for sociopaths to gas-light themselves a nicely trained long-term punching bag. Sticking the fairytale marriage + children on the end of it is the most dangerous part, because it is exactly the conclusion that every abuse victim convinces themselves will happen if they can just be perfect. It tacks the ultimate carrot onto the myth of "If I love my abuser enough, they can change. If I love them enough, I can fix them. And if they're still being bad to me, it's my own fault."

What adult people do in the privacy of their homes with full informed consent all around, that's their own business. But Fifty Shades sanitizes portrayals of stalking, manipulated and withdrawn consent (did the definition of rape change when I wasn't looking?!?), and a dozen other points, dressing them up in silk sheets and champagne, that all come down to one thing, an abuser grooming a victim. We should not be normalizing this.

Let's be real here for a sec. This is not a love story, it is an abuse fantasy. Which is fine, lots of people have rape and abuse fantasies, but the vast majority don't go and live them out in daily life. For those that do, there are domestic violence laws. (Woefully inadequate, but that's another rant.) So if that's what cranks your motor, then fine, crank away. Not my kink, but whatever. Just don't try to tell me that it's a beautiful love story, or a dynamic and growing relationship, or anything other than an abuse fantasy. And don't give me that line about the "intended audience" either, books in the grown-ups section don't come with age ranges. So just don't. Call it what it is, acknowledge that's what turns you on, and process that for a bit.

Because I am the child who grew up in the house at the end of that narrative. The huge, spotlessly clean showpiece of a home. The isolated, broken mother, an intelligent and beautiful woman reduced to arm candy. The handsome, sociopathic dad, who flies into a rage if he is given a salad fork instead of a dinner fork in his table setting. The children, groomed and trained to be the next generation of victims. It's not harmless fantasizing. It's real. It happens every single day behind locked doors in rich neighborhoods, abuse is no respecter of wealth or station, race or creed. To you it might be your bedroom play, but to me, it is the first 22 years of my life. It affects my decisions and behaviors to this day, and it can never be just fiction.

.

What is up with Mommy today...

2014-09-23T10:53:00.000-05:00

I find myself needing to process this morning, folks.

As summer turns to fall here in the Midwest, the nights are getting longer and colder, and that necessarily results in this guy here wanting to snuggle more.

Early this morning (it was still mostly dark), I had just finished nursing little sister back to sleep and resettled her on the bed when I felt the tell-tale nudging and patting on my opposite shoulder. Half-awake, I carefully turned over so as not to disturb the sleeping baby, and sure enough, there was my sleepy-eyed two year old sitting up and signing for milk. I laid back down and gestured for him to come over, and he wasted no time curling up against me and opening his mouth wide to nurse. As he latched on, his head on my arm, he gave this deep, contented sigh and closed his eyes. his whole body relaxing into warmth and comfort.

I was already drifting back to sleep, but that sigh, that moment of pure peace followed me, and I heard a voice say, "Laura, THIS is what he will remember."

Hours later and I'm still thinking about that. Because when I actually woke up, cuddled so tightly between my children that sitting up without disturbing at least one of them was impossible, that statement echoed in my ears, and for some reason I was overwhelmed with a deep, wrenching sorrow. Sadness just isn't a good enough word for that feeling, for the wave of pain that stops the breath and pricks stinging tears and, just for a minute, you wonder if it's possible for your heart to physically rip itself in two, because it sure doesn't feel like it's ever going to beat again.

I chose to disturb Ana, she's much easier to resettle.

Getting ready for the day while my son still slept provided ample distraction from that tearing, aching can't-breathe feeling, which is good because what I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and tell the world to take a flying leap. I wiped my face, put Ana in her swing, peeled a banana and opened a cheese stick, spread peanut butter on a slice of bread and set it all on a tray with his favorite fruit, green grapes, all on auto-pilot. All in that distance that says, "Don't think, just move."

By that point JJ was awake, I could hear him calling "ah-ee! ah-ee!!" (Which is "Mommy! Mommy!!" in JJ-speak.) Ana was still asleep in the swing, so I went back into the bedroom. We spent a few minutes letting JJ nurse and wake up properly, both got dressed, and came back out to the living room, where we sat on the sofa and cuddled through an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

Which brings us up to the present moment. My brain is awake, I can breathe, but I'm still trying not to think too hard, because I can feel that swirling undertow threatening to yank me off my feet if I look at it too closely.

And I don't know why.

That's the really awful part, I don't know why. Because that moment of flawless serenity and love was beautiful and all-encompassing. It felt like I could stay in that moment forever, right there with both of my children, happy, safe, content. That hour between falling back to sleep and waking up was the most restful sleep I've had in three months. For that hour... I remember the feelings, but ... what I think I remember of what went with them feels like unzipping a compressed file, or watching home movies on fast forward. Microsecond images, layered emotions.

This is what he will remember. A moment of total safety, love, contentment, security. He woke up cold and hungry, and Mother was there to make him warm and full.

This is what he will remember. When he is five and some precocious little girl thinks he's cute and kisses his cheek on the playground, he will remember that Mother kissed it first.

This is what he will remember. When he is seven and he has to say goodbye to an elderly dog, he will remember that Mother makes it better.

This is what he will remember. When he is eleven and the hormones start making him a little crazy, he will remember that Mother sometimes feels a little crazy too.

This is what he will remember. When he is eighteen and graduating high school, when he looks at the boundless horizon of his looming adult life and feels afraid, excited, confused, invincible, and very very small all at once, he will remember that Mother will always make room for him, and strike out in confidence from that place of safety.

This is what he will remember. That from his earliest memories, Mother represents safety, comfort, feeling treasured, feeling secure, being challenged and built up, being supported and helped and even left to make mistakes and learn from them on his own, but most of all love. Being fully, wholly loved, without reservation or caveat.

And all of that is wonderful. It's amazing and beautiful and staggering in its vastness.

And it makes me deeply, unbearably sad.

And I don't know why.

Trying to figure it out is making me weepy again. In the time it's taken to write this out, I've stopped JJ chasing the cat with his play-stroller twice, changed three diapers, nursed Ana back to sleep and put her back in the swing. I want to cry, scream, shriek my pain at the heavens, or curl into a tight little ball and pretend the world goes away when I can't see it.

JJ knows something is off. He keeps coming up to me with a grape, a toy, a book, doing a silly dance or making faces, trying to distract me. After I got a little frustrated with him chasing the cat, suddenly I just stopped, picked him up, got him changed, and laid down on the bed with him for a minute. Just looking into his eyes. Told him Mommy was having a bad day, but I was gonna try really hard not to yell at him. Told him he could help me by by being kind to the cat and to his sister and doing what I ask the first time without whining. And for the past hour he's done just that. He just now buckled himself into that stroller (which he does when he wants to be reminded to stay put) and is quietly watching Sheriff Callie. Every few minutes he looks at me to see if Mommy is feeling better yet. It's not his normal "Mommy, come play with me" behavior, he's plainly been trying to jostle me out of my funk.

I think I'm going to let him.

Because all this feeling stuff is hurt-y and sore and it really kind of sucks.

And this other stuff over here, the loving stuff, this is better.

Modesty vs Breastfeeding in Church, Pt Two

2014-09-01T17:38:00.000-05:00

Part One is my answer to a specific incident.

Part Two: A wider context

If you read my blog regularly, you already know that I consider the Western attitude toward breastfeeding to be based on political/business-driven lies, antiquated, misogynistic, and just plain weird and silly. But this time I want to talk about that same attitude in the context of the Christian church community. Because it exists there too, often more insidiously than in the secular world, as proponents will use Scripture out of context to support the dogma of feminine modesty and mask the underlying oppressive and unBiblical attitudes toward women inherent in such a position.

Point of clarification? My church is full to bursting with amazing people who are supportive and nurturing and open to differing opinions and approaches to life. Over the years I have been a member, the subject of breastfeeding in public has come up several times, as my son was about six months old when I began attending services. The first time it was raised was when I asked the Pastor if it was alright to nurse JJ in the sanctuary. (Cut me some slack, this was 2 years ago and I wasn't nearly as confident then.) His response? "Of course! If you are comfortable, we are comfortable!"

