Tabulous.

The Power of A Smile.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 15:51:00 +0000

I see his eyeball peer around the door frame at me and my spot on the couch. It disappears and reappears in a rocking motion, as everything with him does because he's yet to learn how to be still. His blonde head bobs up and down, repeating the phrase we've come to understand as a request.

"Whatchuwah, whatchuwah!" he urges, his tiny voice filled with desperation.

"What do you want, Kiedis?" I reply as I finish the email I'm typing and turn to look at him. It's a step up from when he used to just yell WANT at us, this phrase that now means the same thing. It's an endless cycle of repetition, but at least he's less likely to melt down now.

He enters the room more fully, three-quarters of his face now visible as he stares me down, a look of disdain, disinterest, and disgust across his angelic cheeks. Eyes bore into the darkest parts of my soul, lips and jaw set but not tight, breath imperceptible without looking to see if the chest rises and falls in rhythm. It's as if you have no value, aren't even really there, just another form of suffering to endure.

I know that face all too well. It is the face I grew up seeing from my father.

*****

I couldn't have been older than five. It was my first dance recital, and I was beside myself with glee. I had begged my parents for what felt like forever for ballet classes, and finally they acquiesced. I had been practicing in my bedroom for weeks, making sure to get my part right. My parents and brother were there to watch me, and for the first time in memory I was going to be special all on my own, separate from anyone else in my family.

I was especially excited to have my dad see what I'd been working so hard on.

But I was young and hadn't been properly coached on stage etiquette. I went out into the studio half filled with chairs and immediately searched out my family. They were in the front, to my left. My mother smiled and waved as she recognized me, pointing me out to my brother who was already bored out of his mind.

But my father sat motionless, arms folded across his chest, staring me down to the bone in disdain.

I tried to ignore it. I looked away and began my routine with the other girls, including my partner, but I couldn't stop the tears from welling up in my eyes, the shaking from beginning.

He was mad. He was mad he had to be there and watch my recital and it was my fault and I was going to be in so much trouble when I got home and and and ...

The tears overwhelmed me and burst forth, startling everyone in the room, and I ran to the alcove where the teacher stood with the stereo system, covering my face in hysterics. My dance partner followed, confused, and another teacher led her back out and took my spot.

I ruined it. I ruined the dance, I ruined the event, I ruined the one thing I'd been looking forward to for weeks. And I never stopped crying, because every time I looked at my dad, I felt as if he hated me more, sure I was never going to not be in trouble with him.

*****

It never failed as I entered my teenage years and into this quasi-adulthood, someone I worked with or was in class with or just saw me on a semi-routine basis would carefully approach me nearly on tip-toe. They'd say my name with extra caution or overly-casually, and ask me why I was upset. Sometimes I would get jokes asking if someone had just killed my cat (never funny) or something equally bad to make me so angry.

More often than not, though, I would only faintly register a voice addressing me and I'd snap out of my reverie slightly surprised and generally disoriented, confusing all parties involved.

The repetition of the question. My bewildered reassurance that everything was peachy in Tabathaland. Often, the prodding are you sure or what were you thinking about so seriously from those who knew me slightly more intimately, the clumsy response trying to peg down one of the billions of absolutely banal ideas which had been cavorting about inside of myself at the time, like if I wanted spaghetti for dinner or not. The disbelief, the not so subtle dismissal of my insistence of my sound mental state.

Occasionally, someone would fight me, try to push something out of me that for once, wasn't there. And then I'd become genuinely irritated or angry, illustrating the difference in my facial expression.

It works to my advantage, sometimes -- it only takes the raise of an eyebrow or a purse of my lips to go from blank to bitch, please in nanoseconds. Add with it a change in pitch to my voice and I know I can stop a grown adult dead in their tracks as if they are a toddler caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

I have chronic bitch face.

But it's taken me until recently to realize the correlation between my upbringing and my relationship with my father and the relationship I have with my son, with his own burgeoning personality becoming more and more apparent with every new word he tries out, every time we finally understand him.

*****

We stare blankly at each other for a moment and a voice inside me gasps smile! because I realize that the more forefront thought in my mind is how much he looks like me, how his little face is practically a facsimile of my own as I simultaneously wondered why he looked upset and the light bulb went off.

I let a wide smile pull at my lips -- not something I have to force, but more a more inner emotion allowed to break through my exterior -- and grin at the child waiting for my attention.

As he registers the change in expression on my face, a joyful grin and giggle escape him, and he comes to me saying "Huggy, huggy" with the unadulterated zeal that only small children can embody. I hug him tightly and tell him how much I love him and thank him for the hug, and he's back to asking me for something, pulling me towards the kitchen.

I think of how much better he's doing recently, as he learns more words and we better understand him, but I can't help thinking that the more conscientious effort on my part to smile at him, to soften my lines and allow what's inside peek out instead of just looking at him blankly is changing our dynamic as well.

Because I remember being a child, looking at what I slowly came to understand to be just a blank face, and taking it personally, so very personally. And he is his mother's son in so many unanticipated ways, which means I need to tread lightly with him, because he will pick up on the details that other children won't, and he will always turn to himself for understanding before considering it doesn't concern him at all.

In some ways, I could kick myself for taking this long to get it, but in others, I'm just glad I figured it out this quickly. I can stop the cycle of chronic bitch face and save both of us from a lot of years of unnecessary strife and friction due to misunderstanding.

Now if I could only go back and reassure little Me of the same thing.

Mrs. M If You're Nasty.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 20:39:00 +0000

There are posts circulating today, From amazing bloggers that if you're not reading them, you should be.

Meet Alice, Liz, and Julie.

Go. I'll wait.

I want to write something really smart about this, because it's practically what I have a degree in. But I can't get the words out right in my head where they don't feel all jumbled and coerced.

But I can tell you what I remember.

I remember being told flat out by another woman, no less, during a job interview that I was probably hired but her boss was going to do a walk by to see if I passed his pretty test.

I remember being told to wear a low-cut shirt and a push-up bra to another interview because the manager was a known creep and it would guarantee me the job.

I remember being asked if I was wearing underwear under a mini-skirt by another manager at a different job. I was. I don't know why it mattered.

I remember the first time I went to a teen club, still gangly more in personality than body, and being shocked at how many times my ass was grabbed by strangers.

I remember endless comments throughout my girlhood into teenhood about the shape of my body both as a whole and divided by it's parts by people I am related to by blood.

I remember being ridiculed in a large group of people early in high school for wearing an unlined bra under a white Tshirt when the room became cold. Me and my A cup didn't understand, and to this day I do not own an unlined bra.

I can't count the number of times I've been cat called or hollered at or whatever it is they call it now, this degradation, when I have the gall to leave the house in a skirt and heels because my legs are long and don't you know what kind of message that sends and while I sheepishly say yes another part of me breaks because why is this always pinned on me, this is just my genetics, I didn't choose this.

And of course, I remember far more terrible things, but that should not mark me as a target for the rest of my life, no matter what the statistics say.

I used to try to find power in those lesser situations (though that does not make them less horrible), not so much taking them as compliments as more of a damn straight and you're not worthy kind of mentality, which I've never been sure if that was Feminist of me or just me bending to the system in the most convoluted of ways. They happen less and less now, because mostly I don't go out alone hardly ever (except to the studio and back, but that's a safe space) but that doesn't mean they don't crop up.

I remember being middle-pregnant with Kiedis, leaving my own bachelorette dinner before my wedding, IN A MATERNITY DRESS and heels, and hearing the words from male mouths and only being able to spit back "PREGNANT" in retort.

It shut them up, but why couldn't I walk 20 feet from a restaurant to my car in peace?

I feel this sort of thing has less to do with perception of beauty and more to do with misogyny and patriarchy and over sexualization of our culture and of women and (as my stomach wretches) girls and sexism than anything else. For every person out there who will treat a woman with dignity and respect, there are two creepers waiting to objectify and degrade her, whether they even realize it or not.

The first time I told Kiedis' bus driver that my mom would be getting him off of the bus instead of me, I described her as I generally do, pretty much looking exactly like me but 20 years older. He immediately asked if she was married and for some reason I answered yes, getting off of the bus slightly hastily. Two birds, with that one.

And then Tte UPS guy recently halted his tracks as he approached our house with a package, mouth slightly agape. Dude has seen me in all stages of pregnant/new mom disarray, and this day was no different.

Except it was. He asked me if I'd lost weight and I smiled because why yes, I have, and he said I looked great and I felt complimented.

But he kept going, saying I don't need to lose any more because it's good when girls(!) have something to hold on to, ya know, and I'm just about perfect as I am right now.

Oh.

Perhaps I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt, assuming they don't know they're being creepy.

But in the end, implicit or explicit, intentional or not, the sum of these kinds of situations lead to the pervasive idea in women that it's not okay to be a woman Out There In The World. We become afraid of everything, suspicious of the most mundane of places or acquaintances because what if and ick and blameshifting onto ourselves because obviously, it must have been something we said or did or wore or breathed because it just. keeps. happening.

