Okay, that's it...I've had it...I've kept my mouth shut for as long as I can!!!! I'm about to over use the exclamation point! Be prepared! I'm pissed! This is one of those times I really wish I had a soapbox!
You want to know why the word "nazi" get's paired with the word "feminist" so often? I can tell you! I've been reading posts for the last week that go on and on about how women get shafted in divorce cases and how Alec Baldwin is the freakin' Anti-Christ and how breast feeding mothers should be allowed to whip their tits out in public any old time they want and the rest of the general public be damned!!! Shut the FUCK UP!!!! You all make me ashamed to be women, much less a mother! I would personally like to whack each and every one of you in the back of the head for being ignorant and setting us back twenty years!!!!!! You make my head hurt!!!! You make my eyes blur!!!!!!!! Where do I begin???!!!!?????
Oh...let's start with the whole brestfeeding thing. KEEP YOUR TITS TO YOUR SELF!!!!!!! Not everyone wants to see it! Get over it!! This is not the sixties! You are not Betty Friedan!! You are not fighting for the Right To Vote!!!!! We're talking about FREAKING BREASTFEEDING!!!!! The fucking kid doesn't care!!!!!! Sit down, put a blanket over your breast and feed your freakin kid!! The lady at the table next to you doesn't want to see it! The guy on the airplane next to you doesn't want to be obliged to have to uncomfortably look at the ceiling while you sit with your nipple out.....GET THE FUCK OVER IT!!!!!!!!!!!!
Moving on.......
Alec Baldwin is not the Anti-Christ. Kim Basinger is not the Sainted Mother Theresa. They are two parents going through a divorce. Neither one of them is a very good parent. They aren't doing their kid any favors. Get over it!!!!!!! Move on!!! Find something else to obsess over!!!!! Sweet Jesus!!!!!
Deep breath in......
Women want equal treatment...until....what a group of pansy ass whiners. "we get shafted in divorce cases...." Yeah, uh-huh....Let's review. First we'll trot out the tired old bullshit about the doctor or the lawyer or the "rich guy" who dumps his helpless little wife so he can run off with his trophy wife, leaving his "old" wife to live on welfare and support her kids on next to nothing while he never pays child support....Yes, that's happened. Not as often as the media would like you to believe, but it's happened. Deal with it. Life isn't fair. Big deal. Cry me a river!!! MOVE ON!!!!!! How about this? How about you get up, get off your butt and GET A DAMNED JOB????? I have one. I've had two...hell, I've had three...you know why? BECAUSE I'M THE CUSTODIAL PARENT!!!!! THAT'S MY DAMNED JOB!!! I support my child,NOT the STATE, NOT my EX...ME!!! If it's to hard, give custody to the other parent. ( and yes, I know...situations exist where that's not possible...please, give it a rest.)
Now, let's talk about the women who take 45% of a man's income, have full time jobs, never let the father see their kids and then bitch that they have it "hard"....shut the FUCK UP!!! I'm tired of hearing it. I'm tired of hearing women bitch about men all the time. I'm tired about hearing how oppressed women are. I'm tired of hearing about how helpless we're supposed to be. I don't know about you, but the last damned thing I am is helpless!!!!!
You want to whine...do it on your own damned time!!!!!!!!
If I have offended anyone today...GOOD!!!!!! This is my blog. This post was not meant to be politically correct. That is why is was not a comment one anyone elses. This is sheer frustration and anger. This is .... grrrrrr... that's what this is.
Get some COMMON SENSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Grow a DAMNED BRAIN!!!!!!! GROW UP!!!!!!!
Tomorrow I will return to my normal, rational, even tempered self..I promise. Today, I'm going to go sit in the corner and bang my head against the wall.
End transmission.......
4.24.2007
Check it out...I've been Tagged!!!
I feel all kinds of Special! I've been tagged. Okay, so I asked to be tagged, but still....
Ian sent me 5 "interview" questions. I'm going to post them here, answer them and then post the rules for the meme right behind them. If you want to play along, just let me know.
1. Your son has already showed a preference for cheese on unusual dishes - for example, strawberry pancakes. What things do you put cheese on which other people might consider odd?
I don't really put cheese on anything weird. I'm kind of boring when it comes to food, which is why my son's odd food choices make me do the Spock eyebrow thing. I do like peanut butter on my pancakes though...does that count?
2. Discuss at length the reason why Utah bothers with speed limits on the Interstate.
What? Is this a test? I don't even have a driver's license. (Yes, that's true). About all I know about Utah and the Rules of the Road is that the Governor is considering reverting to the 1970's by lowering the speed limit to 55 again, instead of getting with the times and raising it, like a lot of states have done. Oh, and I know that it's a myth that there isn't a speed limit on the Interstate in Montana. There is one. It's 75 in the daytime and 65 at night. All along the Interstate you see billboards that say stuff like, "Yes Mario, there is a speed limit." Here ends my knowledge of Utah and it's driving laws.
3. Ever been to the beach? If so, share a beach story with us. If not, make one up.
Sex on the beach is not as romantic as it looks. Have you ever seen those love scenes in the movies? They're on the beach, the sun is setting, the waves are crashing, she's lying casually on top of him...everything is perfect.
Sex on the beach is nothing like that. I know..I tried it. Oh, it starts out like that. You lay the blanket down and you get all comfortable. You lay there talking and listening to the water. The sun starts to go down and you're kissing...and then you realize that it's getting cold. You ignore that because it's romantic, dammit.
You continue snuggling and things start to get a little more intense. You're still trying not to think about the fact that it's freaking cold out and now there are mosquitoes. Shit! Were those voices? You both stop and hold your breath, you're rolled up in the blanket now and you're trying not to shiver. You wait for a moment and realize it was the wind, and not voices.
You try to get back into the mood, but it's just clumsy now. You're determined to finish it though...so you eventually forget that where you are. You get into things again. His hands on your skin, his breath in your ear.
He rolls you over and suddenly your naked. The blanket feels warm and slightly scratchy against your skin. "This is how it's supposed to be," you think. Then you feel it...the sand. It's everywhere. It's in every crack and crevice of your body. You close you're eyes and hope it will be over soon.
As soon as it's over you pull your swimsuit back on and run down to the water. You mistakenly believe that you can wash the sand off...but no, what you don't know is that you will be finding sand for days.
No, having sex on the beach is nothing like it looks in the movies. Bastards.
4. Finish this sentence and explain why you picked what you did: "This one time, in band camp, I..."
This one time, in band camp, I...I'm drawing a blank. Everything I start to write that begins with that phrase is hopelessly filthy and unfit to print here. This is NOT that kind of blog. It could be that kind of blog, but I'd have to change the banner and several of the fonts and there would be a few people that come here who would be shocked.
5. Which describes you better? "Tastes great" or "Less filling"?
This is an easy one. I am a "Tastes Great" woman all the way. The whole low fat, low carb, low taste craze is a crime against nature. Food should taste good. Food is meant to be enjoyed.