Win-win, right?

Well, usually, yes. Most of the time, if someone is bothered, they're either willing to discuss it and try to understand my reasoning, or mature enough to select an option from the list I gave in Part One and mind their own business. But in the grand tradition of busybodies everywhere, there is always somebody who figures he or she is the authority on all things appropriate and it is her/his moral duty to censor the world and impose decency upon all. Within the Church, this presents a logical dilemma that we need to explore.

See . . . Jesus had his guys, but he also hung out with the chicks. A lot. And not necessarily the proper ladies of his day either. He pal'd around with the prostitutes, the divorced, the remarried, the single gals. He loved kids too. Given the lack of pharmaceutical birth control and Jesus' penchant for seeking out the ostracized, do you really think that there weren't any single mothers with fussy littles in the bunch? Unlikely. And to my mind, it seems even MORE unlikely that Jesus, who walked with tax collectors and Samaritans, Jesus who said "let the little children come to me," would be disturbed by the presence of a breastfeeding infant, require they use a bottle (really?), or demand that the mother and child remove themselves until they were finished with such an inappropriate activity.

That just doesn't track, folks. That dog don't hunt. Shop it somewhere else, I ain't buyin'.

Women were INVOLVED in the early Church. They didn't just cook and keep house and raise babies for the men, nor were they relegated to teaching baby sabbath school classes or singing in the choir, nosirreebob. There were women deacons, women pastors, women missionaries, and believe it or not, there's some argument that not all of them were married! You gotta know there were hungry babies at inconvenient moments, when they couldn't just drop everything and leave in order to feed a squalling infant. It doesn't make sense for those early teachers and ministers to have been subject to the modern idea that feeding a baby is indecent.

So I have a question, a question that pretty well encapsulates the whole issue for me . . . do we live under the curse of Adam or the sacrifice of Christ? Are we IN the world, or OF the world? Because, this idea that feeding a baby is immodest? It's a very secular, very modern idea. Even in the days when the Church dictated women's dress, behavior, and social activities to a degree aptly called "puritanical" in the modern mind, feeding a baby was a practical necessity and not considered immodest in any way, but a most ladylike and womanly activity. Mother found a convenient seat wherever she happened to be and fed the baby, and it was incumbent upon the men to look elsewhere.

Of course the Church has always been (overly?) concerned with female modesty, but it is difficult to discern whether these attitudes come from the church, or from the world. Very chicken and egg. At some point though, the Church has to look at the world's attitude that breasts are primarily sexual and question it. We have to ask ourselves why we, the Church, continue to bow to the worldly view that the female body is first and foremost a sexual object, and as such must either be displayed in the context of sexual attraction, or hidden away, lest a woman minding her own business tempt a male to sinful thoughts. We MUST ask the question, WHY do we continue to place the burden of preventing lustful thoughts or actions first upon the person lusted after, and upon the one lusting only as an afterthought? This is no different from the first response in Western culture to learning of a rape -- what was she wearing? Why does the Church continue to conform to the ways of the world in this matter???

It seems to me that it is long since time the Church took a hard look at how closely we follow worldly thinking on the topic of breastfeeding (as a subset of the feminine modesty issue) and insist on a paradigm shift. We need to acknowledge that while all human bodies CAN be sexual, that does not mean that female bodies are ALWAYS, or even PRIMARILY sexual. That while breasts are absolutely sensual and attractive in a sexual context, they need not be seen as sexual in EVERY context. So I ask again, are we IN the world, or OF the world?

Know how we change it? By deciding to change it. By saying "This is stupid, unhealthy, and impractical. We are adults who can discipline our thoughts, and by doing so, set example for our children." By taking a breath when we see a woman nursing a child, and instead of berating her and trying to hustle her away or cover the offending boob, we continue our conversation as though nothing untoward is happening. Because nothing untoward is happening! How do we teach our young people that there is nothing sexual, shameful, or immodest about a woman nursing her child? By not treating it as sexual, shameful, or immodest, but as normal, beautiful, healthy, and appropriate. These are societal constructs, nothing more, and by giving them credence inside the church, we give the world power where we should be honoring only God.

It's hard, but it is also simple.

We must choose to change.

Modesty vs Breastfeeding in Church, Pt One

2014-09-01T01:14:00.002-05:00

My Answer

I'm having pretty gnarly post-partum issues the past couple of weeks (topic of a later post, PPD in real life). What happened Sunday afternoon was humiliating and brutal and instead of defending my child, I froze. Couldn't say a word. Did NOT cover her, but otherwise? Totally choked. Somehow though, I can't seem to muster the energy to get angry about it. I'm actually pretty f*****g miserable, if you care to know the truth, and I just don't have it in me to get mad about anything that does not fall under the heading of Survival Mode. It occurred to me that I can't be the only person this has happened to, and reading my response to the situation might help someone down the line. So here it is, my calm and prayerfully considered answer to, "Oh my gosh, what are you doing? Can't you cover up?? You're in church!!!"

When you eat lunch with your head under a blanket in the hottest part of the summer, then we can talk about me covering up my nursing child. Until then? Not gonna happen.

Please do not pretend that your concern is for the hypothetical men or children who might see "something inappropriate". It's insulting to all concerned. You are the person confronting me, be honest enough to own your issue.

Be prepared to deal with me ignoring you if I'm not up to debating the finer points of modesty vs. worldly thinking vs. personal responsibility. Because I'm running on fumes, and if I don't trust my mouth I may simply decide not to say anything at all and return my attention to the baby. It happened by accident this time, but on later reflection, it really doesn't seem like all that shabby of a fallback plan.

I am not flaunting myself, vying for attention, or trying to seduce or offend anyone. I am feeding my child, in the way God intended children to be fed. You are the person looking at a nursing baby and interpreting it as something sexual. Might wanna talk to a pastor (or God or your therapist) about that, but in the meanwhile, stop blaming an infant for your inappropriate thoughts.

Incidentally, the dress I was wearing covers less when it is fully in place. As I have previously received your compliments on said garment, I can only conclude that you approve of the use of breasts as a fashion accessory or a means of drawing physical attraction, but not as the baby-feeding device they were designed to be. Give that some thought, cuz it seems a bit backwards. Also? Pretty sure God knows what my breasts look like, and approves of their use as baby-feeders in His house.

Ana is 10 weeks old, and breast-milk is her only food. You, however, are an adult, and thus you have several options for dealing appropriately with your discomfort.

          A) You can look at my face and continue our conversation. It's really not hard, several of those men & kids you profess such concern for do it every week. Other women too.
          B) You can direct your gaze anywhere else in this rather large room and find someone else to talk to. I promise, I won't get up from my comfortable chair by the wall and follow you about.
          C) You can just keep walking. Again, won't follow, promise.

You will note that deliberately and loudly shaming me, then snarkily commenting "Well FINE, if you're gonna be that way about it" and stalking off in a huff because I do not accede to your demand is nowhere on the list. Again, you are an adult, have enough personal responsibility to address your own moral dilemmas and not expect me to do it for you. Because I won't, not about this. I will not impede my daughter's ability to eat comfortably and breathe freely in order to save you the trouble of exercising two seconds of self-discipline. Same goes for hiding in a bathroom. Ew.

My baby comes first. Before your right to not be offended (which isn't actually a thing, by the way). Before my right to avoid harassment. Before anyone else's needs or wants or whims or sensibilities, my baby comes first.

Part Two explores the larger conversation that needs to be had.

About That Video I Just Saw

2014-08-22T20:43:00.004-05:00

I just watched an amazing display of athleticism and skill, the video shared by a Christian educator whose faith I know well and whom I respect greatly as one of the few teachers who bothered to actually see me. I say this not to call out the person who shared the video, but to clarify that this is merely background information to set up my inquiry.

The demonstration was given by a person wearing what can be kindly described as minimalist swimwear, equipped only with body, mind, musical accompaniment, and a vertical pole affixed in the center of a viewing area.