A constant state of fight or flight. A lifetime spent on edge, on guard, over vigilant because we happen to have two X chromosomes. Forever questioning our self worth as people based on the visceral responses of the worst of others, letting ourselves be shamed for that which we cannot help and will not change.

And we still have our daughters to think of.

When people make fun of feminism or degrade women because they're in a position of power or degrade them because they're in a position of weakness or really degrade them for no reason at all, these are the reasons why things like feminism still matter. It's not all sensational bra-burning. It's standing up for yourself and saying you deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. It's not second-guessing your outfit or your hairstyle or your lifestyle because it might send the wrong message. It's about having the freedom to move about in the space you occupy without fear of consequences.

It's about being okay to be a woman. And nothing saddens me more that we still don't have that.

Nothing will change on it's own. Things will continue to stay the same because we don't fight back or question. You don't have to all the time, every time. Just once.

Just once stare someone down when they leer at you and ask them if they have a problem. Just once ask them if they'd want someone to talk to their wife/mother/sister/daughter like that. Just once tell someone the legal definition of assault and that they just committed it.

Just once, stand up for yourself, for all of us.

Yes, they will call us other words, other names, other ways to try to tear us down. But you know what? I'd rather be a bitch than a sweetie.

Wouldn't you?

The first rule of blogging applies here (to a point): don't feed the trolls.

But don't let them live in the shadows under the bridges, lurking, waiting for the right opportunity, either.

ps, my blog turned four on monday. thought i should mention that.

Too Short.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 18:45:00 +0000

I know, I know.

But by now you should expect this from me.

It's not personal, it never is -- I always feel guilty, letting you all down, but I'd rather wait for the words to come than force them, because you can always tell when someone's faking it.

I've been in a funk. An unbalanced, hypomanic funk from which I can't seem to get a reprieve. I have responsibilities and obligations and some really good things I desperately don't want to mess up. I have screen fatigue and am often overwhelmed by the TV and the laptop and the Droid and the iPad, all right within reach, all dinging and pinging and begging me for attention, one more click one more check one more scroll.

And then there are the kids. The kids who are obsessed with the screens, on interacting with them and reenacting them and having them on and loud and constantly draining energy out of the power sockets and batteries and my soul and I don't know how to make it stop without the other thing, the trigger for my postpartum rage that I can't quite shake, the thing that brings my boiling point to a head and makes me feel like a failure as not just a mom, but as a human being because I can't handle it, the shrieks that they emit when they don't get their way, the hits and the slaps and the throwing of things and the harm on each other, no, no, NO, I can't handle that at all.

But I have to. Because that's what moms do.

I wouldn't say I'm in a bad place, but I'm not in a good one either. I'm tired with no rest in sight. I'm being pulled in a million directions, many of my own doing, and I can't do what I used to, just pull back and quiet everything, lock myself in a room and revel in the dark still quiet of the night and sleep through the insanity of day and just wait until I feel right and am no longer wary of being seen in the clarity of light. No, I have to function with society now on an even keel because I've promised myself that my damage will not mark them even though I've already failed so epically when it was just him.

I have a lot of angst stemming from whitegirlhipstermombloggerfirstworldproblems, but I don't think the fact that they're hastaggable makes them less valid. Yes, I understand that I was born into certain privilege and social grace due to the tint of the melatonin in my skin and plumbing between my legs and both the geographic locations and the socioeconomic status into which I was born and again that I married -- I am grateful that fate was kind to me in those ways, but that doesn't diminish the struggles I do have within those realms -- if anything it adds more guilt to my already bogged down conscious because what are you bitching for but you know what, I just want to be actually happy and content with the life I lead instead of always feeling beat down for things out of my control.

I'm getting older even though I feel like dirt has nothing on me, yet I still preface the number of my years in this life with "only" because a little to my chagrin that number is much lower than people expect and I hope it's just the way I carry myself and not because the wear of these years has left it's mark upon me -- or maybe I'm just finally at that place where my age isn't discernible because I'm obviously not a child and I'm obviously not elderly so anyone's guess is fair game.

However, twice in a week I was told that life is too short. Too short to do things you don't love. Too short to worry about what you can't control. Too short to be sad and cry every night at 9:36 for no reason you can figure out, that just seems to be the breaking point of the day. And I know this, while I read of the deaths of mothers and children and think to myself you never really do know and I try not to let that trigger my anxiety which is running at a fever pitch since the chemicals in my brain can't pick if I'm happy or sad so just BEYOND CONTROL seems to be the middle ground, for Christ's sake, and I waiver when I think to myself that I'm almost 28 because really, is it that short?

No one knows when they're going to go, not even the ones who have been given a timeline. It's not certain, so you can go on one of two presumptions -- that your life will be relatively free from tragedy and you will live to see nearly a century through your eyes; or you have every potential to die tomorrow so live it up today because you never do know.

I don't know that I'm fully capable of carpe diem because that requires a lot of energy, something I only have in spades when I let go of my demons and relinquish the balance I've fought so hard for. But I think I can let it out in spurts, to try to make sure what I do with this potentially shortened time are things I won't regret, things that don't make me cringe or feel beat down. I can try to let go of the shoulds and supposed tos and the feeling like I'm not living up to expectations because really, my own are the only ones that should matter. I can live by my own standards and do better because I want to, not because I'm told to.

It's hard to admit when things aren't going well. I still live with fear in my heart of the ramifications of being so open, so honest, because I know not everyone who reads these words will do so with good intentions. But holding all of this in has only compounded my frustration, so something has to give. I don't want to hide anymore, to feel ashamed of myself and afraid of the what ifs and the could bes and the might happens.

I just want to write, to have quiet and still and to let the words come and sort themselves out and to live up to my own standards, my own dreams, my own desires.

I don't know if life is too short or too long, I just know that this one is mine and I want to do more with it than I've been allowed. I don't really know what that means, but I'm working on it.

Even Bloggers Need A Holiday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 19:18:00 +0000

So, if you haven't noticed, I'm kind of taking a blogging break until the New Year. I'm finding difficulty in finding things to say or write about and that means I need to step back and regroup and experience life instead of always trying to capture and convey it.

I'm still around on Facebook and Twitter, so I mean, if you need a fix you know where to find me.

So I hope you all have a very happy holidays and I'll see you on the flipside. :)

Sunday Secrets.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:05:00 +0000

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 19:02:00 +0000

So, as I mentioned, we had a Thanksmas dinner this past weekend. We invited our dearest friends over for dinner to celebrate the season with people we love like family but aren't genetically or legally tied to in any way. We would have loved to invite a whole crap ton of people, but (a) our house is small and (b) we were on a tight budget and wanted to make sure people actually had food to eat at our dinner party.

Anyway, I made lasagna from scratch and people brought food and wine (oh, the wine!) and it was a great time -- at least we really enjoyed it.

So in order to get this all done both Kyle and I woke up at the buttcrack to get everything done, since we were making everything save the lasagna noodles. It was a busy day juggling kids and cooking and trying to not get in each other's way and you know, getting dressed before people showed up.

Anyway, so my friend S was there early because she needed to construct her salad and because she was nearby anyway. And she's sitting on my couch while her daughter played with Kiedis, and I'm watching for our other friend M who was waiting in her car because both her husband and her child were asleep but was making her way up our front stairs when Kyle's phone rang on the mantle right next to where I was standing.

He hears it in the kitchen and yells for me to answer it, and looking down at the number I saw it was a local exchange, so I assumed it was someone who was running late or didn't know where we lived and I hadn't answered my phone so they called Kyle because this is how we roll, most of the time.

So I say hello, AS YOU DO, and the voice on the other line just says "Tabatha?" kind of slow and forced, like it's odd for someone's spouse to answer their cell phone. It isn't in my experience, but hey, I guess we're special because we believe in transparency in our relationship FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.

So with minor warning bells going off in my head, I replied simple "Yes?" and then, well, I had tunnel vision for a minute.

It was my EMIL.

As soon as it clicked (which was kind of instantaneously) I looked at my friend S on my couch blissfully oblivious of the chaos potentially erupting. I thought about people showing up to my house and this dinner party we'd been planning for months that we'd so been looking forward to and the kids playing happily on the floor and I listened to my gut, which was immediately in fight or flight.

And I realized that it wasn't worth the effort.

She no sooner finished her name than I hung up because NO CONTACT MEANS NO CONTACT.

I then walked in to the kitchen, phone in hand, and gave it to Kyle, telling him what had just happened. He was actually slightly angry because (a) she refuses to listen to him and (b) she damn near ruined our party just by being her stupid self.

Luckily, I was able to quickly shake it and move on, and a great night was had by all. But for a split second, I was frozen because OF ALL TIMES TO CALL WHEN YOU'RE NOT WELCOME TO EVER AND EVER AMEN. My only solace was that if I'd blown up or been reduced to tears, S and M know all about that business and if ever there was a time to be surrounded by the people who have supported us while we recover from all the insanity spearheaded by my EMIL, it was these people, but I didn't want the evening to be another time to deal with my drama, I wanted it to be a celebration of all they've done for us already and a show of appreciation for them being in our lives.

Basically, I picked love over gratification.

Of course, yesterday she emailed him all in a huff because I hung up on her and then went through the same exact me-me-me rigmarole that she always does, which completely and utterly ignores that Kyle has thoughts or feelings or ideas about anything involving her.