Chocolate should melt in your mouth and when your eating it.
There should be no such thing as a fat free, sugar free brownie.
Houses should smell of fresh baked bread at least once a month.
Everyone should own at least one recipe for homemade macaroni and cheese, the kind with heavy cream in it.
You should be able to sit in the sun with your eyes shut and enjoy an ice cream cone, just like you did when you were a child.
You will never find me on the Atkin's Diet, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, or any of the other starve yourself options that permeate our culture. I will never be anything below a size twelve. I am definitely a "Tastes Great" kind of person.
DIRECTIONS FOR THE INTERVIEW MEME
1. Leave a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions (if I don't have your email address, you can email me instead). I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Ian sent me 5 "interview" questions. I'm going to post them here, answer them and then post the rules for the meme right behind them. If you want to play along, just let me know.
1. Your son has already showed a preference for cheese on unusual dishes - for example, strawberry pancakes. What things do you put cheese on which other people might consider odd?
I don't really put cheese on anything weird. I'm kind of boring when it comes to food, which is why my son's odd food choices make me do the Spock eyebrow thing. I do like peanut butter on my pancakes though...does that count?
2. Discuss at length the reason why Utah bothers with speed limits on the Interstate.
What? Is this a test? I don't even have a driver's license. (Yes, that's true). About all I know about Utah and the Rules of the Road is that the Governor is considering reverting to the 1970's by lowering the speed limit to 55 again, instead of getting with the times and raising it, like a lot of states have done. Oh, and I know that it's a myth that there isn't a speed limit on the Interstate in Montana. There is one. It's 75 in the daytime and 65 at night. All along the Interstate you see billboards that say stuff like, "Yes Mario, there is a speed limit." Here ends my knowledge of Utah and it's driving laws.
3. Ever been to the beach? If so, share a beach story with us. If not, make one up.
Sex on the beach is not as romantic as it looks. Have you ever seen those love scenes in the movies? They're on the beach, the sun is setting, the waves are crashing, she's lying casually on top of him...everything is perfect.
Sex on the beach is nothing like that. I know..I tried it. Oh, it starts out like that. You lay the blanket down and you get all comfortable. You lay there talking and listening to the water. The sun starts to go down and you're kissing...and then you realize that it's getting cold. You ignore that because it's romantic, dammit.
You continue snuggling and things start to get a little more intense. You're still trying not to think about the fact that it's freaking cold out and now there are mosquitoes. Shit! Were those voices? You both stop and hold your breath, you're rolled up in the blanket now and you're trying not to shiver. You wait for a moment and realize it was the wind, and not voices.
You try to get back into the mood, but it's just clumsy now. You're determined to finish it though...so you eventually forget that where you are. You get into things again. His hands on your skin, his breath in your ear.
He rolls you over and suddenly your naked. The blanket feels warm and slightly scratchy against your skin. "This is how it's supposed to be," you think. Then you feel it...the sand. It's everywhere. It's in every crack and crevice of your body. You close you're eyes and hope it will be over soon.
As soon as it's over you pull your swimsuit back on and run down to the water. You mistakenly believe that you can wash the sand off...but no, what you don't know is that you will be finding sand for days.
No, having sex on the beach is nothing like it looks in the movies. Bastards.
4. Finish this sentence and explain why you picked what you did: "This one time, in band camp, I..."
This one time, in band camp, I...I'm drawing a blank. Everything I start to write that begins with that phrase is hopelessly filthy and unfit to print here. This is NOT that kind of blog. It could be that kind of blog, but I'd have to change the banner and several of the fonts and there would be a few people that come here who would be shocked.
5. Which describes you better? "Tastes great" or "Less filling"?
This is an easy one. I am a "Tastes Great" woman all the way. The whole low fat, low carb, low taste craze is a crime against nature. Food should taste good. Food is meant to be enjoyed.
Chocolate should melt in your mouth and when your eating it.
There should be no such thing as a fat free, sugar free brownie.
Houses should smell of fresh baked bread at least once a month.
Everyone should own at least one recipe for homemade macaroni and cheese, the kind with heavy cream in it.
You should be able to sit in the sun with your eyes shut and enjoy an ice cream cone, just like you did when you were a child.
You will never find me on the Atkin's Diet, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, or any of the other starve yourself options that permeate our culture. I will never be anything below a size twelve. I am definitely a "Tastes Great" kind of person.
DIRECTIONS FOR THE INTERVIEW MEME
1. Leave a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions (if I don't have your email address, you can email me instead). I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
4.23.2007
Teenage Angst: Remembered
Everyone has horror stories from their childhood. Everyone has a story to tell about how they got picked on by someone at sometime. Some are worse than others. Well, not everyone has those stories. Some of you reading this will have been the givers, others will have been the receivers. Even so, everyone can relate.
This is gonna be a long one folks, but stick it out. I promise this story has a moral.
I was a nerd in school. I was more than a nerd, I was an uber-nerd. I was the nose in her books, glasses wearing, never cared about fashion, always knew the right answer kind of nerd. Add to that the fact that I made friends with the weirdos, the freaks, the dummies and the outcasts...yeah, I was a beating waiting to happen. You could have just painted a big 'ole target on my ass the first day of first grade and sent me off to the playground.
As the years passed, it only got worse. I got boobs in the fourth grade. Not the "Oh, how cute" kind. The "Jesus, that kid is a freak" kind. The girls were merciless. I mean, sure, I got my revenge in high-school when I grew into them, but at the time it was hell. By seventh grade I had read all of Shakespear's collected works, in my spare time, for fun....painting a picture here? Yeah, not pretty is it?
The teachers loved me, usually....the other kids looked at me as something from a science fiction movie. My locker got stacked. They smeared Vaseline on my glasses. They shoved me in the hallways. I got called every name you could think of. They would surround me in the locker room and steal my clothes, make me beg to have them back. I got followed home everyday with threats of physical violence being hurled at me.
I took it all. I never said a word. I went silently through every single day of torture at school and never uttered a word. I never screamed or yelled. I never complained to the teachers. Not a sound. I just read more books and wrote in my journal. Except for one day in eighth grade. On that day I had had enough. On that day I had been pushed to far. On that day I decked one of the other girls. Just hauled off and slugged her in the nose. WHAM! Down she went. She tried to get up. I thumped her again. They were agog. They didn't move. They stared at me as if they had never seen me before. Then one of them screamed. Very Carrie.
I calmly walked myself to the principal's office. The secretary was confused by my appearance and asked why I was there. I told her. Then I sat down to wait for my mother. I got suspended from school for three days. I was sent to counseling to find out why I had struck out at a fellow classmate in such a violent fashion. When I responded to the counselor's questions honestly I got asked what I had done to "provoke" that kind of treatment. At that point I stopped talking to the counselor and was labeled "difficult". Okay then.