It occurs to me to ask why no one is decrying the performance as immodest, obscene, too sexual, etc, or bemoaning the effect it's viewing might have on the libido/impure thoughts of our impressionable youth? Why is no one getting the vapors over the athlete's copious amounts of exposed skin or minimally covered naughty bits?

Oh, that's right . . . it's a guy. Now, because the athlete is male, it's a sport (it's called Mallakhamba, click for the nifty history). Because the athlete is male, it is #SafeForWork, suitable for sharing on social media, and completely appropriate for viewing by family members of all ages.

It actually is all of those things so far as I care, that's not what I'm being sarcastic about, just to clarify. I'm being just a teensy bit snarky over the undeniable fact that if the same Christian educator had shared the same video of a female clad in similarly minimal attire, all other factors being the same, a lot of people we both know would be losing their damn minds racing to light the torch and raise the pitchfork. Because, it's a girl! Too much skin!! Too much sexy!!! How dare she move her body in such a sensual, eye-catching way in a public place! How could you share such an inappropriate video?!?! There are CHILDREN watching!!! WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!?!?!?

This is why #INeedFeminism, people. Because two otherwise identical athletic performances would be judged with wildly differing attitudes based solely on the physical sex of the athlete. This is why I have made conscious effort to get over modesty programming and gender-shame from the world I grew up in, because there are far too many situations where those rules only apply because I was not born with a penis. This is why I minimize gender-stereotypical toys and clothing for my children, and will NOT be teaching my daughter that her value as a person is dependent on whether or not she has had vaginal intercourse with a man, nor teaching my son that he is a slave to his eyes, hormones, or the awesome power of The Magical Vagina.

I'm not mad. I'm not even upset. I'm just pointing out . . . if that were a female, people would be going absolutely crazy trying to shove a really impressive performance behind the curtain of "That's Not Appropriate".

Well . . . Appropriate is boring, and I've seen girls do it better.

Oh, the video? Here ya go… the original user shared it as Public and has numerous similar presentations on YouTube, so I don't feel badly linking to this one on Facebook.

Sabado Gigante Mallakhamba

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming of baby cuteness.

Myths, culture, and a very sore tongue...

2014-08-05T00:56:00.000-05:00

Yup, sore tongue, from biting it. As in "No, I will not flip out on the first-time mother who just regurgitated a half dozen of the most infuriatingly illogical anti-breastfeeding myths perpetuated on mothers in western society that boiled down to why my son is too old to still be nursing. I will take a breath and politely state that these things are not correct, and gently suggest that she do some research." Now, mind you, my son was not actually *with* me for this conversation, just my six week old daughter. The conversation was lovely, all "let them nurse until they're done!" until I had to go and mention (with, admittedly, some small degree of pride) that my almost-three year old son was still nursing, and at that point things instantly spiraled into raised brows, judgmental tones, and cultural myths about the proper age of weaning. "I'm all in favor of breastfeeding, but..." (Here's a clue, if there's a "but" attached to that sentence, you're about to prove the exact opposite.)

Sore tongue. Very sore tongue.

Now, I could list every statement that made my teeth hurt, and rant about the ways they're wrong. I could link to peer-reviewed studies and medical journal articles and so on giving the current research which backs up the historical reality, but it's been done, a lot, by other bloggers who have more patience for hunting such things down. If you're reading this, you have access to search engines. Google "breastfeeding myths" and dive in, the education is endless. (Okay, I'll link just one, because it's brilliant and fascinating and a great jumping off point. "A Natural Age of Weaning" by Kathy Dettwyler. Nutshell, natural human weaning can be expected anywhere from two and a half to seven years of age.) 

I don't want to put out my own version of everything you'll find under the above mentioned search. I want talk about the culture that allows these lies (let's use the ugly word, because it's accurate) to become so ingrained that they are passed on, mother to daughter, educator to student, doctor to patient, without a second thought.

See, this idea that there is some predetermined age that is "too old", that breast-milk ever becomes bad or unhealthy or worthless, that mothers don't wean out of selfishness (or worse, are sexually abusing their older nurslings), all of these and more are inventions of western culture during the past century at the very most. Fifty years ago, it was still perfectly normal in the United States for a woman out and about with her nursling to simply unfasten her top and feed the hungry child. To this day, there are cultures all over the world, all along the scale of first-second-third-world nations, where it is STILL normal and expected that children will nurse at their mother's breast until the child simply no longer wants to breastfeed. Throughout history and around the world, breastfeeding dyads (that's mom and child) have been respected, protected, honored, and held up as metaphor for beauty, strength, trust, healthy relationships, etc. Breastfeeding to natural term, when *both* mother and baby are ready, is healthy and natural and has been the accepted norm for thousands of years. These modern ideas centered around "too old"... they make very little sense when you actually stop to think about it.

A couple of things to consider, just some starting points as food for thought...

------- When Samuel's mother took him to the Temple to serve the priesthood, it was when he was weaned. What use exactly would the aging Eli have had for a one year old??? Or even a two or three year old, for that matter.

------ A pacifier or thumb is seen as an acceptable substitute after weaning... and yet both have been shown to negatively impact the development of facial structure, alignment of teeth, speech, etc. Breastfeeding, no matter how extended, does not, and in fact has a positive effect on the development of the dental arch. Logic fail.

------ Every time I have been questioned on natural term breastfeeding, I've discovered that the person thinks my son is still consuming ONLY breast milk. *facepalm* Yes, because a formula-fed toddler is still taking ONLY formula at nearly three. He eats a normal amount of food for his age and nurses to sleep, for comfort, to reconnect with me or his sister, if he's thirsty, scared, has a belly-ache, etc. At this age, breast milk has become ... what's that word the big companies use for the extra stuff they figure our young kids should be eating... Oh, yeah... *supplemental* to his solid food diet. Now, most kids will go through a picky phase. All those supplemental drinks and snacks marketed toward picky toddlers? Nature's answer: Breast milk. (Note: Breast milk does not provide sufficient amounts of vitamin D for even a small baby, so yes, Ana gets vitD drops along with her sunlight, because I burn easy and we don't get outside as much as I'd like.)

------ Let's just say, for argument's sake, that there is some arbitrary post-partum date upon which morn a mother's breast-milk no longer holds any nutritional value. (There isn't, but go with me here.) I'm nursing an almost-3 year old and a 6 week old infant, often at the same time. In order for the above assumption to prove correct, my body would somehow have to be switching between healthy, rich, nutrient-packed milk for Anabelle and ... well, I guess water? for JJ. Just pause and think about that for a second. I'm good, friends, but I'm not that good.

------I have an almost-three who generally does as he's told, most days goes to sleep within 30 minutes of bedtime, sleeps through the night, does not throw screaming fits or tantrums, is healthy and strong and frighteningly smart, and six weeks in shows no evidence of being the least bit jealous of his baby sister. Tell me exactly how removing the ONE guaranteed never-fail comfort and connection tool from this equation makes sense?

------ While this is changing, doctors as a rule (even pediatricians) do not receive accurate up to date education about breastfeeding in their years of education and training. They have to seek this information out in their own time, of which they have very little. So they fall back on the decades old fiction devised by formula companies and perpetuate the myth that cow's milk or formula is somehow better for humans than... wait for it... *human* milk.

I couldn't resist, I cracked right up when I saw this.

SO... a first time mom spouted a bunch of the usual "he's too old!" sound-bites at me. It's actually not her that I'm mad about. It's the medical professionals who didn't get the right information in school and so repeat to new mothers the lies dreamed up a century ago by formula companies. It's the backwards cultural paradigm that places sexual display and individual discomfort at a higher value than the natural process of feeding one's child. It's the reality that the mothers least able to afford formula and processed "supplemental" drinks and foods are the ones most targeted by the companies which produce them, all subsidized by a government that refuses to acknowledge we are the only developed, industrialized nation in the world without federally mandated paid maternity leave.