I asked him how he felt about her doing this yet again, and he replied that what pissed him off the most, other than it's the same message over and over no matter how many times he asks and tells her to not contact him again, was that she completely ignored me as a part of our family -- like the kids sprouted out of his head all on their own and other than the fact that I hung up on her, I'm not worth mentioning. He said he has no desire to feed into her still incredibly self-important mind games and manipulation while she consistently ignores his desires and continually dis-includes me as someone important to him. These grandchildren that are only important to her when it serves her purposes, THEY CAME OUT OF MY VAGINA. That's not just a throw-away fact; THEY WOULD NOT EXIST WERE IT NOT FOR ME AND MY BODY.

Kyle doubts he's going to respond because he said it's a waste of his time.

So yeah. Awkward, but I guess only for me.

Give and Get.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 22:18:00 +0000

So it ends up that only two people entered my giveaway -- so I'm working on something to make sure that no one's a loser in a two-person game. Once I hear back from all parties involved, then I'll let you know how that all worked out.

In other news, I learned some new Photoshop skills today:

But I'm not going to tell you what because that would ruin the magic of this year's effort. NEENER. But note that my head is the same size AS MY CHILDRENS' because I have an abnormally small head, and that is sadly not Photoshopped.

I don't know if we're going to be able to swing holiday cards this year, so this may be the best that many of you get from us. I'm sure you could print it out if you so desire an actual photo of us -- I even didn't watermark it for you, you're welcome DON'T STEAL IT. If we're lucky we might figure something out, but hey, this is the best I've got for you and it's better than nothing, yes?

(You can peep the 2009 and 2010 photos here.)

Anyway, today has been insane (hence the late post) and I have stories for you about our Thanksmas dinner this past weekend and honestly stories from Thanksgiving even but they will have to wait because I have ribbons to go hang from.

Happy Christmahanusolstickwanzaa and a Merry New Year!

One More Hat.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 18:27:00 +0000

I know, I disappeared for a couple of days.

I've been having computer issues so it's been hard to do things like my new job (I'll come back to that) and my other freelance work and blog while also trying to make it to classes and you know, parent two mini-people who aren't potty trained yet.

I have all these great ideas swirling around in my head, but I'm typically away from any of my various devices and by the time I get to one, it's gone.

Did you know that recently there was a study that found passing through a doorway causes people to forget what they're doing? Something about visual cues and psychological trajectory and such. And now I'm paranoid to leave a room because I'm going to forget the 18 things bouncing around in my head at any given time.

Anyway.

So yes, I have a job, ish. I'm the administrator for the dance studio I told you about. It means that it involves someone being in front of a computer doing things, I'm doing it. It's some hybrid between uber secretary and web admin with dashes of graphic design and blogging. I only say ish because I'm not so much getting paid as I'm trading services (but bartering is the new freelance thing to do, so I hear) so I get to go to classes as much as I want and don't have to pay anything. Which is awesome so far.

So yeah, if you wanted to check out the blog over there, it's Confessions of A Femme Fatale. And that's the site I'm managing, so I mean, yeah. It's a lot of work, some of it easy, most of it challenging, but I like it because it gives me purpose and helps us save money while still providing me an opportunity to do something I'm starting to love and still get to do it all from the very same place on the couch that I do everything else online.

Well, you know, if my internet would stop failing every 45 minutes on the dot. And when I'm not breaking the site at midnight trying to figure something out, heh.

Other than that, don't forget about my giveaway -- there are only two entrants so far!

It's almost the weekend -- and I, for one, am grateful.

Paying It Forward. {An Honest To Cheesus Giveaway}

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Ever since last year when we participated in the Bloggess' whirlwind commentpalooza of generosity, I've been wanting to pay it forward. The thought was forced to the front of my brain when Santa essentially did the same thing for us this year.

It's been hard, as we've been struggling more than usual, to figure out how to do that. Last night when reading PostSecret, the one from the parent unable to purchase presents for their children this Christmas causing them to question their faith, my gut just tore open and I wished so hard that the cards weren't anonymous, so I could do something.

Kiedis' first Christmukkah wouldn't have happened without our friends Lisa and Sarvani and their generosity, so I know all too well what that despair feels like, and what that gratitude feels like when someone saves you from that shame out of the goodness of their hearts.

So I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.

Back over the summer I won a Twitter contest from Target. They were debuting a new line of dolls that strikingly resemble the American Girl Dolls -- not the historic ones, but the modern day ones -- and they did something like the first five people to tweet their favorite doll name would win. I randomly tweeted the first name that popped into my head -- Lydia -- and I won.

I had completely forgotten about it until a large box showed up at my house around Halloween. I was kind of excited because unexpected box from Target? DON'T MIND IF I DO, THANK YOU PLEASE! And this pretty lady greeted me from inside:

Her name is Layla, and as you can see she's basically Claudia Kishi updated to this millennium. She's also for ages 4 and up, according to the box.

And I think one of you could give her a lovely home.

My kids are too little to appreciate a doll like this, and I'm not really keen on hanging on to a doll for YEARS before giving it to them (save for my own American Girl Doll, but that's sentimental), so I want to give her away to someone who could really make a child's holiday this year that much brighter.

I'm hosting an honest-to-Cheesus giveaway, people.

Here's what I'm thinking. You tell me who you know that could use this doll for their child this holiday season -- whether it be you, your neighbor, your niece, a family at the shelter you volunteer at, whatever. I just want it to go to someone who otherwise might not be able to buy it. This also means that if you win and you just want me to donate it to Toys for Tots or some other similar organization that can be done. Comment on this post by Friday at midnight and I'll use random.org to pick a winner.

The prize will be one (1) PlayWonder Layla doll from Target (a $35 value) and A SECRET BONUS. I'll foot the shipping, but that means I have to keep it to the contiguous 48 US States. Unless you are willing to pay the shipping yourself, then I don't care where you live.

Cool beans?

Please know that this is in no way sponsored by anyone, nor is it influenced by any corporate entity. I just want to help out another family create holiday memories like others have helped us out (and continue to).

So, here are the rules I'm making up just right now:
1) You have to comment on this post to be entered. Not on Facebook. Here.
2) Liking Tabulous on Facebook will get you an extra entry.
3) So will tweeting "Be a Doll & make this Christmukkah a little brighter for a child with @tabulous! http://www.sotabulous.com/2011/12/paying-it-forward-honest-to-cheesus.html"
4) YOU HAVE TO TELL ME YOU DID THOSE THINGS. I'm a busy lady. Leave another comment for each social media thing you do.
5) It ends FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9TH at MIDNIGHT. I'll use random.org to pick a winner and announce the winner Monday.
6) LEAVE CONTACT INFORMATION. Email is preferred, but if you prefer more anonymity then leave me your Twitter handle. If you don't leave me a way to get a hold of you I can't pick you to win because as I said, I'm a busy lady and I don't have time to hunt you down. Sorry.
7) Contest is open only to people in the lower 48 US states unless you tell me you're willing to pay the shipping for wherever and then, I mean, that's on you.

Make sense?

Help me help a child have a better Holiday season this year. Show a family what the spirit of the season is, and know that you're making a difference.

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 05:15:00 +0000

Okay, so you know I've been going to a dance studio that focuses on pole fitness and burlesque for the most part, right?

And I kind of work for them now as their administrator -- of the website, of the emails, of the social media, of the scheduling, I'm like a hybrid between a secretary and a webmaster. Of course I'm doing it for trade, but you know, my health and fitness has a price one way or another. I'll either pay for a gym or classes or whatever now or be paying outstanding medical bills later as my body slowly fails on me.

So.

Anyway, I was perusing the Facebook seeing how they ran things prior when I stumbled across a photo folder that was from a time they apparently featured members as the student of the month or some such. There were a lot of pin-up style photos and boudoir photos because they sponsor those kinds of sessions from time to time, and I'd seen a lot of them at the studio in the albums they keep on hand for display.

But as I'm innocently clicking through photos of strangers done up in their best Bettie Page regalia I realize that they are not all strangers.

And I don't mean the girl I went to high school with who taught there and her sister, because I knew about them already.

No, I was face-to-screen with a nudey photo of a girl I'd gone to school with since elementary school, who somehow ended up being in my college circle of "friends" (read: social drinking partners), who always struck me as squeaky clean and down-home and not someone who'd be up for such a seductive thing like boudoir photography.

But don't get me wrong, that's not the awkward part, because LORD KNOWS I've plastered naked PREGNANT photos of myself all over the interwebz done all beautifully and gorgeously by my friend Jacque (who now always takes our photos when she's in town, but you knew that) because I'm all for women loving their bodies and being however sexy they want to be however they want to be it because that's every girl's prerogative, you know?

So I wasn't bothered by the photo -- it was pretty and tasteful and once I got over my millisecond of shock it was no big deal.

Until I read the description under the photo.

Apparently, she took these photos for her boyfriend's birthday -- a boyfriend I knew fairly well, who was engaged to someone before her that I was close with, and a boyfriend she is no longer with.

I blushed, to be honest, from all the awkward.