In high school I moved to a new city and ended up in a school where I wasn't the smartest kid I knew. In fact, there were a lot of kids that were much smarter than me. I fit in. I didn't even have to do anything. I just fit. My self-esteem improved. My fashion choices improved. I grew into my boobs. Right about the time my boobs and I came to terms with each other I got a boyfriend and life was good.
I found a voice in that place. I learned to stand up for myself. When I was sent home to my mother three years later, I wasn't the same quiet little nerd I had been in the eighth grade. Suddenly I was the "scary" kid. I was combat boots and safety pins in the wrong places. I was punk rock in a sea full of cowboy boots. This terrified each and everyone of my former tormentors. Not one of them opened their mouths to me. Not one. It was remarkable. Suddenly I was to be feared. I was a thing of awe inspiring gasps. I was "That Girl" and not in a Marlo Thomas kind of way. Girls talked in hushed tones when I walked by and the boys wanted me....oh how they wanted me. Combat boots and big tits will get you noticed in a school full of Wranglers and sports bras. I was sex and parties and sin on two legs. I was on fire.
I promised you a moral to this tale, so here it comes. I spent a vast majority of my life in public school as that kid everyone thought was weird. The one that you hear about in the news. I was that kid. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I never complained. I was friends with all the other weirdos. We sat in our own corner of the lunchroom. We read. We talked about politics. We played Dungeons and Dragons. We were each others shelter from the storm. We were lucky to have even that. We hadn't done anything wrong, we were just different. No one came to our aid. No one stood up for us. No one told the "popular" kids that it wasn't okay to be such complete and total bastards. Everyone just ignored it or worsed, asked us what we were doing to provoke it.
Some of you that read this post will adopt the "kids will be kids" attitude. The "suck it up, life's not fair" approach. Some of you will read it and think that I, and kids like me, could work harder to "fit in". That being different is somehow justification for being targeted. Quite a few of you will shrug it off with the classic, "High school doesn't last forever."
Would your perception of my experience change at all if I added details? How about knowing, for example, that the entire time I was being picked on by fellow students I was being abused at home. Not just garden variety spanked and yelled at abused, but the "Mommy Dearest" coat hanger on the back kind? Let's insert the additional detail that at the age of nine I was sexually molested for a number of months by a neighbor, and that upon reporting this to my mother I was called a "lying little slut"? Up the anty a bit, how about knowing that I went to school on a number of occassions with visable bruises and administrators did nothing? Top it all off with a nice helping of suicidal tendancies brought on by severe and prolonged depression which would later be diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder.
Is your perception of the person walking quietly down the hall of that junior high, absorbing all the abuse being thrown at her by fellow classmates shifting slightly?
We brush off how much the bullying that children undergo at school can impact their lives. Not just as children, but as adults. That "weird" kid in the hallway is a person. The "whiner" or the "brat" at your child's elementary school has feelings too. Those children have lives outside of the walls of those schools. None of us is born detached from society. Children don't learn to be social, they learn to be anti-social. They learn it from us. They learn it by watching how we react to situations like the bully on the playground. If we shrug and say, "Kids will be kids," our children learn to shrug and say it too.
Monsters aren't born, they're created. As we continue to make excuses for our own bad behavior, we will continue to see it manifest itself. I was one of the lucky ones, I got out with my soul intact. Not everyone survives. Those of us that do make it out don't do so unscathed. The scars that come from long term, habitual torment at the hands of your peers last into adulthood. It effects the way you form relationships. It effects the way you treat others. Eventually, it has to come out.
Remember this the next time your tempted to pass off school bullies as no big deal: Today's children are tomorrow's adults. What lessons are they learning when you shrug it off?
This is gonna be a long one folks, but stick it out. I promise this story has a moral.
I was a nerd in school. I was more than a nerd, I was an uber-nerd. I was the nose in her books, glasses wearing, never cared about fashion, always knew the right answer kind of nerd. Add to that the fact that I made friends with the weirdos, the freaks, the dummies and the outcasts...yeah, I was a beating waiting to happen. You could have just painted a big 'ole target on my ass the first day of first grade and sent me off to the playground.
As the years passed, it only got worse. I got boobs in the fourth grade. Not the "Oh, how cute" kind. The "Jesus, that kid is a freak" kind. The girls were merciless. I mean, sure, I got my revenge in high-school when I grew into them, but at the time it was hell. By seventh grade I had read all of Shakespear's collected works, in my spare time, for fun....painting a picture here? Yeah, not pretty is it?
The teachers loved me, usually....the other kids looked at me as something from a science fiction movie. My locker got stacked. They smeared Vaseline on my glasses. They shoved me in the hallways. I got called every name you could think of. They would surround me in the locker room and steal my clothes, make me beg to have them back. I got followed home everyday with threats of physical violence being hurled at me.
I took it all. I never said a word. I went silently through every single day of torture at school and never uttered a word. I never screamed or yelled. I never complained to the teachers. Not a sound. I just read more books and wrote in my journal. Except for one day in eighth grade. On that day I had had enough. On that day I had been pushed to far. On that day I decked one of the other girls. Just hauled off and slugged her in the nose. WHAM! Down she went. She tried to get up. I thumped her again. They were agog. They didn't move. They stared at me as if they had never seen me before. Then one of them screamed. Very Carrie.
I calmly walked myself to the principal's office. The secretary was confused by my appearance and asked why I was there. I told her. Then I sat down to wait for my mother. I got suspended from school for three days. I was sent to counseling to find out why I had struck out at a fellow classmate in such a violent fashion. When I responded to the counselor's questions honestly I got asked what I had done to "provoke" that kind of treatment. At that point I stopped talking to the counselor and was labeled "difficult". Okay then.
In high school I moved to a new city and ended up in a school where I wasn't the smartest kid I knew. In fact, there were a lot of kids that were much smarter than me. I fit in. I didn't even have to do anything. I just fit. My self-esteem improved. My fashion choices improved. I grew into my boobs. Right about the time my boobs and I came to terms with each other I got a boyfriend and life was good.
I found a voice in that place. I learned to stand up for myself. When I was sent home to my mother three years later, I wasn't the same quiet little nerd I had been in the eighth grade. Suddenly I was the "scary" kid. I was combat boots and safety pins in the wrong places. I was punk rock in a sea full of cowboy boots. This terrified each and everyone of my former tormentors. Not one of them opened their mouths to me. Not one. It was remarkable. Suddenly I was to be feared. I was a thing of awe inspiring gasps. I was "That Girl" and not in a Marlo Thomas kind of way. Girls talked in hushed tones when I walked by and the boys wanted me....oh how they wanted me. Combat boots and big tits will get you noticed in a school full of Wranglers and sports bras. I was sex and parties and sin on two legs. I was on fire.