Rather than educating mothers about the free, healthy, and generally unlimited bounty produced by their own magnificent bodies, we allow these myths to be passed on, year after year. THAT is what makes me mad, not one young woman with her first child doing what her __insert authority figure___ said and needing to be validated that she is doing right by her child.

So no, I will not force-wean my son before he decides he is ready. I promise, there isn't a ten year old boy alive who wants it known that he still gets milk straight from the tap. Pretty sure he'll give it up sometime before middle school.

No, I will not hide my son's nursing away at home, or refuse him milk just because a stranger might see and disapprove, anymore than I will subject my daughter to unnecessary and uncomfortable coverings for the sake of another's potential offense.

No, I will not pretend it's okay when -
              - people suggest I haven't weaned him because I am not ready. Because I really love having my breasts poked by an insistent two year old umpteen times a day. Okie dokie.                - Or that I'm making him too dependent and anti-social. Come meet him, he's anything but.
              - Or that he'll never bond with or trust anyone else. He asks for Daddy first thing every day. He sits and plays solitaire with his grandmother. He calls his various aunties on Skype without needing my help to do it. He abandons me to play chase with other littles at the drop of a hat.
              - Or that I should have weaned before Ana came because now he'll be jealous and won't learn to share. See photographic evidence below to the contrary.
              - Or that I am sexually abusing my son by allowing him to take nourishment and comfort at my breast alongside his baby sister.

Seriously, I will junk punch you.

I will not do these things. I will not hide, I will not be ashamed, I will not give tacit admission that there is anything wrong here. Because this conversation needs to be had. Children need to see mommies nursing babies, and toddlers, and even (legasp!) preschool and elementary age kids, and be allowed to ask questions. I don't get flustered when a curious 5/8/12 year old walks up while I'm nursing Ana or JJ and asks questions, I answer. Why? Because that is how we get back to a world where feeding a child is normal.

By feeding our children and treating it as normal.

So, it finally happened...

2014-07-05T17:21:00.000-05:00

Two and a half years in, someone finally got in my face about breastfeeding in public.

Well . . . sort of in public. Since apparently anywhere not within the confines of my house is technically "public".

Was it the two year old? Because, really shouldn't he. . . Stop. First, he'll wean when he's darned good and ready. Second, no, it wasn't the two year old, it was his sister, a thirteen day old infant who is still a bit shy of her birth weight. Third, had it been the two year old, dramatically less of my breast would have been visible, because he's happy with just the nip and can largely handle positioning himself.

Were you just out on the street somewhere? Because, public breastfeeding. . . Stop. We were at the pediatrician's office. Not that it would have mattered. An hour before I was in a public park mere yards from the well-populated jogging path doing the exact same thing and nobody so much as looked at us sideways.

Ah, well, if you were breastfeeding out in the waiting room. . . Stop. We were in a private exam room. Not that it would have made a difference. See above.

Huh. Well, if another patient was walking past the door and objected. . . Stop. The door was closed, and the person who objected was a female nurse. That's right, a trained medical "professional" took it upon herself to communicate that my exposed tit with a baby hanging off the end was a shameful thing that needed to be hidden from sight as quickly as possible.

Hold on, there, Miss Hyperbole, surely she didn't SAY that?? Not in so many words, no.

She was done with all the pre-doctor vitals & such business with Ana, and was puttering about the room "tidying". I've never seen a nurse take so much time in an exam room after the pre-doc workup is complete. I didn't think anything of it at the time, because Ana was fussing from being stripped down & poked & prodded, and she was rapidly heading toward Screechville, so my focus was on getting her latched & calmed down. Which was easily accomplished, thanks to a nice wide bench seat in that room. Padded arms, even. Lovely.

At this point, the nurse said "Do you want...", dove into the bottom of the cart that held the baby scale, and retrieved a towel. I thought she was going to roll it up and offer it as a prop to put my arm on (which I would have accepted gladly, near to 8 pounds gets heavy fast!), but no. She shook it out, and without saying another word, proceeded to spread it across my chest and nursing infant, blocking my view of Ana's face and what she was doing with her mouth and what I was doing with my hands to hold and help her.

When I came on messenger that evening foaming at the mouth over the incident, a very dear friend said to me, "I pity the fool! What did you say?!?"

What did I say? I was stunned. Floored. Astounded. For a very very brief moment, I was actually speechless.

You, speechless? I don't believe it. Yeah, yeah. Shush, you.

I said, "No, thank you." She ignored me and kept spreading and patting and even tucking, seemingly determined to eliminate every last crease and wrinkle that might possibly reveal flesh. There were hands in places that frankly only my husband's hands should ever go without getting my express permission first.

I said, "I don't want her covered, please." The nurse's response was to flip the bottom two inches off Ana's face, leaving her mouth and my hands and chest still covered. Then she started to argue with me.

"Oh, well, you know someone might see while we've got the door open, dear."

"I don't care. Anybody who works in a pediatrician's office that has a problem with boobs is the wrong line of work." The other nurse in the room, who had been awkwardly silent until now, chuckled at this, started to say something that from her tone sounded supportive, but was talked over when the first nurse kept nattering on.

"Oh, well, you know it might be one of the other patients..."

"I don't CARE. That'll be their problem, not ours!" I took a hand away from proceedings at this point to pull the towel off and throw it aside, and of course Ana lost her latch without the support of that hand, because my breast is still bigger than her whole head. So I had to get a now fussing baby latched again, while I'm pissed and listening to the nurse going on still.

"She doesn't care. Well, alright, I'm sorry if I offended you."

If, she says. IF. Then there's that tone. You know the one. Tends to be employed by fussy-britches who begin their statements with phrases such as "Well, I never!" and communicates the sense of "You clearly don't know what's good for you and you're not going to listen, so fine, have fun making a show of yourself, you tawdry thing."

Oh, and did I mention it was nearly 6pm and we were the last appointment of the day?

SO. Let's break down exactly what is screwed up about this scenario.

1.) There was no "public". This was a private exam room, with a door, populated by myself, my husband, my infant daughter, and two female nurses, all of whom have presumably seen the female body in its full glorious nudity at some point or other.

2.) The person who objected was (yes, you read this right) a female medical professional working in a pediatric office whose stated mission includes supporting breastfeeding mothers. A woman herself, with ample breasts of her own, a NURSE, was so bothered by the sight of my breast that she felt justified in violating my personal space and interfering in my daughter's ability to feed. The excuse of protecting a hypothetical "someone" who might possibly pass by the very briefly open door from a tenth-of-a-second glimpse of bare breast is exactly that, an excuse. This hypothetical individual has the ability to look away, and social norms teach us that it is impolite to stare into someone else's exam room anyway. Given that it was, as I mentioned, nearly 6pm and we were the only patients still in the office, the chances of this occurring were exactly zero, and thus I can only conclude that the person who was actually bothered was the so-called "professional" who was tucking an unwanted towel around my breasts.

3.) "Do you want" and proceeding to cover me without actually finishing the question or giving me time to respond does NOT constitute getting permission to touch me, OR my daughter. If I had wanted to use a cover, I would have brought one, or asked for one. Because I'm an adult. I can use my words. Thanks.

4.) Feeding a brand-squeaking-new infant requires an unencumbered breast, both hands, and visual contact, especially when Mommy wears Ogre-Fiona-size brassieres. Deal.

5.) Federal law and Illinois state law protect a mother's right to breastfeed her child, covered or not, anywhere that mother has legal right to be. The comfort of random strangers does not enter into those sections of the law. Period.

6.) This is the biggest one. . . it is severely messed up that in two and a half YEARS of breastfeeding my son, not one single person, stranger or otherwise, has been unpleasant to me, and the very first time it happens, it's a medical professional shoving her definition of modesty into my baby's meal space. I'm actually rather glad it happened to me, vs some first time uncertain mommy who might take a hard blow from an incident like that. We need to think about this as a culture, what are we saying to women, breastfeeding mothers, when we tell them that the biological purpose behind those soft fleshy curves is something that needs to be hidden? What are we saying, when MEDICAL STAFF use their perceived authority to force a nursing mom to cover up when she doesn't want to? What are we really objecting to here, folks? Think about it.