As I understood the situation from hearsay (which I know isn't reliable, but the source from which I got it has yet to be wrong about such things and I trust her in my innermost circle of friends, so there's that) this girl got with this guy right after his engagement had been called off. She had been pining for him for some time, and she was a ready and willing rebound. He ... was pretty messed up by the breakup (they'd gotten engaged shortly after we did and had been together for at least a couple of years before that) and I don't think was truly that interested, but again, I don't actually know.

Anyway, so they dated for a while even when his work took him far away and often, but from what I gathered it was a tumultuous relationship. He just wanted to hang out, she wanted to get married. I heard that she tried moving in with him multiple times, only to be shut down every time, and somehow she wasn't getting the hint that he was not really emotionally available, or at least he didn't want to be.

The breakup was not pretty, as I heard. I don't know because I was eyeball deep in my own drama at the time, but I did hear that she had things to say about my relationship and our situation that were distasteful, mean-spirited, and downright cruel while also being uninformed and ignorant. So you know, at least I'll admit I don't really know what I'm talking about, I just know what I've been told. I'm not making judgement calls, I'm just telling a story. She could not say the same.

Anyway.

So they broke up and he's begun to date someone else but we don't really talk that much anymore so I have no idea how any of that is. I do know that a friend of mine has serious reservations about the friendliness of this girl's relationship with said friend's husband and isn't sure what to do, which breaks my heart for my friend and makes me want to give this girl THE BUSINESS about keeping your damn claws to yourself and finding someone NOT ATTACHED to leech onto.

But I digress.

So I'm sitting there suddenly privy to something that could be considered private and intimate between two people who are no longer romantically linked, with all this back story flying around in my head and being somewhere between gasping because SCANDAL and giggling because BACKFIRE (even though I know that's mean) and just, well, being embarrassed for everyone involved, including myself because I know waaaaayyyyy too much about the situation to be able to think about it on a surface level.

I moved on in my Facebook probe, but since I've been maybe a little purposely avoiding the photo albums just so I don't have to think much more about it.

So ... yeah. Tell me your awkward story so I don't feel so ... you know ... awkward.

The Magic Of The Season.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 05:37:00 +0000

Dear Santa,

You know, I read once upon a time that when children first stop believing in you, that's the first time they learn to question religion. Lord knows I've been doing that all my life, but this weekend you gave me pause.

I know that Amazon lets you send things anonymously because last year we participated in The Bloggess' giant charity match-up, and I'm sure you can guess on which end of benevolence we were. I venture you're probably someone I know, or someone who reads this blog with some regularity because you know we are a multi-celebrational household and you honored that in your message to me. You knew my email or where to find it and found it befitting to lend a hand out to a family barely catching a break, perhaps patting yourself on the back for being a good person and deservedly so.

But what you don't know, Santa, is that your timing couldn't have been more astute.

I've stopped bemoaning our financial situation here because really, we could have it much much worse. We still have a great deal for which we are grateful but perhaps we don't appreciate as much as we should. We know how to work the numbers to squeak by, month after month, paycheck by paycheck, and who wants to listen to some late twenties hipster bitch about money and the world when we're just living with the hand we've been dealt, doing the best we can with what we have.

But Santa, there is so much that you don't know about me and my family right now, and it seems only respectful to be straight with you.

You have no way of knowing that after bills and unexpected doctors visits and things like our car tags needing renewed that we have $100 for groceries, diapers, and follow up appointments for the next two weeks, for the four of us. You have no way of knowing that while we make sure the kids always have whatever they want to eat, we adults are eating barely enough to get by, sometimes making a sandwich and some yogurt last all day, so that there will be something to cook for dinner tomorrow while watching 60 Minutes talk about the working hungry and identifying with them so painfully you try not to cry because that won't do anything but dehydrate you and make you sick again.

You have no way of knowing that we have nothing in reserves for the first time in months, nothing to fall back on just in case we can't quite make it all meet up in the end. That the gas in our cars is what we have and that we're both growing out our hair because we can't even afford a cheap haircut and that this treading water we've been doing is starting to overtake us despite our best dead man's float.

You also have no way of knowing that before this last couple of weeks we'd been scrimping so that our kids could have a holiday season this year despite our hardship, buying things here or there with whatever we had at our disposal, trying to sell household goods so that we may afford a small gift or two for each other. You couldn't know that for the first year we'll have to pick between Hanukkah and Christmas because both is just too much, and that we're relieved the kids are too small to really notice, at least we hope.

But you sent us your gift anyway, on good faith perhaps, not knowing how desperately we needed it.

So I'm going to be honest with you, Santa. Your generosity won't be buying my children presents this year. Your gift will be paying for a case of diapers that otherwise would have halved our remaining budget. And for covering that case of diapers, we will be able to put food on the table for all of us for another couple of days until hopefully something on Craigslist sells or a check for freelance work comes in or some miracle happens to pull us through.

But know from the barest, proudest part of my soul that I could not thank you enough for what you have done. You swooped in right when you were least expected and most needed, and you gave us hope that we didn't have moments prior. We don't deserve the continued kindness we receive from people like you, and I swear to you I will pay it forward before the holidays pass us by.

Dear Santa,

I believe.

Totally Awkward Tuesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 15:35:00 +0000

A short one for you today.

So last week when I was feeling a bit under the weather but hadn't hit full zombie status just yet, I went ahead and went to dance class. I felt a bit out of it, but not terrible.

Class was fun, learned a new routine, got a little sweaty, was happy to be heading home when it was over, no big.

But on the way home I realize that I'm not cooling down as quickly as I usually am. So I decide to treat myself to a dollar ice cream cone at McDonald's because I'm a grown up and can have ice cream whenever I damn well please.

I stop by the Golden Arches by my house and go through the drive through, again, no big, just regular life activities, right?

So when I get to the first window to pay I had over my debit card because we never have cash any more, and I notice the girl working the window does a double take at my card.

Curious.

She smiles really big at me as she hands it back and then closes the little windows. A little odd, but I try not to think about it because my head's starting to hurt and I just want to go home.

As I'm putting my debit card away, suddenly the window pops open again and the girl is leaning near halfway out of it as she stumbles over her words as teenagers are apt to do when they're nervous or excited or you know, being teenagers.

"So, umm, do you like, you know, um, know, what's his name again, shoo, a, uh, Kyle, Muntzinger?" she asked kind of giggling.

I turned just my head back to the window and kind of half-smiled as I nodded at her. Shit.

"Yeah, that's my husband ..."

"I KNEW IT! HE'S MY TEACHER! I though I recognized you from his photos with your hair and all that! Mr. Muntzinger is my teacher!"

"... yeah, heh, I'm Mrs. Muntzinger."

Not only did calling myself Mrs make me feel old and sad, but realizing that I'm in my gym clothes, post-dance class, sans-makeup, hair disheveled and in desperate need of maintenance and what am I doing other than getting myself some ice cream like a damn CHILD.

Of course the car in front of me ordered everything on the menu so I'm stuck waiting with the chipper little teenager who is just THRILLED to have met me in the wild while I just want to hang my head in shame and go to bed.

Soon enough the car in front of me moves forward and so the girl tells me to tell Kyle hi for her and I pull up for my ice cream cone and drive towards home, feeling just defeated by life for no other reason than I'm in my late twenties and married to a high school teacher.

Then of course I woke up the next day dying of the plague, so all things in perspective I guess that's what I get for pushing myself when I should have listened to my body and no amount of ice cream will ever make up for a little late-night public humiliation.

Fever Dreams.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Right about the time I was writhing around on the bathroom floor literally wailing in pain two nights ago I had one of those frightening moments of clarity that follows a complete moment of insanity.

I, for a solid minute, was sure I was becoming a zombie.

I had no other explanation for what I was enduring. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, had some mystery illness mutating within my own immune system into some monster of a thing burning me alive from the inside, consuming every molecule of energy I once contained and disposing of it recklessly, leaving me unable to do much of anything but sleep and dream.

And let me tell you about those dreams.

But I'll back up a minute.

We took Kiedis to the doctor, was told he had a double ear infection, given a prescription for an antibiotic and sent along our way. My brother had chronic ear infections as a young child, so I was not phased by this. I filled the prescription, administered the first dose upon arrival back home, and went about my day being mom to an ill, non-verbal toddler.

As the next day broke out in deceptive sunshine but blustery weather, my little boy was nearly back to his normal self, not at all resembling the whimpering child who clung to me and sobbed in his sleep, eyes crusted shut with mystery goop. Nope, he was asking for yogurt (a new quasi-word he's acquired) and to watch The Incredibles for the umpteenth time and there was much rejoicing in the Wharzinger household.

That is, as much as I could manage because OF COURSE I woke up feeling like crap. And not just your usual crap, but an extra-heavy load of crap with dizzy spells and reduced reaction time and general sinus fog creating a haze around every processing orifice on my compressed head.

And then the cough started. Followed by the nausea, the shakes, and the eye crud. Oh, the neon-green eye crud. And by that night I was running a 100+ degree fever, my entire body ached, and the only thing I wanted more than life was sleep.

Ear infection, HA.