I promised you a moral to this tale, so here it comes. I spent a vast majority of my life in public school as that kid everyone thought was weird. The one that you hear about in the news. I was that kid. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I never complained. I was friends with all the other weirdos. We sat in our own corner of the lunchroom. We read. We talked about politics. We played Dungeons and Dragons. We were each others shelter from the storm. We were lucky to have even that. We hadn't done anything wrong, we were just different. No one came to our aid. No one stood up for us. No one told the "popular" kids that it wasn't okay to be such complete and total bastards. Everyone just ignored it or worsed, asked us what we were doing to provoke it.
Some of you that read this post will adopt the "kids will be kids" attitude. The "suck it up, life's not fair" approach. Some of you will read it and think that I, and kids like me, could work harder to "fit in". That being different is somehow justification for being targeted. Quite a few of you will shrug it off with the classic, "High school doesn't last forever."
Would your perception of my experience change at all if I added details? How about knowing, for example, that the entire time I was being picked on by fellow students I was being abused at home. Not just garden variety spanked and yelled at abused, but the "Mommy Dearest" coat hanger on the back kind? Let's insert the additional detail that at the age of nine I was sexually molested for a number of months by a neighbor, and that upon reporting this to my mother I was called a "lying little slut"? Up the anty a bit, how about knowing that I went to school on a number of occassions with visable bruises and administrators did nothing? Top it all off with a nice helping of suicidal tendancies brought on by severe and prolonged depression which would later be diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder.
Is your perception of the person walking quietly down the hall of that junior high, absorbing all the abuse being thrown at her by fellow classmates shifting slightly?
We brush off how much the bullying that children undergo at school can impact their lives. Not just as children, but as adults. That "weird" kid in the hallway is a person. The "whiner" or the "brat" at your child's elementary school has feelings too. Those children have lives outside of the walls of those schools. None of us is born detached from society. Children don't learn to be social, they learn to be anti-social. They learn it from us. They learn it by watching how we react to situations like the bully on the playground. If we shrug and say, "Kids will be kids," our children learn to shrug and say it too.
Monsters aren't born, they're created. As we continue to make excuses for our own bad behavior, we will continue to see it manifest itself. I was one of the lucky ones, I got out with my soul intact. Not everyone survives. Those of us that do make it out don't do so unscathed. The scars that come from long term, habitual torment at the hands of your peers last into adulthood. It effects the way you form relationships. It effects the way you treat others. Eventually, it has to come out.
Remember this the next time your tempted to pass off school bullies as no big deal: Today's children are tomorrow's adults. What lessons are they learning when you shrug it off?
4.20.2007
That's it. I give up. I've logged in about twenty times in the last three days. I apparently have nothing to say.
Okay, that's not exactly true. I have a lot I want to say, but I can't get it all straight in my head. Do you ever have days like that? You sit and you stare at a computer screen or a piece of paper and the thoughts your thinking, which just mere moments ago were logical and cohesive, are now muck?
I haven't been able to work on either one of my stories. The characters have turned rebellious, little bastards. Everytime I try to write they run off, I think it's a conspiracy.
A whole lot of nothing.
I hate that damned cursor. It just sits there blinking at you.
If it starts talking to me, I'm going to have myself committed.
Okay, that's not exactly true. I have a lot I want to say, but I can't get it all straight in my head. Do you ever have days like that? You sit and you stare at a computer screen or a piece of paper and the thoughts your thinking, which just mere moments ago were logical and cohesive, are now muck?
I haven't been able to work on either one of my stories. The characters have turned rebellious, little bastards. Everytime I try to write they run off, I think it's a conspiracy.
A whole lot of nothing.
I hate that damned cursor. It just sits there blinking at you.
If it starts talking to me, I'm going to have myself committed.
4.13.2007
And todays choices were.....
Today for breakfast we had:
Two pancakes
Strawberries...fresh
a glass of milk
and
Shredded Cheese???
What the hell?
Could someone please explain my son to me? Shredded cheese?
Two pancakes
Strawberries...fresh
a glass of milk
and
Shredded Cheese???
What the hell?
Could someone please explain my son to me? Shredded cheese?
Paging Dr. Frankenstein....Dr. Frankenstein to the White Courtesy Phone...
There has been a lot of media coverage regarding the bill in Congress supporting stem cell research and President Bush's promise to veto it. Over at BlogHer Dana from The Dana Files gave us her opinion about the subject. It's sparked quite the little debate, with your's truely chiming in a time or two herself.
One of the points that has been raised is the issue of how abortion fits in (the fetuses used for stem cell research come from abortions) and when life starts. The question being asked? Are we using the byprduct of murder to further medical research?
Suzanne replied to the post and pointed out that comparing a zygote to a child is not really an accurate comparison and that to use that comparison to make an accusation of murder would be wrong. And she's right.
Life technically begins the minute an egg is fertilized. Technically. A child however, in my mind, doesn't come into being until much later. And it is at that stage, at the fetal stage, when abortions are performed. We are not discussing the interruption of zygomatic development here, we are discussing the use to aborted fetuses for the use in medical experimentation. Those fetuses have arms, legs, heads, eyes...they look like human beings. While it remains true that they would not have been mature enough to support themselves independently of their mother's body, does not make them any less human.
Now, that being said, let me make a second point. The issue of stem cell research really isn't about abortion. A woman's right to reproductive control is her own. Abortion is legal. I may not agree with it for my own reasons, but I would never belittle of denounce another for having excercised her right to have one. I will continue to work for better education, better access to birth control and better medical care in the hopes that one day the choice to have an abortion will be obsolete...but I will never call someone that chooses to have one a murderer. I have not walked that path, and so have no right to sling those barbs.
No, the issue of stem cell research is not about reproductive freedom. That stops as soon as the abortion procedure has been completed. At that point we cross into a whole seperate moral and ethical arena. I object to the use of fetal tissue for stem cell research because of the future implications it has on our society. If we make it okay to gather aborted fetuses for medical experimentation, where do we draw the line? At what point are we unable to look the other way? There are militant groups defending the rights of animals from experimentation...can you imagine what will spring up if stem cell research is allowed on aborted fetuses?
Our society will continue to evolve and change. At some point abortion will become an outdated procedure. Birth control options and post contact methods will make it obsolete...and then what. Where will the material for this miraculous research come from then? Once we open this particulay Pandora's Box, we won't be able to close it.
Once we step into that territory, where we make one exception, it will become easier to make others. Who's lives are worth what exceptions? What illnesses are worth what risks? How far would we be willing to go in the quest for perfection and the effort to cheat death?
Death and illness are a part of life. People die. Sometimes there is no reason for it. Playing God will not change that. In fact, it could make it worse. If we start screwing around with the human genetic code, there's no telling what could happen. I have children. I wouldn't want to see them suffer for any reason, but I'm also not willing to consign them to a future of scientific and ethical uncertainty to prevent it.
One of the points that has been raised is the issue of how abortion fits in (the fetuses used for stem cell research come from abortions) and when life starts. The question being asked? Are we using the byprduct of murder to further medical research?