Two weeks post-partum is the point where supply starts to regulate, and you start to get a break from the constant cluster-feeding because baby's tummy is a bit bigger. It's also the point where a LOT of moms give up because they're exhausted, sleep deprived, their breasts hurt, their hormones are still wondrously screwy, and someone, somewhere, says just exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. Mentions how formula would be so much easier, or asks why she doesn't just pump and use a bottle, or pulls a face when mom sneaks out just barely enough boob to feed the baby, or mentions that mom will have to go back to work in a month, so what's she going to do then, or suggests that since she's going to be a SAHM anyway, why doesn't she just stay home when the baby needs to eat? SO many women give up on a huge benefit to their babies right around this time, often because friends, family, or total strangers can't keep their mouths shut and mind their own business.

What are we saying to mothers, by allowing this continued cultural hissy fit about "modesty in breastfeeding"? We are saying that the immediate gratification and convenience of bottles, and alleviating other people's potential offense/discomfort are more important than the health and emotional benefits (for baby AND mom!) of breastfeeding. Convenience and not offending random strangers on the street is more important than the health and well-being of a mother and child.

That. Is. Messed. Up.

Ana is two weeks old, and still learning how to nurse effectively. Breastmilk is her only food, and will continue to be so likely for the entire first year of her life, and a significant part of her diet for as long after that as she chooses to nurse. In the end, it's not about my rights at all, it's about hers. Her right to eat when she needs to eat, without interference, obstacles, or ignorant strangers making it harder than it needs to be. Her right to experience sunlight and breezes and new situations, to breathe fresh air, to make eye contact with her mother. Ana's small size and inability to communicate do not negate those rights. Her right to sustenance, easily and comfortably obtained comes before the potential social discomfort of older people who can choose to look away, and as her mother, I will defend her rights because that is my job. If you are offended, well... tough, my baby comes first.

It really is that simple.

(Because someone will ask, the doctor came in right as this nurse was leaving, saw the look on my face, and asked me what happened. She was just as bothered as I was, apologized profusely, and promised to educate her staff so this would not happen again. As I very much like this doctor, I'm good with that.)

Lessons Learned

2014-06-26T16:04:00.002-05:00

So, five days into baby #2, I've already noticed a few things I'm pointedly doing differently from how I did them with JJ. Some things are just happening differently, others are "yeah, we're not doing that this time". It's a bit of a mind warp to realize.

1. Taking the Anne Geddes pictures. Oh, I took tonnes of pictures when JJ was born, you all know this, but I didn't really take the "posed" stuff as a rule. This time, yeah, doing it.

Because they only do this for the first few weeks.

2. Naps.

Cute, right?

You might think that's a picture of JJ... until you look closer and realize that in the upper left is the rocking elephant I *just* gave to JJ about six months ago. Nope, that's Anabelle, and she's having a nap in the living room.

See, with JJ, we put him to sleep in his cosleeper, in the bedroom, with a CD of a thunderstorm playing, or a fan blowing, for white noise. Then we proceeded to tiptoe and whisper and treat the sleeping baby like an active IED, because, clueless first-timers. It got us a two year old who Will. Not. Sleep. anywhere else unless he's so tired he just can't keep his eyes open anymore.

I am absolutely determined that Ana is going to learn to sleep when she needs sleep, regardless of what noise is going on around her. So except for actual night-time sleeping, she hasn't napped in the bedroom, but out in the common areas with the normal household activities going on. Neither am I letting anyone constantly shush the two year old (though he is getting lessons in the concept of "indoor voices"). Right this minute, Ana is sleeping with her head pillowed on my knee, on the living room couch, with the tv on (at a normal volume), and right outside the wide-open windows, John is mowing the grass and JJ is harassing the dog. Loudly.

She's not even twitching.

3. Charting breastfeeds and diapers. Most moms will recognize this, or something like it:

Or maybe you used an app on your preferred electronic device. When JJ was born, trixietracker.com was my best friend. (And it's GREAT, for those of you who like to track diapers, feeds, meds, naps, etc.) Except it really really wasn't a good thing for me at all. My massively OCD self got extremely hung up on all the beautiful numbers it allowed me to keep track of, and it turned into a source of stress when baby didn't behave according to the charts.

So this time? Not doing that. Just not. Like, at all. I've been keeping it in my head day by day what diapers I got the day before, and that is good enough. I'm not writing down feed times, whether she started on the left or the right, or giving myself minutes of feeding time to obsess over. Just not. She's gaining weight and requiring diapers changed, and even if I leave her entirely to her own devices she's not slept longer than 3 hours at a stretch. Today I'm purposely getting her up to feed more often, trying to get her to do more of the cluster-feeding during the day, because I like sleep, but otherwise?

So. Not. Tracking. ANYTHING.

4. Introductions to pets. With JJ, I didn't let the cats anywhere near him until he was turning over on his own, and certainly not when he was sleeping. No, I don't have any silly ideas about the cat sucking the breath from the baby. But the smallest of my cats outweighs a newborn by a good fifteen pounds. So squashing the baby is a definite possibility.

BUT...

Unbelievable cuteness.

See, Minnows loves babies. He adored JJ and made a very effective feline babysitter once I allowed him around the baby. So that's happening early this time too. And seriously, LOOK at that face. How can I say no?

5. Cosleeping. Right from the get go. With JJ, he stayed in the cosleeper at first. I lasted 4 nights being woken up every 30 minutes by a crying infant. By the time he had his first checkup, I was so completely fried I could barely keep my eyes open. That doctor told me to bring him into the bed, just keep the pillows & blankets away from him and put him between me and the cosleeper, not me & daddy. It worked, suffice to say. This time? Right straight to the bedsharing. First two nights, I swapped beds with JJ so I could put the baby between me and the wall. Then it was just too much to remember, because that means putting JJ to sleep in our bed, and he's not used to it and doesn't sleep as well, etc. So we switched back, and the last couple of nights have been much smoother. She's got a little DIY "moses basket" made out of pool noodle that creates a small protected space, but otherwise? Right in next to mama the way we like it.

Baby's gonna go out into the yard for the first time here as soon as she wakes up, which is also different, but that's due to the season, not the life lessons of child #2! It was sorta winter when JJ was this size, and yeah, going outdoors with the baby is a lot easier in the summer time!

So how 'bout it, folks? What did you do differently with kid #2?

So... we have a newborn... again!

2014-06-22T22:35:00.000-05:00

Wow.

Just wow.

Anabelle Marie Rose...

Born June 21st, 2014, the summer solstice, at 1:57 in the morning.

7 pounds, 13 ounces.

Our first girl.

Her brother is thrilled.

Even if it means he has to share the milk.

So, I've been doing some thinking. A friend jokingly linked me to a rather snarkily written "Rules for Visiting a New Mom". I laughed at some, nodded vigorously at others, and winced in pain at the comments decrying the author as a selfish, entitled brat for suggesting that friends and family consider and prioritize a family's needs above their own desire to snuggle on the squishy little person.

A quick google search on "tips for visiting a new baby" or similar reveals that everyone has an opinion on appropriate guest behavior when visiting the parents of a newborn. Everyone also has an opinion on the general character of those who share such lists, and it's usually not complimentary, generally freaking out over the idea of providing that "village" of supportive care to a family with a newborn.

Americans are weird, yo. Seriously weird. From third to first world, most other countries have traditions respecting the postpartum woman as a recovering, healing person in need of rest and support, and many have extensive laws protecting that status. American women are expected to "get back to normal" and resume jobs, classes, household obligations, parental duties for older children, etc, within weeks or even days of birth.

Very weird.

But not what I came back to the blog to write about today. :) (I can hear the sighs of relief from here, folks. Stop it. :P)

I won't be issuing a PSA of rules and regs for visiting Casa Nolan and gazing upon our newborn. By accident, choice, or divine interference, in the past year or so, all our acquaintances of the sort to need such a list (and thus to assume it did not apply to them because, they're *special*) have serendipitously removed themselves from our lives. Everyone who is still around and thus reading this post? Of COURSE we want to see you! (I promise, I won't even obsess about hand-washing!)