So Kyle agreed to stay home from school so I could sleep and we went to bed.

And I dreamt of zombies. More of being one, of waking up and rolling over and finding Kyle sleeping peacefully next to me, back bare and exposed right up to the soft spot where the brain stem enters the skull and leaning in to that spot above the collarbone, where the flesh gives way so easily and ... and you can imagine the gory details.

A vivid imagination knows no bounds.

And I dreamt of my children sleeping upstairs angelically in their intentionally-darkened rooms, and how they smelled still of newborn on the tops of their heads, of watching a greyed and decaying finger caress the still-existent soft spot on Tova's crown and then being distracted by the sounds of warfare outside and seeing characters from The Walking Dead ride down my street on horseback and being torn between the feeling of going with the good guys and realizing that I was no longer qualify-able as a good guy and then trying to decide who would be the most delicious -- the people, not the horses, because that would be cruel.

Because, you know, zombies ponder things. They also cannot eat their own children. At least I can't.

Thank you brain for having your limits.

There was also some crazy burlesque thing in there, that one of the teachers at the studio didn't care that I was undead and was making me perform over and over as my body parts literally fell off of me, yelling at me to glue them back on, there was an audience watching and just feeling so very very tired and hungry but unwilling to risk my non-life to eat anyone around me at the time. Too many stilettos at the ready to gouge me.

Needless to say I woke up from that nightmare with a dangerous fever that ended me up in Urgent Care Friday, taking four people to cover the tasks that usually just I manage to do in a day. And actually, that was just the basics of logistics. The mountain of laundry waiting for me is still daunting.

But anyway. So I go to Urgent Care and get a prescription for a Z-pack since I'm allergic to sulfa drugs and penicillin derivatives, and I'm all "yay, no more zombie fever dreams" and am looking forward to feeling normal again.

Except when I take the first dose of the Z-pack, my body decides I just am not allowed to have antibiotics ever again.

I fight throwing up for two hours because I know if I do I'll lose the medicine and won't get better and with everything being closed for Thanksgiving this week that means another week gone to this horrific supposed strep infection posing as an ear/now/throat/eye thing, but the pain starts to resemble something like having my insides torn apart by an industrial combine and finally it beats me, sucking all air from my lungs in those guttural wails and defeating me, and I spend the next hour or so vomiting the very little I've managed to eat for the two days prior.

And yes, I did try to eat with the pills to have them settle. The most I'd eaten in the two days prior combined, probably. Did diddly squat.

While I writhed on the floor I heard myself saying to Kyle, who looked on helplessly, that I was dying, that it was killing me, and then BOOM, there it was in my head, clear as day.

This is how it starts. I'm the bringer of the zombie apocalypse.

Enter moment of clarity post insane thought moment.

My clarity did not focus around the non-existence of zombies, nor the improbability of me being the person to begin the infection of the masses that results in the world as we know it coming to a halt.

Nope, it was that no matter what, I did not want to be the end of my children. I did not want to become a zombie a room over from where they slept because I didn't want the temptation of their tiny little brains to bewitch me and make me do horrible things that not even my own twisted brain could dream up under the influence of the fires of Hades burning under my skin.

And it felt much like the opposite of how I felt two years ago, when I thought for sure that my existence in their(then just Kiedis') life was the worst thing that had ever happened to him and that everyone would be better without me around ruining everyone's lives.

My, how the years have changed me.

I immediately felt guilty about Kiedis being this sick, though I tried hard to be rational in my choices about when he needed professional care and when he didn't. I knew I needed to stay the eff away from Tova lest she catch this awful plauge and perpetuate the misery in our house. And I needed to rest and trust that Kyle and my mom and my brother and my dad would pick up the slack and get everyone through, because that's what families do.

Sometimes the Mom has to be sick. And that has to be okay.

So for the majority of the weekend I pretty much locked myself in my room and slept and sweat and wretched and coughed and took my medicine on schedule and fought against my own brain about zombie-centric dreams and reminded myself that my self-imposed quarantine was for the greater good of my family even though it was jacking up everything we had planned pretty much for the rest of the month, zombification or no.

And now here I am. I am physically far from healthy though I'm gaining strength (and the ability to eat) back slowly as time progresses, but mentally I'm here again for the most part, between naps and moments of complete pain-induced head fog. Gratefully Kyle has this whole week off of school anyway, so he'll be able to help in the inbetween, which is such a relief.

And no sign of the zombie apocalypse in sight. Just some really miserably sick people looking at a probably less-than-stellar Thanksgiving experience this year.

So I'm sorry I dropped off the face last week. I'll try to be better this week.

I've just been a wee busy saving humanity from it's impending doom.

Which if you've met my daughter when she's unhappy (ie, sick), you'd realize isn't actually hyperbole at all.

Meh.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:52:00 +0000

So obviously I didn't post anything this weekend, and am barely squeaking it in today. There goes NaBloPoMo, but I had good reason.

Kiedis has some sort of stomach flu and has been puking 95% of what we try to put in him since Saturday night. Tova's teething again so we're trying to keep 95% of the things she tries to put in her mouth out of it. Both have fevers.

Needless to say, I'm exhausted, cranky, and smell like kid vomit.

And in the wake of events suchly you gain some perspective about the importance of blogging to maybe win a prize or to be able to say you actually completed a challenge or whatever and you learn a bit how to be more there where you're needed when you're needed and not strapped to the laptop or smartphone.

I've spent most of my weekend cuddling one child or another, rubbing backs and wiping noses and having moments of stillness and quiet with these two little people who want nothing more than for me to make it better for them.

Because as I often sort of forget, I'm the Mama. Not the Auntie or the nanny (though you don't know how many times I find myself wondering when their parents are going to get home only to remember, whoops, that's me) but the one who's supposed to have the magic kisses and the special remedies and secret lullabies to make it feel better.

So things like NaBloPoMo can wait for next year, because these moments, as overwhelming and heartbreaking that they are, won't be here for long, and they won't always come to me to make it all better.

So yeah, one less stressor on an already to-the-max schedule.

I'll be around, and I hope you will be too.

(Also, send good vibes to this house because OMFG WHINY TODDLERS EVERYWHERE.)

Friday Tabulousity.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 14:04:00 +0000

Alright, here we go:

Casey takes on something very dear to my heart.

I have known about this movie for a very long time and I'm so stoked to see it, but this article from the director just hits effing home on so many levels.

This explains to a T how I felt the first few times I took Kiedis to the park. At least it's not just me.

There's been a lot of buzz about this study, but you know what, in my experience, it's true.

I am terrified of ten years from now.

This is just lovely and we all should try to do a few a day.

And in case you missed my assail of all things social media at my fingertips, our latest family photos were featured on Offbeat Mama this week. I feel all squishy-happy inside.

Also, it's Veteran's Day today. Be thankful for those who serve so the rest of us don't have to. (Thanks Sibling!)

There you have it! What's been sticking with you this week?

Have a great (three-day for some people) weekend!

Klout Says I'm Influential About Money and Grocery Stores, So Here You Are.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 19:40:00 +0000

Last week I did an informal survey of my Facebook friends and Tabulous readers about how much everyone's family spends on groceries in a month.

The thing is, groceries feel like the place you should be able to cut back or change something and magically you'll half your cost. You hear about people doing all the time, whether it be through couponing or creative meal planning or food swaps or whatever.

Mostly I just wanted a frame of reference that I didn't have.

I learned that we spend about $100-$200 more than the average family, unless that family also is eating mostly organic, and then we're about on par. I learned that some of you are far more resourceful about your foods -- I'm quite happy buying my meat at a counter and not having to butcher it myself, thanks. I also learned that some of you are freaking shopping superstars, but I can't help but wonder what you're buying.

I'm not going to pass judgement here, because we all make choices based on our own experiences and values doing what we think will best benefit our families. For us that means more wholesome products at a financial hit; for others that means more money in the bank and more processed foods filling their fridges.

Everyone has priorities.

We're working on ways to make it more functional for us -- intentionally making meals that are actually enough for two or three meals, freezing the extra portions and saving it for a quick meal. We also don't really eat out ever anymore -- we sometimes do fast food, but that's about once every couple of weeks (usually payday) and normally the kids still eat something made at home because they're picky little nuggets.

I'll actually correct that. Tova will eat something homemade. Kiedis eats processed fish sticks and organic applesauce like it's going out of style. If I had the patience to learn how to make fish sticks myself, I would. But he probably wouldn't eat them. He's brand specific. For serious. If I'm lucky I can get a grilled cheese in him. And meatloaf, that child loves meatloaf. But other than that (unless it's a sweet like cookies or yogurt) pretty much no dice.

I'm just thinking about it a lot as we enter another year no more ahead than we were last year, and with two littles who require more and more fuel to keep their little engines going I tend to get panicky about how long we can keep this up and make sure everyone's well-fed.

I guess it's also just indicative of my constant problems with comparisons to others and feeling like everyone else has it figured out and we just missed that class in school or something. I know a lot of it has to do with the economy and how it effects things like gas prices and food prices and that part of it is we're young and on a single income (and a very modest one at that) and that our personal priorities differ a great deal from most of the people we know. We all make our choices hoping they don't bite us in the ass later, I just worry about said ass-biting more than others, I guess.