Suzanne replied to the post and pointed out that comparing a zygote to a child is not really an accurate comparison and that to use that comparison to make an accusation of murder would be wrong. And she's right.
Life technically begins the minute an egg is fertilized. Technically. A child however, in my mind, doesn't come into being until much later. And it is at that stage, at the fetal stage, when abortions are performed. We are not discussing the interruption of zygomatic development here, we are discussing the use to aborted fetuses for the use in medical experimentation. Those fetuses have arms, legs, heads, eyes...they look like human beings. While it remains true that they would not have been mature enough to support themselves independently of their mother's body, does not make them any less human.
Now, that being said, let me make a second point. The issue of stem cell research really isn't about abortion. A woman's right to reproductive control is her own. Abortion is legal. I may not agree with it for my own reasons, but I would never belittle of denounce another for having excercised her right to have one. I will continue to work for better education, better access to birth control and better medical care in the hopes that one day the choice to have an abortion will be obsolete...but I will never call someone that chooses to have one a murderer. I have not walked that path, and so have no right to sling those barbs.
No, the issue of stem cell research is not about reproductive freedom. That stops as soon as the abortion procedure has been completed. At that point we cross into a whole seperate moral and ethical arena. I object to the use of fetal tissue for stem cell research because of the future implications it has on our society. If we make it okay to gather aborted fetuses for medical experimentation, where do we draw the line? At what point are we unable to look the other way? There are militant groups defending the rights of animals from experimentation...can you imagine what will spring up if stem cell research is allowed on aborted fetuses?
Our society will continue to evolve and change. At some point abortion will become an outdated procedure. Birth control options and post contact methods will make it obsolete...and then what. Where will the material for this miraculous research come from then? Once we open this particulay Pandora's Box, we won't be able to close it.
Once we step into that territory, where we make one exception, it will become easier to make others. Who's lives are worth what exceptions? What illnesses are worth what risks? How far would we be willing to go in the quest for perfection and the effort to cheat death?
Death and illness are a part of life. People die. Sometimes there is no reason for it. Playing God will not change that. In fact, it could make it worse. If we start screwing around with the human genetic code, there's no telling what could happen. I have children. I wouldn't want to see them suffer for any reason, but I'm also not willing to consign them to a future of scientific and ethical uncertainty to prevent it.
4.12.2007
4.11.2007
Mind Numbing Nothingness
I sat down with every intention of wowing you with My stunning ability to think deep and meaningful thoughts. I was going to write something profound and thought provoking.
All I could think of was:
Why is it that apples in my kitchen seem to have a damned half life and bananas go bad in like three days? What the hell is up with that?
That's it people. I got nothing. The bananas win. My brain has been taken over by the banana conundrum.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
All I could think of was:
Why is it that apples in my kitchen seem to have a damned half life and bananas go bad in like three days? What the hell is up with that?
That's it people. I got nothing. The bananas win. My brain has been taken over by the banana conundrum.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
4.06.2007
A memory preserved.
Suzanne over at C.U.S.S did a wonderful post about friendship this morning. It made me nostalgic.
Do you remember when being best friends meant "forever"? Even if forever was only until the end of the summer? But it felt like it streched into eternity? Like that time would never end. When it did, it always felt like something in you had died. Childhood had a tangible feeling...
I want to go running outside onto a sunwarmed playground into a group of lauging friends. I want to swing so hard and so high the chains go slack and it feels like I'm flying. I want to play kick the can in the dark, hiding behind the bushes at the neighbors house, holding my breath, listening to my heartbeat in my ears.
I want the feel the rush of joy that came with waking up on Saturday mornings, knowing I had the whole day to eat cereal out of the box, watch cartoons and play. I want peanut butter sandwiches on the grass in June.
I want camping trips in the middle of summers so hot it feels like the sun is to close to the earth. When the lake felt like heaven and we swam all day. I want to sit wrapped in a blanket on the beach and listen to my parents talk to their friends about things I don't understand. I want to lie on the cool sand and watch the stars and smell the fire and pretend we aren't ever going to go home, because here is quiet and no one yells.
I want to hold hands with my best friend and walk down the sidewalk on a cool fall day talking about what we're going to be for Halloween. I want the smell of Elmer's Glue on construction paper and the sound of the library.
I want the quiet moment before anyone woke up on Christmas morning.
I want the smell of fresh baked bread on Sunday.
I want to wrap all the wonderful things about my childhood up into a tiny little box and hang onto them forever. Unsoiled, perfect and untouched. Because that's how childhood should be.
Do you remember when being best friends meant "forever"? Even if forever was only until the end of the summer? But it felt like it streched into eternity? Like that time would never end. When it did, it always felt like something in you had died. Childhood had a tangible feeling...
I want to go running outside onto a sunwarmed playground into a group of lauging friends. I want to swing so hard and so high the chains go slack and it feels like I'm flying. I want to play kick the can in the dark, hiding behind the bushes at the neighbors house, holding my breath, listening to my heartbeat in my ears.
I want the feel the rush of joy that came with waking up on Saturday mornings, knowing I had the whole day to eat cereal out of the box, watch cartoons and play. I want peanut butter sandwiches on the grass in June.
I want camping trips in the middle of summers so hot it feels like the sun is to close to the earth. When the lake felt like heaven and we swam all day. I want to sit wrapped in a blanket on the beach and listen to my parents talk to their friends about things I don't understand. I want to lie on the cool sand and watch the stars and smell the fire and pretend we aren't ever going to go home, because here is quiet and no one yells.
I want to hold hands with my best friend and walk down the sidewalk on a cool fall day talking about what we're going to be for Halloween. I want the smell of Elmer's Glue on construction paper and the sound of the library.
I want the quiet moment before anyone woke up on Christmas morning.
I want the smell of fresh baked bread on Sunday.
I want to wrap all the wonderful things about my childhood up into a tiny little box and hang onto them forever. Unsoiled, perfect and untouched. Because that's how childhood should be.
4.03.2007
And because it must have been a SERIOUSLY slow news day...
Apparently it was a really slow news day today. The AP reported that a Zamboni driver from New Jersey has been cleared of drunk driving charges. "Well," you might be thinking, "that's good. Drunk driving is bad." And you would be right....if the man had actually been driving a vehicle....on an actual road.
John Peragallo was charged with drunk driving in 2005 after a fellow employee at the Mennen Sports Arena "told police the machine was speeding and nearly crashed into the boards". (right now I'm trying not to laugh.) Okay, how fast can a Zamboni go. I'll wait while we all Google that.
Back? Okay...let's continue. Just in case you couldn't find it or were to lazy, let me clue you in: a Zamboni has a top speed of NINE MILES AN HOUR. NINE!!! I can run faster than that. So good ole' John was racin' around the ice at a whoppin' nine miles an hour after poundin' em back. (Apparently John likes a little Sambuca and Valium with his morning coffee.) Can't you just picture how that bust went?