No… what I brought the blog back to write today is a different sort of list entirely. This one's all for me. See, I can't control what anybody else does. I can't dictate helpfulness or consideration, or mandate the use of common sense, much as we'd all like to sometimes! The only person I can control is me. So I'm going to make everyone I know a few promises tonight, and you're all witnesses! Hold me to it!

The Mommy Of the Newborn's Promise

1. I will put my own air mask on first. I will sleep when the baby sleeps whenever possible. I will sit my behind on the couch and watch kids' shows with my two year old while we figure out this tandem nursing thing so he doesn't get too jealous of his baby sister. I will remember to eat, healthfully and on a regular basis, and keep a full water bottle at my side at all times. I will not lift anything heavier than the baby for the next six weeks. I will make the time to take relaxing baths and drink chamomile tea and rest my soul along with my body. I will remember that I have just completed a 9 month marathon, only to start another that doesn't stop until my last kid moves out of the house. I will take care of myself.

2. I will not turn down offers of help. All y'all know me. I'm the person who will answer "No thanks, we've got it covered" until everything falls apart and I'm standing in a Federally Declared Disaster Zone. Not this time. "What do you need?" will be answered truthfully, even if I have to stop and think about it for a second, and the answer is "only" baby wipes. Visitors who kindly and wonderfully ask what they can do to help will be graciously thanked and pointed at whatever needful task comes first to mind. "Watch the kids for an hour so I can take a shower and a nap" is definitely on the list, so be warned! :)

3. I will ask for help when it IS help, and not meltdown prevention. (Yeah, yeah, yeah… stop laughing, I'm serious.) I'm lousy at asking for help, we all know this. Thanks to a wonderful church family, I've gotten better about it in the last few months, but now I'm making a conscious decision to look at tomorrow, this Thursday, next week and say "The stuff we have planned will go a lot easier on everyone if I have another adult around to assist", and behave accordingly. To say "Things are falling a bit behind and I could use some help" BEFORE no one has any clean clothes to wear, the lawn is three feet tall, and the fridge lacks basics because no one has done the shopping. So, yes, this means you will likely be seeing requests for child-minding/household help on a more regular basis. I'm not asking because I feel entitled. Because I don't, I'm actually fighting through thirty years of "God doesn't help the lazy, Laura!" programming to say a single word of it. I am asking because I desperately want to be the best mother I possibly can, and that does not happen flying solo. We all need our village, and I am officially reaching out to mine.

4. I will remember, and pay it forward. Creating our "village" in this modern age of technology is harder than ever before. We are simultaneously closer and more isolated than any generation of parents before us. I've always had that "fix-it" instinct, that natural inclination to dive in and help. But now I am committing to remember and pass on the aid I receive, to ask "What do you need?" instead of "Do you need anything?" To make the time in my world to make someone else's journey just a little bit easier. Need a hand? Ask me. If it's within my ability, I'm all over it, and if I seriously can't, most likely I can point you to someone more capable.

At least, starting six weeks from today. Because, air mask. :)

15 months ... Mind. Blown. Seriously.

2013-03-07T15:33:00.000-06:00

I love his expression here... "Yeah... you know I'm cute."

So. Fifteen Months. Yup, you read that right. JJ is fifteen months old, has been for about two weeks.

And I am daily beset by that stunned feeling of "Wait... when did that happen????"

Because this kid is smart, y'all, I mean so smart it's just a little bit scary. And awesome. Watching as he explores and pokes and experiments, you can actually see him working stuff out, and it is the coolest damn thing I have ever experienced in my life.

Every single day he does something completely new. Just lately he added the sign for "Diaper" to his working vocabulary, and is letting me know when he would like a change. He's decided that walking is awesome, and running looks even awesome-er... though he hasn't quite tried it yet! (YET being the operative word there.) He has (FINALLY) started to grasp that "JJ, no touch" or "No, sweetheart, not for JJ" isn't something to melt down over, it just means that whatever he's got his hand on isn't for him to play with. He even obeys and leaves it alone... most of the time.

He's SOOO big now... remember these pictures?

Yeah... 'bout that.

I would dearly love to get my hands on the sadistic excuse for a fairy godmother that decided now was a good time for JJ to start working on his 2-year molars. Why? Because after nearly two months of sleeping for almost 12 hours straight at night, we're back to this:

Constantly.

And by constantly, I mean there is no point wearing a top to bed, because if I waste the three seconds it takes to make the girls available, he wakes up, screams at me for being slow, and then refuses to go back to sleep. Much easier to simply leave the milk-bar ready and waiting. During the day it's a bit easier, there's stuff to distract him with, but at night? Yeah, the no-limit wee-hours milk bar is back in play for the time being, because otherwise I would not be getting ANY sleep.

Oh, hey... remember this?

Well, now it's this:

And he has figured out that the dust pile is for sweeping, not sitting in... mostly.

"BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG SCARY MONSTER!!! RAWWWWRRR!!"

This is one of his favorite games, you should hear the giggles.

We're just getting started on the whole "potty chair" concept...

at least he's figured out that THIS is for sitting on!

The reward, though, for the sleep deprivation and endless trying of my patience is the smiliest, giggliest, most curious and determined little critter I've ever known.

Gotta love that face!!

Reboot: Day One

2013-02-16T14:29:00.000-06:00

So, I'm home. I'm sore, but doing okay. JJ had a rough go of bedtime last night. I tried for almost two hours, John finally had to come in and take over, and that did not help my mommy-heart at all. Naptime today was a slightly different story... he did go to sleep for me, even though he fussed and flipped over when I slid out of the bed. Hopefully letting him nurse completely on demand for a while will reverse the damage done to my supply while I was in the hospital. I pumped, I swear. It was the first thing I asked for when they admitted me. I set alarms on my computer and dragged myself up out of the drug haze every three hours. I still lost a lot of supply and JJ is less than pleased with the current availability. I'm hoping he'll be determined enough to suckle until my body figures out that the demand has returned.

I'm doing okay with food. Last night was really light fare, broth, toast, yogurt, hot tea. Today I'm venturing into salad, fruit, and pretzel rods. No problems so far, but it has been firmly impressed upon me that the concept of portion control is my new best friend. I've got some serious mental retraining to do... no longer can I eat until I'm full (because by that point we've been at the table about 20 minutes too long anyhow), but I need to learn to stop when I'm just "not hungry anymore". So yeah... NO MORE EXCUSES. (Thaaaaaat would be JJ playing with Mommy's caps lock button... it has a green light which he finds utterly fascinating.)

The good news is, since my last actual doctor's appointment (almost a month ago), I've lost thirteen pounds.

Created by MyFitnessPal - Free Weight Loss Tools

(Yes, I know that the vast majority of that is most likely due to having an organ removed and sitting on my butt in the hospital not eating for a week. Shush. Don't ruin my moment. :P)

Warning, Happy Drugs In Use

2013-02-12T09:32:00.002-06:00

]

So this rapidly got too long for a FB status, but people wanted to know how I was doing.

For those who missed the memo: the constant excruciating back pain I've been whinging about for the last four to five months morphed into excruciating abdominal pain and vomiting on Saturday morning. It didn't let up, and after twelve hours of not keeping anything (ANYTHING) down, we came to the ER, and I've been in the hospital since Saturday night. Turns out? Gallstones, blockage of the bile duct. Surgical fix, but a relatively simple one now that they know what's actually the problem.

Emotionally, I'm a mess. I miss my baby. John brought JJ in to see me yesterday after his appointment (poor baby got a couple of shots), and all JJ wanted to do was sit on my lap and nurse. Which, thankfully, his doctor and mine both said was okay, because I was getting seriously baby-bonding deprived. John is being an awesome amazing rock star daddy about maintaining JJ's usual routine as much as possible, and JJ isn't giving him too much trouble about going to sleep and so forth. They brought me a decent quality breast pump, so I've been able to maintain my supply while I'm here, and while tired and kinda wrung out, emotionally there's nothing going on that a night in my own bed with my husband at my back and my son in my arms won't fix.