Anyway, thanks to those of you who were willing to talk dollars with me because I know a lot of people are uncomfortable with doing so, and know that for a couple of days there you made the sociological part of my brain very happy. I had to stop myself from making a spreadsheet, for Pete's sake. And if you missed out on the convo because you're not in on the whole Facebook dealio but want to throw your three cents in, let it free in the comments. I was just asking people their monthly grocery bill for the number & ages of people in your home & usually if that number also contains things like paper goods, eating out, and pet food. Harmless, I swear.

Thanks for humoring me, and if you too have secret things you want to know about how other people run their homes & lives, shoot me an email or a DM and I'll be happy to oblige and ask the greater constituents of Tabulous-land their thoughts for you anonymously.

Round up tomorrow, and I've been actually catching up on things so brace yourselves.

The Stuff Of Nightmares.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000

There are things as a parent that you don't really openly talk about, not out of shame or secrecy but more out of a fear of jinxing yourself and your family, a there but for the grace prayer you whisper to yourself when situations arise that break your heart, test your endurance and strength, and rip your soul to pieces.

As a very sensitive person with an arguably overly empathetic soul, I don't often show how things cut me deep because I think of them not in terms of how unfortunate or that's terrible, but in terms of God I can't imagine how scared/hurt/confused/sad/broken that must have felt.

But if I don't watch the news, it's because I can't stomach it. If you try to press me to talk about the most recent scandal and I seem to blow you off, it's because I'm already nauseous over it, unable to process it lest I vomit.

However, it's that kind of behavior that others the victims of misdeeds and survivors of crime, that makes such pervasive evil in our society seem invisible and that in some ways gives permissions for these things to reoccur because if no one stands up when it is needed we can't continue to live with dignity and self-respect in our everyday lives.

That said, I want to talk about something that I did catch on our local news a couple of weeks ago that stopped me mid-breath and only exited as tears.

A three-year old was left strapped into the adapted seat of a school bus for over six hours. He was picked up from his house and presumably taken to his preschool, except neither the aide nor the driver checked the bus before taking it back to the transportation center, leaving the boy alone until he was discovered mid-afternoon frantic, slightly dehydrated, and covered in his own bodily byproducts.

This happened in the school district in which we live, for whom Kyle teaches. And where in March, after Kiedis turns three and is no longer eligible for the program he is in, my son will begin to attend preschool.

My heart broke for that child, that little boy who probably isn't that different than my own. His enraged mother spoke on television the thoughts I had already processed -- that were it anything but 60 degrees outside that day, that child could have died from either heat exhaustion or hypothermia. Several people failed at their jobs that day, and a little boy suffered for it, for no reason.

But what sticks with me to this day is how scared and confused and alone he must have felt very shortly after being left behind. How his young brain must have kicked into panic mode, fearing he'd never get off that bus. How he probably began crying for his mother, who was going about her day assuming the people who she entrusted to care for her child were doing their jobs. How betrayed he must have felt when she didn't come for him, when no one did, on through lunch time leaving his little belly empty and his pants overfull and most likely beginning to burn.

And the very next morning, with these thoughts swirling in my head, I had to put my little boy on the bus and trust he would reach his destination safe and sound.

This is part of the trade-off in parenting that no one speaks out loud of, this letting-go that is required which also leaves our children vulnerable to mistakes and oversight and in the worst cases, predation.

Like the eight-year-old Hassidic boy from Brooklyn, Leiby, whom over the summer was trusted by his mother to walk home from his daycamp alone for the very first time, only to get lost and be found by a sociopath who tortured him before he hacked him to pieces.

And like the boys-now-young-men (some of whom are my age, even) who are coming forth about ongoing sexual abuse, molestation, and rape at the hands of a Penn State football coach. A man who was trusted in his community, who ran a program for underprivileged and at-risk kids, and who abused that power in the most unfathomable of ways.

These are the fears that we, as parents, carry deep in our hearts, fearful of speaking them, realizing them, tempting fate to come and teach us a lesson about gratitude, honesty, and survival. We are constantly leaving ourselves open and vulnerable as we entrust others who purport to have our childrens' best interests at heart, and we let them go out into this world while praying ferociously that they come back to you, happy and whole and safe and sound.

Because too often, they do not.

I am aware I cannot protect my children all of the time, and I can only hope to foster relationships with them that were they ever to encounter a situation that made them uncomfortable or God forbid left them injured that they would tell me, so I could do my best to make it right, make their worlds okay again.

But that doesn't quell my fear, looking at my beautiful innocent children, that someone could so easily take it from them, that others do not and will not have the same regard for their lives and their hearts and their souls as I, as we as parents, do. It does not help me go to sleep at night, hoping that the choices I make for them are the best for them and will not leave them open for damage.

And it does not take away the heartache I feel for these children who were being just that -- children -- only to have it snatched away while their parents were blissfully unaware, trusting in the choices they'd made to give their kids every opportunity to succeed in life.

Yesterday, for the first time, Kiedis was crying as he got off the bus, a sad wail of confusion and pain. The bus driver and the aide, who was not the usual aide, were both very quick to say he had hit his head on the window while being lifted out of his seat but that it was very slight and he was just surprised for it.

I know my child; I'm used to these sort of incidences happening around the house. But that didn't stop my stomach from clenching and my heart to race, dueling thoughts of trust and suspicion fostering in my chest. I kissed my son and asked him if he was okay, which is not my usual response when I see the injury happen -- we're a bit of "brush-it-off" people here -- and took him inside to give him a once over, to quell my fears and to teach myself a lesson on trust.

I cannot be with my children all of the time; I cannot protect them from all the harm in the world though I would promptly give my life to do so. But that doesn't change that I still want to, that my cognizance of the most despicable contingents of our society fuels my desire to shield them with my presence and my body if necessary, and that letting them go into the world without me, even for a few moments, tests the fibres of my maternal core to its most absolute.

Tonight I will be grateful for my family and for the people who love and care for my children when I am not around. I will hug them and kiss them and let them know they are so so so loved and I will pray that my love for them will shelter them from the nightmares of the world they're growing up in.

And I will pray for the children society forgets or ignores or doesn't believe. I will pray for the babies who will never see their first birthdays and for the little ones who have never known a good touch. I will pray for the kids with the handprint bruises and broken bones and the ones whose shame and confusion silences their voices. I will pray for the ones who couldn't say no and I will pray for the ones who did and did not survive to tell the tale. They are out there tonight, as we eat our dinners and go through our bedtime routines, and they deserve as much love and compassion as our own children.

This is where we fall short as a society -- that we let our children be vulnerable to the unthinkable and unspeakable. It's time to make it spoken, to think it and acknowledge it and to do something about it, so that your children and my children have a shot at growing up truly safe, truly happy, and truly whole.

I'm tired of living my life in fear for them. We all deserve better that that.

Don't you agree?

Totally Awkward Tuesday!

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 16:14:00 +0000

I'm not sure if you're aware of this or not, but Kyle knew I was pregnant both times before I did. Or at least he strongly suspected it.

Apparently dude keeps track of my cycle -- not in like, marking it on a calendar kind of way, but more of that when I say I've started my period he usually murmurs something like "sounds about right" that always makes me look at him kind of funny.

Kyle didn't really grow up with sisters or anything -- he has a couple of stepsisters, but they were an every-other-weekend kind of thing. He has a younger brother, actually, so it isn't like he was up to his eyeballs in estrogen growing up to make him this way.

He just is.

Whereas for me, except for those years I spent on the pill, my cycle has been erratic at best. Post-childbirth it seems to have regulated itself a bit more, but it's usually so hard for me to keep track because it's basically a crapshoot, so I often find myself surprised and sometimes unprepared.

That's why if you've ever dug through my purse you'll find some interesting things tucked away. Like this. That's a Victoria's Secret Spare Pair package, about the size of a business card, and yep, they're totally handy.

The more you know, folks.

Anyway, so the awkward of all of this other than openly talking about my period (which really I'd do anyway because it's not a big deal, really) is that I've COMPLETELY given up on trying to figure out when I'm going to start or anything.

Instead, I ask Kyle.

And because I'm relying on him to keep me up to date on the goings on of my own uterus, it means he's paying more attention, which means instead of looking for confirmation of what I suspect I just flat out ask him anymore.

The conversations in our house, people, are nothing short of thrilling.

So there's that. I'm a 27 year old mom of two who's husband knows more about her lady bits than she does.

You can take my Girl Card back any time now.

Epic Case Of The Mondays.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 03:36:00 +0000

I really wanted to have a good post for you today, and I am kicking around some things around in my old noodle, but I started today reading a horrific article about abusive animal shelter employees and am on day two of less than four hours of sleep and my blood sugar has been wonky as hell, so I'm sadly ducking out on you again.

However, if you're into Google+, Tabulous has an official page over there now. Because I could manage to click a few buttons to make that happen. You're welcome.

Tomorrow I'll have a funny story for you, I promise.

Sunday Secrets.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 03:01:00 +0000

Clarification.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 14:52:00 +0000

So on Thursday I went on this tangent about lice and cleanliness and was SCHOOLED about how off that was.