"Excuse me sir? Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
"Umm, yeah? Do you?"
"Well we clocked you at," Cop pauses to look at his radar,"almost ten miles an hour. I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the Zamboni sir."
John looks confused, "Your fucking kidding, right."
"Sir, we don't joke about things like this. Your fellow employees are concerned for their safety."
"My fellow employees are idiots."
"Sir if you fail to cooperate I'm going to have to place you under arrest."
At this point, do you think John jumped back on the Zamboni and tried to make a break for it? I'd love to see THAT on cops.
A judge ruled today that there was no crime because a Zamboni isn't actually a vehicle. The prosecutor's office is considering appealing the ruling. God, I hope their kidding. If I were the judge I would laugh so hard I would pee myself.
John Peragallo was charged with drunk driving in 2005 after a fellow employee at the Mennen Sports Arena "told police the machine was speeding and nearly crashed into the boards". (right now I'm trying not to laugh.) Okay, how fast can a Zamboni go. I'll wait while we all Google that.
Back? Okay...let's continue. Just in case you couldn't find it or were to lazy, let me clue you in: a Zamboni has a top speed of NINE MILES AN HOUR. NINE!!! I can run faster than that. So good ole' John was racin' around the ice at a whoppin' nine miles an hour after poundin' em back. (Apparently John likes a little Sambuca and Valium with his morning coffee.) Can't you just picture how that bust went?
"Excuse me sir? Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
"Umm, yeah? Do you?"
"Well we clocked you at," Cop pauses to look at his radar,"almost ten miles an hour. I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the Zamboni sir."
John looks confused, "Your fucking kidding, right."
"Sir, we don't joke about things like this. Your fellow employees are concerned for their safety."
"My fellow employees are idiots."
"Sir if you fail to cooperate I'm going to have to place you under arrest."
At this point, do you think John jumped back on the Zamboni and tried to make a break for it? I'd love to see THAT on cops.
A judge ruled today that there was no crime because a Zamboni isn't actually a vehicle. The prosecutor's office is considering appealing the ruling. God, I hope their kidding. If I were the judge I would laugh so hard I would pee myself.
I want to write a book that Oprah will Hate!
A good friend suggested that I should write a self help book. I laughed at her. Then I started thinking about it. Maybe I shouldn't write a "self-help" book, maybe I should write a "self" book. Think about that for a moment. I did.
I started writing.
It's called:
"Actually, You're Mother IS to Blame."
I'll keep you posted.
I started writing.
It's called:
"Actually, You're Mother IS to Blame."
I'll keep you posted.
4.02.2007
Taffeta Hell
I have entered Taffeta Hell.
The Armory is dark and covered in tissue paper and balloons. There is a crappy band banging out a shitty rendition of the current popular redneck favorite in the background and everywhere I look there are taffeta covered Barbie wannabes. It makes me want to throw up. I am not amused. My date chokes back a laugh, looks at me and says, "Remember, you ASKED me to bring you here." I punch him.
We make our way through the neverending sea of pink and blue to a table where people I know are sitting. These are girls I know from class. Girls I usually have little to no problem with. Tonight they all look the same. They all look like little clones of each other. They're all wearing the same stupid grin and they are all giggling for some unknown reason. I'm at a loss for words. I simply sit down and stare at them. One of them says something and I have to ask her to repeat herself.
"Aren't you going to dance?"
My mouth drops open, "You're kidding, right?"
She actually looks stunned,"No, this band is great. We were surprised they got them to play tonight. We thought they would be booked."
My mind screeches to a halt and tries to grapple with this piece of information. Booked? For what? An In-breeders convention? I shake my head, "No, I think I'll just...No, I'm not going to be dancing."
My date is laughing at this point. I punch him again.
One of the other girls leans over and comments on my dress,"Why did you go with black? I mean, didn't they have anything less...dark?" She actually sounds like there's air leaking out of her head as she's talking. Her boyfriend spits into his soda can at that exact moment, completing the picture.
"I liked the dress. Pink isn't really my thing. To girlie for me."
She looks confused for a second and then her attention is drawn to something shiny off in the distance, "OHH...we have to go and get in line, they're going to do the processional."
"The what?" I ask.
At this point one of my classmates explains that every year, all the prom goers line up and prance down an aisle while being lit up by a spotlight so that friends and family can take pictures. Ooooookayyyyy......I'm out of here.
My date is now laughing out loud. I punch him one last time for good measure. He cringes this time.
I lasted fifteen whole minutes at my prom. Considering the amount of pink taffeta in the room, I think it's a miracle.
The Armory is dark and covered in tissue paper and balloons. There is a crappy band banging out a shitty rendition of the current popular redneck favorite in the background and everywhere I look there are taffeta covered Barbie wannabes. It makes me want to throw up. I am not amused. My date chokes back a laugh, looks at me and says, "Remember, you ASKED me to bring you here." I punch him.
We make our way through the neverending sea of pink and blue to a table where people I know are sitting. These are girls I know from class. Girls I usually have little to no problem with. Tonight they all look the same. They all look like little clones of each other. They're all wearing the same stupid grin and they are all giggling for some unknown reason. I'm at a loss for words. I simply sit down and stare at them. One of them says something and I have to ask her to repeat herself.
"Aren't you going to dance?"
My mouth drops open, "You're kidding, right?"
She actually looks stunned,"No, this band is great. We were surprised they got them to play tonight. We thought they would be booked."
My mind screeches to a halt and tries to grapple with this piece of information. Booked? For what? An In-breeders convention? I shake my head, "No, I think I'll just...No, I'm not going to be dancing."
My date is laughing at this point. I punch him again.
One of the other girls leans over and comments on my dress,"Why did you go with black? I mean, didn't they have anything less...dark?" She actually sounds like there's air leaking out of her head as she's talking. Her boyfriend spits into his soda can at that exact moment, completing the picture.
"I liked the dress. Pink isn't really my thing. To girlie for me."
She looks confused for a second and then her attention is drawn to something shiny off in the distance, "OHH...we have to go and get in line, they're going to do the processional."
"The what?" I ask.
At this point one of my classmates explains that every year, all the prom goers line up and prance down an aisle while being lit up by a spotlight so that friends and family can take pictures. Ooooookayyyyy......I'm out of here.
My date is now laughing out loud. I punch him one last time for good measure. He cringes this time.
I lasted fifteen whole minutes at my prom. Considering the amount of pink taffeta in the room, I think it's a miracle.
3.31.2007
A Prom.....Delayed
Many of you may have come here over the last couple of days looking for my Blog Prom posts. I'm sorry they weren't here. A couple of days ago I tripped over the Damned Dog and my knee is now the size of a small tropical fruit. ( I haven't decided which fruit) As soon as I have seen the doctor and can again bend my knee for longer than three minutes without pain, I will post my Blog Prom posts.
I apologize for making you wait....I promise hilarity will ensue sometime next week.