Physically, that's a different story. Two days in a row the same nurse blew off my requests for pain control for nearly an hour. And no, I wasn't early... it had been over 18 hours since I'd even asked for any, I was largely pain free most of yesterday, but started to hurt in the evening and called for meds at about 8:30. By the time she finally brought the morphine last night, it was 9:15, I was curled up in a ball and crying, and it didn't work. I told her half an hour later it wasn't working. I told her an hour after the dose that it wasn't working, and asked her to call the doctor. She blew me off again, even though I was back to shivering and fighting tears at that point.

Then shift change hit, and last night it was extra crazy and the new nurse (who was lovely, btw) didn't get to me until after 12:30a. So of course that dose of morphine didn't do much either, knocked it back some but not nearly enough to let me sleep. This nurse, however, paid attention when I told her it wasn't working. She called the doctor, got me switched to something stronger, and stayed right on top of things. She stuck her head in every time she passed my room to let me know where things stood, even when she was busy, and as soon as the order came through from the pharmacy at 2 she brought it so I could get some sleep. She also stood there and held my hand and listened while I bawled for a few minutes and got the upset out of my system as the drugs kicked in, so that helped a lot too.

So now I'm back on whichever drug it was they gave me in the ER. It makes me dizzy as hell, and I'm typing lying down because I get sick if I'm upright. I'm out of it enough to tell random orderlies that they're "cute", babble endlessly at whomever stands still long enough to catch my attention, and my skin ITCHES, but it *is* a damn near total pain-kill. My daytime nurse is wonderful, and she's in charge of assignments for this evening, so she's promised I'll get somebody else tonight.

In other news: there's a procedure this morning that I understand, but I'm too fuzzy to explain, and then either tonight or tomorrow morning they're going to remove my gallbladder. Barring complications, I should be home tomorrow night or Thursday, up and around Friday/Saturday, and done being sore by the middle of next week.

Then I get to have the awesome fun of figuring out how to accommodate the change in how my body digests food. Fun times, right? *shrug* I need to lose weight anyway. I have decided consider this my body refusing to let me have any more excuses.

Wish me luck!

Ah, the bliss...

2013-02-08T13:20:00.000-06:00

The day we left the hospital with JJ, I was wheeled out with that tiny, perfect little creature sleeping in my arms, and a total stranger took it upon herself to shatter my moment with a snarked "You'll sleep again... someday." Hyuck hyuck.

JJ slept wonderfully last night. Went to bed after his bath, was out cold by quarter past 7, and barely stirred when Daddy and I came to bed at 10:30. We did a dream-feed, and he didn't wake me up again until 6! GO, my little man, GO!!!

And today? He has, at this moment, been asleep for 110 minutes straight and still going. Not a peep. After two weeks of having to be nursed back down mid-nap, this is bliss. Utter bliss.

Of course, it probably just means he's done cutting this particular tooth and the next one will start being a problem by Monday at the latest. LOL

But in the meanwhile, I am enjoying the energy level that comes with a full night's sleep, and the ability to get stuff done during a solid nap.

Do y'all know what I got done in the last 110 minutes? Laundry. Dishes. Tidied up the living room. Solo potty break. Paid the bills (that's right, ALL of the bills for February are p.a.i.d. PAID.) Ate a hot meal in peace. Oh, right... and posted here!

That's what my son did for me today. And he's only 14 months old. He has never been left to cry alone, he's never been scheduled, he just is who he is and sleeps well when he's comfortable, fed, clean, and happy, just like us grown folks. Take THAT, snarky hospital stranger lady. :P Put that in your experiential cynicism and smoke it. HAH!!

In other news, we got our taxes filed, and discovered that we'll be getting enough in our refund to buy JJ his mattress and make up for John's lost hours through March, longer if he can find a different job that is willing to accommodate his class schedule. One huge sigh of relief, lemme tell ya. Soon as that refund hits, we are hitting the mattress store and getting one wiggly 25 pound toddler-boy his own dang bed. It's going right in alongside ours for now, but the point is that everybody will have plenty of room to sleep comfortably again. (Though I somehow suspect that I'm still going to wake up with JJ's head buried in my armpit!)

One of these days... I'm going to figure out how to get our with-holdings set up just right so Uncle Sam gets exactly what he's entitled to and no more, and funnel what would normally have been taken into a savings account so it makes money for US throughout the year. Don't laugh, it can be done, my momma did it, and I am GOING to figure it out.

*sigh* Maybe I'll take that H&R Block class after all...

Epic Cuteness Brought to You by Naptime

2013-02-07T12:58:00.002-06:00

After chasing this little monster out of the bedroom (he snuck in while I was grabbing pictures), I bring you...

Epic Cuteness

After falling asleep HARD come nap time, little mister stirred and cried less than an hour in. *shudder* Trust me, this child needs 90 minutes at a bare bones minimum, 2 hours is a lot better, so you'd best bet I scrambled right in there!

(Oh, the pack&play in the background? Yeah, that's no longer his bed, as of about a week ago. I couldn't handle lifting twenty-five pounds of toddler in and out of that thing anymore!)

Apparently scrambling has its advantages. He was looking directly at me when I opened the door, smiled, and immediately lidded his eyes and waited for me to lay down with him. Got him nursing, and he was asleep again in under 5 minutes. SCORE, right? Wait for it, it gets better.

That raised arm? As he was drifting back to sleep, JJ grabbed my free hand, moved it to his hair and held it there until I started finger-combing those gorgeous soft waves. Then he wrapped both of those little arms around mine and laid there and suckled until he slipped off again.

I might just have to melt into a little puddle of gooey sappy OMG-how-is-my-heart-not-exploding toddler-love.

Well, it had to happen sometime...

2013-02-04T14:07:00.003-06:00

Here it is...

The first scraped nose.

And I have no idea how he did it. *facepalm*

What is it with the Mommy Warriors lately??

2013-02-02T17:03:00.000-06:00

Geez-o-freakin' Pete. Did something happen on a national/global scale to set off moms and set us at each others' throats that I don't know about? Is it Global PMS Week and nobody told me? Because in the last week I've been verbally assaulted by no less than three separate Mommy Warriors, three distinct conversations on totally unrelated topics that swung into left field without warning, descending to the maturity level of a seventh grade cat-fight before I knew what was happening. Venomous, hateful things have been said to me this week, assumptions from people who know me only by my internet presence and memories fifteen years into yesterday.

Moms who earn money outside the home. Moms who earn money from home. Moms who care for their children and keep a household running. Dads in each of the above. Parents who are blessed enough to have both jobs at home so they can raise their kids together.

We all work, people.

I am the first to admit that I can't do what a lot of earning parents do. I cannot do your jobs. The challenges and difficulties of the wage-earning world you inhabit are beyond me. There are various reasons for this, but first among them is a physical disability that makes it impossible to be on my feet for more than an hour or so without prescription-level painkillers. That reality already taken me uncomfortably close to dependency issues that I never want to see again. Otherwise, trust me, we would be a two-income household before you could spit.

But my earning parent friends, acquaintances and so on? I'd be willing to bet a year's mortgage money that all y'all couldn't cope with my challenges and difficulties either. And no, I'm not going to detail my day so that the small-minded may nit-pick and shame and criticize, because they will do so anyway.

The point I am trying to make is that all parents work, and all parents work HARD. Whether your job requires a uniform, a tie, a cash register, a desk, a gun, or sneakers and a willingness to play innumerable rounds of peekaboo and repeat "use your signs, not your teeth" on an endless loop, we all work our asses off to do the best we can by our families.