I sincerely apologize for my misunderstanding.

I did want to say I think my logic came from when lice occurs -- the families that don't address it and continue to let it live in their homes and on their children and then let those children go out and play with other kids who then bring it home and the cycle continues. THAT'S the cleanliness I was trying to get at but failed to convey.

I understand the medication is expensive and treatment is daunting and time consuming and potentially expensive (say, if you have to wash every fabric thing you own and don't own your own washer) but sometimes, people need to think about the greater good instead of their own convenience.

Anyway, I learned my lesson about not researching something before I rant about it. Thanks for being so kind and understanding in setting me straight. :)

Friday Tabulousity.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 13:00:00 +0000

I swear, one of these days I'm going to catch up on my Reader and have some AWESOME for you that you've probably already seen but that's okay.

First off, old effing news, but this video? Is just awesome. Tattoos done right (I have long since wanted a chest piece in Italian) great choreography without being too contrived, I just love it. Except Pantsuit Girl. She did not get the Torn Prom Dress Memo and she looks awkward for it.

Here is a great example of thinking sociologically and exploring the big picture by questioning everything you hear and how frighteningly often the media distorts facts to suit their own agenda. Also, if you never thought women could be misogynistic, you'd be wrong.
I just think this is a fun infographic. See above sociological thinking and my penchant for it.
Still on sociology, I am (a) proud Ohio students came up with this campaign (b) impressed with the execution and (c) have my own story about a lesser version of it.
Before we went to my friend's Halloween party this past weekend, I had to stop and buy a wig to get the right effect. I thought nothing of entering the store other than I was on a very tight schedule, and I headed right to the accessories part.
The store was super crowded of all kinds of people, and I wove through the stagnant standers and impatient parents quite easily because retail, I know how you work and how to work you a little.
So I'm in the back looking at the wigs, trying to find an Ariel wig that would fit my midget head (I ended up with a child's sized one, which since my hair is short was perfect) when I noticed some people of younger age, meaning anywhere from middle school to possibly my age, giggling while looking at me and the wigs.
Now I did have bright red lipstick and some serious eye make up on, but you know, not actually that different than you might see at a club on a weekend. THIS WAS A SATURDAY, and also, you know, the WEEKEND BEFORE HALLOWEEN. You're bound to see people in unusual make-up, and who are they to know that I don't walk around like that all the time?
Whatever.
So I'm scanning for a legit Ariel wig and it's driving me closer to them. I'm only looking at them out of my peripheral vision because they seem like people I don't want to deal with immediately and I'm on a mission and can't be bothered with social graces like acknowledging their jeers and stares and I see one of them has a wig package in their hands and keeps motioning to me.
As I approach to be almost next to them, still scanning the giant wall of fake hair, they chuck the package into the general fray of the shelf below the wigs as they take off like they suddenly have better things to do, which riles my inner retail employee right up. I bend down quickly to put it back because, seriously, when I take a good look at it.
It had a stupid title like Punk Princess or something, but the wig was a choppy black sort-of pixie cut ... with purple streaks. Basically a caricaturized version of my very head that I walk around with every day in real life.
And I had this brief moment where it dawned on me that my life, my style, my self-expression, is nothing more than cheap Halloween fodder for someone. And I was really disenfranchised there for a minute realizing that they were either making fun of me for having that hair in real life or were trying to figure out if I was in costume or not.
It made a little knot form in my stomach that I haven't felt in a really long time.
So while not my heritage or racial status, my appearance is still my (self-appropriated) culture and to feel reduced to a joke or parody of myself is just unsettling at best. Of course looking like this is my choice and I have the ability to exercise my privilege to erase any indicators of this lifestyle whereas others don't have that option, and I'm in no way trying to demean their plight by adding myself to the mix.
I'm just saying that there for a minute, the little girl who was mercilessly bullied most of her life by most everyone she knew crumpled inside and it caught my breath and forced me to regain composure I didn't know I carried around with me all the time.
So next year, if you're someone apt to be concerned about handing out peanut-free candy or sugar-free candy so that no one feels othered, perhaps you should also take a double look at the costumes you and yours are wearing and see if they might be offensive or a misappropriation of someone else's very personal beliefs, rituals, and culture.
And that's the end of that rant.
Don't forget it's NaBloPoMo so I'll be here tomorrow with ... something. Suggestions?

First School Crisis.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 18:23:00 +0000

Once Kiedis gets home and settled from school you can usually find me digging through his teeny bookbag, looking for the latest from his teacher. There's a steno pad that goes back and forth between us to keep in contact about his progress and such, and often at the end of the week there's art he's made or flyers about events or just whatever, stuff for the parents.

Yesterday was no different, with me searching through the spare clothes in his bag for the steno pad when I saw a white sheet of paper folded up. I retrieved it, curious as it looked kind of important (flyers are usually on colored paper, but official stuff is on plain white) and I took it to the kitchen with me while I rounded up Kiedis' lunch.

I was not prepared for the very first sentence.

It was a letter informing me that one of the kids in Kiedis' class has lice.

Except the way it was worded, it was easy to misunderstand as it being MY CHILD who had lice.

I audibly gasped and cupped my hand over my mouth, horrified.

I'll be honest, I'm not really sure how kids get lice. I know it spreads easily and quickly, but as for how that first kid gets it I really don't know. I'm vaguely aware it's a pain in the ass to get rid of and that the longer your hair is the harder it is to get rid of them, and while it's not quite to the invasive level of bedbugs (gag) it is still fairly disgusting and skeevy and EWEWEW.

It took me reading to the bottom of the letter (after reading through what needs to be done to eradicate the pests and how my kid could be kicked out of his program if we don't handle the situation quickly and properly, so I'm extra panicky at this point) to where it said the nurse had checked Kiedis that day and he had NO EVIDENCE of lice in his beautiful golden locks that I went back and slowly reread the letter.

While I was greatly relieved, a part of me is still unsettled. I know this happens, kids get weird shit and spread it to each other and for some people it's a rite of childhood.

Not me.

I've never had lice.

And I never plan to.

It was just a flash of something Kyle and I talked about before enrolling him in this program, the chance of Kiedis contracting something undesirable just from being in the same proximity of children whose parents perhaps don't have the same standards we do. It sounds terrible, but Kyle knows from experience teaching the older siblings of the kids in this program that when you combine old houses and slightly-above-poverty-level living conditions, you have less than desirable breeding grounds for all kinds of disease and squalor. And those things will attach to children first and come to school with them and despite the best efforts of families to avoid these things, all it takes is one lacking kid and everything goes to hell in a handbasket for a while.

And it just takes me to a bad place in my head, where I realize we work really hard to provide a good life for our kids sort-of despite where we live. We know it's going to affect them one way or another, but we hope to make it in a good way, like in an appreciation for diversity and for varying socioeconomic levels and for making the best of what you've got. We're hoping to avoid the more ick factors of living in the urban landscape, like the pervasive depression and less emphasis on education and the simple things like mother effing lice.

We're suburban kids at heart, and we want our kids to grow up with a lot of those same morals and values and it hurts my heart to know that as long as we're here they'll be around kids who won't aspire to those same standards -- for my kids and for those kids they'll grow up around.

Everyone deserves the same shot at life, and that includes practicing a certain level of hygiene so that things like lice or bedbugs or fleas or whatever won't interfere with the rest of your life (and the lives of those around you) so everyone can concentrate on learning and cooperating and such instead of buggy scalps and exterminators and such.

I just don't want to have to deal with lice because other parents can't bother to bathe their kids on a regular basis. I don't think that's unreasonable, even considering where we live. I don't see poverty or low income status as an excuse for poor hygiene. That should be a priority for everyone, especially when you're the caretaker for small children because (a) they can't do it themselves and (b) they need someone to teach them how. I know some kids are very aversive to baths and teeth brushing and stuff but I don't agree with just letting your kids be dirty because it's easier than fighting them to be clean.

YOUR KIDS SHOULD BE CLEAN, NON-NEGOTIABLY. How else are they going to learn they have value and worth if you can't be bothered to pay attention to their basic needs? If they want to be gross smelly adults that's their choice, but when they're in your care you should at least make sure they bathe quasi-regularly. That's part of this whole "parenting" job we all signed up for as soon as we welcomed a child into our lives.

End rant.

Crisis is averted for now, but for the next two weeks I have to check his scalp regularly and wash everything in hot water just in case. That alone frustrates me.

But it's better than him actually having lice, so I guess I'll take it.

Doesn't change I've got the itchy skeevies now. Ick.

UPDATE: I've been informed that apparently lice is not a hygienic issue like I had thought. I'm sorry to have made the incorrect assumption -- that's what I get for not double checking myself and researching first. Bad sociologist, bad. Sorry if I offended anyone by this rant. Still not stoked about having to take all the steps "just in case" there are lice that have been brought into our house, which DOES require a shit ton of cleaning and having to go get special shampoo and whatnot and I swear if this results in needing to cut/shave Kiedis' hair to get them gone HEADS ARE GOING TO ROLL. But anyway. Sorry about my misunderstanding.