I apologize for making you wait....I promise hilarity will ensue sometime next week.
3.30.2007
Ahhh....the 80's....
I've been invited to the Prom.
No, you little perverts, I'm not taking some hormone amped little teenager to their prom. I'm talking about Mamma's Firts Ever Blog Prom (TM) In this part I get to regale you with the details of my pre-prom preparations.
Unfortunatley, my posts will be picture free as I lost all pictures of myself at that time when I made the move from North Dakota to Utah four years ago. I will tell you this much though. I was NOT the day-glo neon preppie girl. I WAS the safety pin through her nose, torn fish nets, bad attitude kind of girl. I was the girl that made fun of the cheerleaders, smoked pot in the back of the school, got suspended for skipping class and gave blow-jobs to my boyfriends on the first date. (Yes, I really did just admit to that.)
I went to a total of three dances in my entire high school expereince. Homecoming my Sophomore year, Prom my Junior year and Prom my Senior year. Homecoming was a good time, Junior Prom was basically something to do on a Fiday night in a town of five hundred people and well....Senior Prom, welll.....
I went to my senior prom on a dare. I was dating a guy three years younger than me and the school I was attending wouldn't allow me to bring him as a date, so his best friend said he'd take me. His best friend....the navy guy. Yeah, picture this. Me all in black, black lipstick, hair covering most of my face...him in his dress whites. It was quite the picture. He picked me up in his father's Bronco...yes, I said Bronco.
Okay, let's back this up for a minute. As part of my "pre-prom" get it togetherness, let's get some background info on Serena, shall we? From Freshman year to Junior year I went to high school in New Orleans. I hung out with what would be called the "goth" crowd today. We were the debate team kids, the drama kids, the combat boots and pot smoking kids. We all went to the preforming arts school, we all thought we were cooler than we actually were. You know us, you saw us hanging out at the edges of the football field, or sitting on the side steps of the gym...the outcasts, the weirdos, the freaks. I went to a whole school full of those kids. I felt at home. Then in the middle of my junior year, they sent me back to my mother in Wyoming of all places. I was a freak in a school full of FFA clones, it was hell. In 1988, at the beginning of my senior year, I moved in with a cousin in North Dakota, just to get away from my mother...and that's how I ended up at Williston Senior High and how I met my future ex-husband, the boyfriend with the Navy buddy...my prom date.
So.....all my friends dare me to go to this dance. Tell me I wouldn't ever think about going. So I get Cory to agree to take me. I spring for half the ticket cost (this wasn't a real date) and we're off and running. Now, anyone remember the hair from the 80's? OH MY GOD!!! What in the hell were we thinking? It was like having a fucking garden weasel attached to your forehead. I had the infamous "wall of bangs". I'm sure many of you reading this either had them, or had sisters that had them. You know, the wall of hair on the front of the head that was imprevious to wind, rain or nuclear explosion? I owned a curling iron with a sort of orange coating on it from all the Aussie Spray Gel that had been caked onto it. I'm not even sure how I managed to make it into my twenties with hair left.
I got all dressed, black dress, black pantyhose (line up the back), red five inch heels, black nails, black lipstick, black hair ( hanging in my face, parted so that only one eye showed)and the best part? You guessed it...black rose corsage! I looked like Morticia Adamms' cousin.
Cory picks me up and we get our picture taken. A lovely Polaroid that comes out looking like some fucked up Mix-n-Match picture out a children's book Tim Burton wrote. It was bizarre. By the time we got into the truck we were both laughing so hard I thought I was going to pee myself. We stop off at a friends to smoke a little before we actually go to the dance itself, because honestly, I couldn't face a room full of dancing taffeta Princesses without some chemical help. We get to the Armory and .....
No, you little perverts, I'm not taking some hormone amped little teenager to their prom. I'm talking about Mamma's Firts Ever Blog Prom (TM) In this part I get to regale you with the details of my pre-prom preparations.
Unfortunatley, my posts will be picture free as I lost all pictures of myself at that time when I made the move from North Dakota to Utah four years ago. I will tell you this much though. I was NOT the day-glo neon preppie girl. I WAS the safety pin through her nose, torn fish nets, bad attitude kind of girl. I was the girl that made fun of the cheerleaders, smoked pot in the back of the school, got suspended for skipping class and gave blow-jobs to my boyfriends on the first date. (Yes, I really did just admit to that.)
I went to a total of three dances in my entire high school expereince. Homecoming my Sophomore year, Prom my Junior year and Prom my Senior year. Homecoming was a good time, Junior Prom was basically something to do on a Fiday night in a town of five hundred people and well....Senior Prom, welll.....
I went to my senior prom on a dare. I was dating a guy three years younger than me and the school I was attending wouldn't allow me to bring him as a date, so his best friend said he'd take me. His best friend....the navy guy. Yeah, picture this. Me all in black, black lipstick, hair covering most of my face...him in his dress whites. It was quite the picture. He picked me up in his father's Bronco...yes, I said Bronco.
Okay, let's back this up for a minute. As part of my "pre-prom" get it togetherness, let's get some background info on Serena, shall we? From Freshman year to Junior year I went to high school in New Orleans. I hung out with what would be called the "goth" crowd today. We were the debate team kids, the drama kids, the combat boots and pot smoking kids. We all went to the preforming arts school, we all thought we were cooler than we actually were. You know us, you saw us hanging out at the edges of the football field, or sitting on the side steps of the gym...the outcasts, the weirdos, the freaks. I went to a whole school full of those kids. I felt at home. Then in the middle of my junior year, they sent me back to my mother in Wyoming of all places. I was a freak in a school full of FFA clones, it was hell. In 1988, at the beginning of my senior year, I moved in with a cousin in North Dakota, just to get away from my mother...and that's how I ended up at Williston Senior High and how I met my future ex-husband, the boyfriend with the Navy buddy...my prom date.
So.....all my friends dare me to go to this dance. Tell me I wouldn't ever think about going. So I get Cory to agree to take me. I spring for half the ticket cost (this wasn't a real date) and we're off and running. Now, anyone remember the hair from the 80's? OH MY GOD!!! What in the hell were we thinking? It was like having a fucking garden weasel attached to your forehead. I had the infamous "wall of bangs". I'm sure many of you reading this either had them, or had sisters that had them. You know, the wall of hair on the front of the head that was imprevious to wind, rain or nuclear explosion? I owned a curling iron with a sort of orange coating on it from all the Aussie Spray Gel that had been caked onto it. I'm not even sure how I managed to make it into my twenties with hair left.
I got all dressed, black dress, black pantyhose (line up the back), red five inch heels, black nails, black lipstick, black hair ( hanging in my face, parted so that only one eye showed)and the best part? You guessed it...black rose corsage! I looked like Morticia Adamms' cousin.