Shockingly, sometimes that includes turning to Uncle Sam for a little help, because in case y'all didn't notice, the bottom fell out of the economy. Not gonna get into those details either, for the same reason as before, but yes, we receive WIC, a small amount of food stamps, and Medicaid. This insures that we do not starve, and can get to a doctor instead of joining the uninsured masses clogging the ERs when someone gets sick. That's it. No utility help, no housing vouchers, no plasma screens or new cars. We pay our own bills, and what we have, we take care of and treat with respect, because we can't afford to replace things if they break or wear out prematurely, so our clothes fit well and our car is damage-free and clean.

We garden, fish, and hunt to supplement our budget, and spend precious dollars on a Sam's Club membership so that I can buy supplies twice a year and bake our own bread cheaper than buying it. I live on the computer because I spend my day writing articles and taking surveys to bring in enough to take a bill or two off John's shoulders, all while watching my active toddler in the living room that is set up as a giant playpen so he can roam in relative safety while I work. Once I manage to order a copy of my birth certificate (the fee has proven difficult to hold aside) and get my in-state driver's license, I'll be going to the blood bank twice a week to donate plasma, since it's not close enough to walk without jacking up my ability to move the next day. My evenings after JJ goes to sleep are spent searching for a job I can physically handle, that pays enough to actually make a difference after accounting for childcare. We have a plan, and we're making progress, but it has been about 15 months hard slog, and we're not out of the woods yet. And I defy anyone to step into our lives, with all the complexities and challenges intact, and do better.

The point, I guess, is that I am mortally sure I cannot handle your job, and I'm equally certain that you can't cope with mine. Your world would drive me quite noisily mad, and mine would doubtless send folks screaming into the night. That's why you are you and I am me. We are each where we belong, doing the jobs for which we are best suited, and if that's not always the case, it is up to each of us to change our own realities, not snipe and sneer and cut each other down for not being all the same.

When you catch yourself judging, take a breath, challenge your assumptions, grant that all may not be as it seems, and mind your own business. And that goes for me too.

Okay, this wasn't at ALL the blogging re-entry I had planned, but... *shrug*

Because that was all kinda heavy and pointed, I close with a photo bomb... :) JJ's getting BIG these days, and cute as ever. The feet are still huge, the smile still infectious (and now it contains teeth!), and the laughter still entrancing. Enjoy!

He loves to spin...

This would be why the coffee table is now a toddler-sized window-seat.

The pack & play, otherwise affectionately known as "baby jail".

He's still fascinated by his own image when I turn on the webcam... *grins wickedly* Oh, the wealth of photographic evidence of his baby cuteness I am accumulating to share with future romantic interests...

Mittens is the newest addition to our family, he was the runt of a litter that was abandoned in our yard last fall. He and JJ play together constantly, and the giggles are abundant. :)

The Rock'nStack, which he figured out and promptly hid all but two of the rings in fifteen minutes flat. We often dig them out from under the couches, but can never find all 5 at once.

I put these overalls on him for the first time about two weeks ago, and they are OFFICIALLY the cutest darned thing he owns.

This is not a box.

And this one... well, seriously, look at that face!!

We officially have a Toddler.

2012-12-03T18:42:00.000-06:00

A toddler who adores making messes and harassing kittens.

*blinks*

When did that happen?????

I was looking at JJ's newborn pictures the other day.

You know...

These.

*sniffle*

Yup. Looking at those and others and remembering how teeny itty bitty he was... and looking at the twenty-one pound, 28" tall marauder cruising around my living room and wondering how in the heck???

I mean, it's awesome. Mind-boggling. But seriously awesome.

And so, as promised, here is the birthday cuteness. (Yes, I know it's 8 days later. Sue me, we were busy!) And these are just the ones I grabbed with my webcam, folks, there are better pics on the actual camera, but I figured somebody might track me down and strangle me if I made you wait for those!

The traditional heart-shaped Birthday Cake Pan, here shown

with evidence that the cake was indeed baked within its confines.

(No, seriously, my mother has used that pan for birthday cakes

my ENTIRE LIFE. I was quite certain that lightning would fall

from on high if I dared make a plain old rectangle cake.)

"Okay. I've got a fork. And a biscuit. Woopie."

"Wait just a second... what's that?"

"Yeah. I knew Mom wouldn't let me down!"

The traditional singing of the traditional song

was followed by the traditional destruction of the cake.

"Mmph... Mom... you weren't kidding about this chocolate stuff."

(Honest, I have pictures on the actual camera while the cake was still
intact, but I wasn't quick enough to get any with the webcam as well.)

"Yuuuuuuum. SUGAR!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The traditional sugar-crazies ensued, and a few hours later...

"One..."

"Two..."

"Three... he is DOWN for the COUNT."

He's growing so fast, learning so fast it's almost frightening. I've always been one who swore up & down that babies are far more intelligent and aware than most grown ups give them credit for, but it takes on a whole new dimension when the baby in question is **yours**. And it seems to hit a sort of critical mass sometimes where it all balls together, picks up speed, and suddenly every time I turn around he's doing something I've never seen him do before. Climbing onto a footstool. Gently petting a kitten (as opposed to whacking it). Reaching for my hairbrush and using it to awkwardly brush his own hair. (That one really made my jaw drop!)

The most recent pièce de résistance happened last Friday, just five days after his birthday. Parents, you know that moment, the times your baby does something that tells you without any shred of doubt that there is a person in there, and that said individual is aware of the stuff you're trying to teach them? The moment that gives you hope you might have a prayer of raising a civilized, well-mannered little person? Well, this was a good one.

He signed "milk". Mind, I have been using "milk" and roughly two dozen other signs with him since birth, mostly as a means to answer that all-important question, "Why are you crying?" By the time he was three months old, I could run through about a dozen signs, and when I hit the right one, he would stop fussing. But of course, the goal is to eventually have baby sign back to you, and JJ finally did it!!!! Independently, without being asked, without my hand over his, and BEFORE he communicated his desire to nurse by yanking down my shirt. He did this several times over the next hour, very politely coming up to me and signing for "milk", but that first one...

I tell ya, people, I squeee'd like a tween at a Twilight marathon.

That's my boy... my little explorer... my JJ.

In ten more days...

2012-11-15T10:46:00.001-06:00

JJ will be one year old.

*blinks*

Holy Hannah, when did that happen???

Well, I'm doing a quickie post today because exactly one year ago today, I was 40 weeks, officially full term, and feeling like a thoroughly beached whale. I couldn't walk, I couldn't breathe, and NOTHING fit... and I loved it.

Remember these?

Yeah. I was being silly & John was being indulgent.

And yes, we're going outside today to take more, since it's beautiful and sunny just like last year... if a bit colder! So be on the lookout on the 25th (or shortly thereafter) for JJ's First Birthday Post, because there will be epic cuteness, y'all. EPIC, I tell you.

No, I haven't forgotten you...

2012-11-02T08:57:00.000-05:00

JJ is 11 months old, active, healthy, happy, and driving me insane.

Haven't strangled him yet, promise!

See? Here he is looking all dapper & cute as we went out for Halloween.

Best smile I got out of him until we got to church & he could crawl around... he wasn't a fan of the little booties or the hat!

"Mom, I look ridiculous!!!"

"You look adorable, and I want to show you off and take lots of embarrassing baby pictures!"

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!"

Anyway... I really do think about the blog. It's just that most days I don't have the TIME. If you know me on FB, you see more updates, because FB takes all of thirty seconds. Posting here takes at least half an hour, and it's tough to find that thirty minutes all in one chunk when I don't have umpteen zillion other things I need to be doing. There are diapers to wash and boxes to sort through and walks to take and kittens to feed (oh yeah, did I mention I got blessed with a litter of three adorable furbabies about three weeks ago? No? I didn't?? Gracious, how shameful!) and every once in a very great while I manage to sneak a shower or some exercise in there.

I'm not dropping the blog, I love it too much. Posts are just gonna be sparse for a while until things settle out a bit around here.

Oh, and btw...

Halloween when your kid is too young for candy has got to be
the best holiday EVER! Yes, I kept it to both sides of one street,
and mostly went out just to show him off, but hey, it's chocolate, folks!!