Wordless(ish) Wednesday.

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 13:00:00 +0000

What's this silly white thing, Mama?

Oh, oh it's slimy inside. Get it off my hands.

No thanks, I'll go terrorize a cat now.

oof.

trick or treat, indeed.

Totally Awkward Tuesday!

noreply@blogger.com (Tabatha) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 13:00:00 +0000

And thusly begins another NaBloPoMo.

Have I ever told you about my Big Polish Stalker?

This time of year always reminds me of his once near omnipresent existence, so let's discuss. Henceforth he will be referenced as BPS, because that's easier to type.

I don't really remember how or when I met him, and to be honest I don't even remember his name anymore. All I know is it was during my unstable phase around my 20th autumn and he was everywhere. I know that he went to school at the UBER conservative Christian school kind of out in the country -- we're talking curfews, no mixed-gender touching, no music, must-wear-skirts kind of scary conservative. He was good at hiding his own conservative agenda, but it came out from time to time, mostly when he'd talk to me about finding a good Christian girl and how great some girls he knew would be as life partners if only they'd give up their vices and accept Jesus as their savior.

Umm, right.

I particularly remember being intentionally invited to a group gathering by him where I went -- it was a Thanksmas party, and I actually brought the main dish to this group of strangers and BPS had directly challenged my Italian ancestry so to spite, I made from-scratch lasagna. I remember it being a nice time and everyone loving the lasagna and that there was NO ALCOHOL but people were respectful of the fact that I was more in to music than I was religion and I was a smart (albeit off-kilter) girl and I walked away feeling proud of my cooking skills and my ability to be sociable with people whose ideas differed greatly from mine.

Basically, I saw him as harmless, kind of a big brother type to take in small doses. Over time, though, he seemed to randomly pop up wherever I was (and this was before Foursquare, people -- I think Facebook had just gone public or was just about to) which was kind of cool because hey, we have the same interests and distantly know the same people but also creepy because I felt like every time I left the house I had a 75% chance of "running" in to him no matter if I was at a party or a bar or shopping for deodorant in the middle of a Thursday at Meijer in nothing but an ex's old pants and sweatshirt. It was odd.

Now, at the time of the story at hand, I had met a different guy through MySpace. His name was Scott and he was a bassist in a local generic rock band. He wasn't so much my type but he was handsome, tall, and charismatic as hell. We bonded over tattoos at a dive bar where I discovered a girl I knew in high school knew him as well. This rendered him safe to me, and so we kind of dated in the way that crazy punks do -- late at night, only managing to see each other in the daylight if we'd managed to stay out past last call and the after parties til dawn revealed something closer to our true selves.

Anyway, so Scott was close to 25ish and I was ... not ... but I managed to accompany him as his "guest" to many a shady bar where his band played, and for being a band "support staff" as they called us, I would be marked as of legal drinking age without so much as flashing an ID.

Needless to say, I ended up drunk a lot.

On this particular night, we were down at the local "night life district" at a bar that no longer exists. It was the night before the district's annual Halloween Whore Fest -- you know, where there's a fee to be able to go into all the bars instead of individual covers and everyone (at least female) sees how very little they can wear and still call a costume without getting frostbite. As it was the night before this event, there were still people dressed up in costume roaming about, and I was one of them. I was wearing something akin to this:

That actually was the next night. What you can't see are the thigh-high stiletto boots and fishnets. Also, SO THIN. But that's what manic does to me. Moving on.

Anyway, so I'm playing my best band girlfriend role, pretending to be in to the music (I wasn't) and drinking my amaretto sours (because nothing screams underage more than an amaretto sour) and accepting the overly-possessive and sweaty kisses from Scott between songs.

This is obviously not a highlight of my dating career.

All of the sudden, mid-song, I feel a hand on my upper arm in a firm grasp, like I'm about to be forcibly moved. Paranoid I was being kicked out for being underage, I turn in fear to find none other than BPS looking at me in horror.

See, he was also in a band, one that played nearby and he walked by the front of the bar and saw me through the window (more over, saw me and Scott through the window) and felt the need to come defend my honor. Or something.

Right about the time BPS explains that he saw me with Scott and that he knew things about Scott that made it absolutely not okay for me to be with him, the set is finished and Scott comes storming over, eyes hatefully locked on BPS.

Both of these guys were about 6'3" -- BPS was more full whereas Scott was muscle. And me and all of my 5'11" in heels was still feeling like a midget.

A heated discussion ensues where Scott tells BPS to get his hands off of me while BPS keeps asking me if I really want to be with a guy like Scott and telling me I needed to go home with him instead and would I please listen to reason for once and I know he's a nice guy and would never hurt me so what's my hangup. Growing impatient, Scott jerks me out of BPS's grasp and towards him and his bandmates. BPS doesn't like that one bit, and he grabs my arm again and yanks me back to him, looks me deep in the eyes and FORBIDS ME from leaving with Scott.

Literally, that's what he said. I was FORBIDDEN from leaving with the guy I came with.

And while all this yanking sounds harsh, I was a whopping 115 soaking wet at this time, so you could breathe hard in my general direction and knock me over, so while it was intentional, it wasn't necessarily a hard feat.

Here's where things get ugly.

Anyway, Scott hears this forbidden talk and laughs, then takes a swing at BPS. BPS ducks and puts up his hands saying he doesn't want a fight, then grabs me by the wrist and starts pulling me towards the door. Scott physically blocks the doorway and a scuffle ensues with me just standing there in complete shock because WHAT THE FUCK WAS HAPPENING. You'd think, as a girl, you'd be kind of flattered by two guys fighting over you, but in reality it's terrifying and confusing and disorienting and really makes you just want to call up your best girlfriends and have a sleepover to forget all about it.

Obviously, due to the fighting, we're kicked out of the bar and banned from returning because suddenly it's all somehow about me being underage and undercover cops being out and blahblahblah.

Once in the back parking lot the two bands posture a lot and hold their respective members back and in the back of my head I'm disappointed that they're not going to break out in a dance-off a la West Side Story because THAT is something to feel awesome about being the cause of. More begging from BPS and scoffing from Scott and I'm forced to choose who's taking me home.

I chose Scott. And we didn't go to my house, as I promised BPS I'd do, but back to Scott's where more crazy ensued with his neighbors and roommates and that's just a story for another time.

Anyway, later I come to find our that Scott had more than a wee drug problem and after one too many 4AM phone calls to get him from wherever he had been partying and take him to his apartment (and by too many I mean three in a little over a week) presumably to stay with him, I stopped answering his calls. I felt bad for his Akita puppy, though, that I'd practically raised (such as I went over there morning and night to feed and walk it and I'm a cat person for crap's sake) and since I had a key to his apartment for this reason (after like a week of dating, God obviously so unhealthy), I continued to care for the dog for like a month until one of his roommates told me he had a new girl who didn't like me coming around so I tearfully said goodbye to the dog and I often hope he's happy and healthy and with people who love and care for him.

I haven't thought about that dog in a very long time and I'm very sad I can't remember his name. I think it was Lobo, come to concentrate on it, but I could be making that up. Vega is the other one coming to mind.

*moment*

A year or so later Scott would contact me through Facebook and we'd catch up, he'd apologize for his behavior and would tell me he'd sobered up and moved back to where he was originally from, and that my reaction to his behavior kind of made him take a look at himself because I was a cool girl he wished he'd gotten to know better sober. We made peace and actually were casual, online friends for a while but at some point he just faded. I genuinely hope he's well and still sober and that life is treating him better.

Okay, so all of that crazy back story for the awkward.

Fast forward to right after Kyle and I got engaged and were spending New Year's Eve in Florida in celebration. I'm standing at the drink cart at Universal's City Walk when my phone rings a number with an area code I don't even vaguely recognize, and though I usually screen, I'm worried since we're away from home that it's something with my mom or something so I answer.

It's BPS.

DRUNK.

And he's all Super McChatty Guy with the hey remember me and we used to have so much fun and I was just sitting here talking about you to someone and thought hey, I need to call that girl and catch up with her and see if she'd want to hang out some time so how's your life been.

Being slightly tipsy and with Kyle giving me weird looks (because it was like, 1:30 in the morning) and all in the afterglow of the newly engaged, that little tidbit of info was the first thing I spat out.

And there was SILENCE.

The conversation quickly became disjointed and mumbled and abruptly ended. I was befuddled and thought we'd been cut off, so I tried to call back only to find that my number was now blocked.

I pretty much brushed it off to BPS finally losing it completely (he always thought alcohol was the devil and apparently for him, it truly was) and didn't really think much of it until some very distant mutual acquaintance informed me that he was telling people that I led him on for years, promising him a committed relationship and finding God and sobriety only to get married to some other guy, which honestly was news to me seeing as I don't think I'd more than loosely hugged him a couple of times and never promised him anything beyond snarking that I was sure I'd see him again soon whenever I left his self-imposed company.

Anyway. So this time of year always brings me back to that crazy time in my life and the multitude of awkward that comprised my life seven years ago. Sometimes it's hard to reconcile the life I have now with the one I had then, but everything happens for a reason, right?

Even Big Polish Stalkers.