Cory picks me up and we get our picture taken. A lovely Polaroid that comes out looking like some fucked up Mix-n-Match picture out a children's book Tim Burton wrote. It was bizarre. By the time we got into the truck we were both laughing so hard I thought I was going to pee myself. We stop off at a friends to smoke a little before we actually go to the dance itself, because honestly, I couldn't face a room full of dancing taffeta Princesses without some chemical help. We get to the Armory and .....
3.29.2007
A Challenge...
Okay, so after I posted my "Real Mom" thing, I came across a post at mr. nice guy about a recent study on child care and it's effects on children. No big news that the media got it wrong, but that fact wasn't discovered before it ticked off a WHOLE bunch of stay at home fathers. And they had every right to be pissed. Dad's are just as important to a child's development as mom's are.
And so....the challenge. To all you dad's who surf past or who are regular readers here. Either in the comments here, or on your own site, with a link in my comments section of course, give us a run down:
What makes a "real dad"?
Let's hear from the other side of the parenting fence.
And so....the challenge. To all you dad's who surf past or who are regular readers here. Either in the comments here, or on your own site, with a link in my comments section of course, give us a run down:
What makes a "real dad"?
Let's hear from the other side of the parenting fence.
Real Moms....
I was reading a new blog today and found a post about what it means to be a "Real Mom" , go check it out. It got me thinking, what is a "real mom"?
A real mom isn't afraid of that green thing hanging off her child's finger, even if she isn't sure what it is.
A real mom will eat the soggy, half eaten grahm cracker when it's offered to her, because it makes her child smile.
A real mom will cheerfully agree that, yes, blue eyeshadow does make the dog look better.
A real mom will bake three dozen cookies at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night because her daughter forgot to tell her there's a bake sale Friday morning.
A real mom will wear a bra that pokes her for six months because it means her child gets to have that toy/pair of jeans/game that they just have to have.
A real mome will smile through her tears as she watches her baby turn into a grown-up, right in front of her eyes.
A real mom will always accept you....no matter what mistakes you make.
A real mom will make the really hard decisions, so you don't have to.
A real mom will always make sure that the lights come on, the house is warm, the refrigerator is full and you never think about why that is.
A real mom is all the things you need her to be, when you need her to be them....and she never asks you to say thank you.
A real mom isn't afraid of that green thing hanging off her child's finger, even if she isn't sure what it is.
A real mom will eat the soggy, half eaten grahm cracker when it's offered to her, because it makes her child smile.
A real mom will cheerfully agree that, yes, blue eyeshadow does make the dog look better.
A real mom will bake three dozen cookies at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night because her daughter forgot to tell her there's a bake sale Friday morning.
A real mom will wear a bra that pokes her for six months because it means her child gets to have that toy/pair of jeans/game that they just have to have.
A real mome will smile through her tears as she watches her baby turn into a grown-up, right in front of her eyes.
A real mom will always accept you....no matter what mistakes you make.
A real mom will make the really hard decisions, so you don't have to.
A real mom will always make sure that the lights come on, the house is warm, the refrigerator is full and you never think about why that is.
A real mom is all the things you need her to be, when you need her to be them....and she never asks you to say thank you.
Kids will be kids...If we let them.
I have been reading quite a few "parenting" blogs recently. You know, blogs written by parents that want to share what they feel are their unique insights or ideas, their thoughts, on this lovely adventure we call parenting.
Most of the time I find information, I find funny stories or I find things I can relate to. Sometimes, however, I find things that make me shake my head and snort in that unladylike fashion that my husband loves so much. One such post showed up today at Motherhood Uncensored. The author of this particular blog is funny and smart and I love to read her stuff, but this post points out, very eloquently, one of the things I think is wrong with parents today. They worry to much. About every little freaking thing.
I want all of you who are reading this to think back to when you were children. Are you there? Okay...now....who had parents that stuck you in every friggin activity you can imagine? Music lessons? Scouting? Dance? Sports? And how many of you secretly yearned to be at home, hanging out with your friends, doing nothing much at all? Again, show of hands, how many of you, as adults tend to be perfectionists or overacheivers? Uh-huh.....okay then...moving on.
My mother ( and I think we all know how I feel about her) never stuck me in a bunch of activities. Oh, that's not to say she didn't try. There was the failed attempt at Bluebirds and the Misery of Girl Scouts. Oh, and let's not forget The Horror of Religious Summer Camp 1982. Ah...and last, but certainly not least, my favorite, Torture by Volleyball. That was the last one. After that she figured out that she was wasting money, I wasn't going to actually participate and she wasn't getting refunds...the insanity stopped, thank god.
Here's my point folks. I was much happier when The Mother just let me run out the front door and spend my days happily roaming the neighborhood with my friends. I wanted to be out in the fresh air, in the sunshine. I wanted to stick my hands in the dirt and see what was there. I wanted to climb trees and hide and ride my bike until my legs hurt. I hated the "joiner" activites she wanted so badly to force me into.
Parents today seem to feel that if they don't sign their children up for every conceivable activity from birth that they are somehow neglecting them or harming them. They have classes for everything now...and starting at an age when the child really isn't getting anything out of it, but the parents feel better about themselves and whoever is putting on the class if making a ton of money off the guilt factor.
Children don't get to be children anymore. They don't even have Saturday morning cartoons anymore. That makes me sad. Everything has to be "educational" now. Why? Whatever happened to just letting kids be kids? Isn't there enough time to be a grown-up when you actually have to? Let your children just be children. Buy them some Playdough. Fingerpaint with them. Sing stupid songs at the top of your voices in the supermarket because it makes your child laugh. Watch dumbass cartoons and spin until your dizzy in the middle of the living room. Send your children out to play in the afternoon sun. Let them BE.
Is there a place for piano lessons and scouting? Sure...but quit obsessing about it. It should be something your child comes home from school and asks you to do, not something you tell them they have to do. My daughter takes art lessons...because she wants to. She doesn't take dance lessons, because she hated them...we tried it though.
Letting your children be children isn't going to land them on Dr. Phil when they're twenty telling the whole world that if you had only put them in voice lessons they would have gotten into Harvard and wouldn't be working at McDonald's now. Ease up. Let it go. You can not control everything, but you can make sure your children get to actually be children. Let them hang on to that joy for as long as they can, huh?
Most of the time I find information, I find funny stories or I find things I can relate to. Sometimes, however, I find things that make me shake my head and snort in that unladylike fashion that my husband loves so much. One such post showed up today at Motherhood Uncensored. The author of this particular blog is funny and smart and I love to read her stuff, but this post points out, very eloquently, one of the things I think is wrong with parents today. They worry to much. About every little freaking thing.
I want all of you who are reading this to think back to when you were children. Are you there? Okay...now....who had parents that stuck you in every friggin activity you can imagine? Music lessons? Scouting? Dance? Sports? And how many of you secretly yearned to be at home, hanging out with your friends, doing nothing much at all? Again, show of hands, how many of you, as adults tend to be perfectionists or overacheivers? Uh-huh.....okay then...moving on.
My mother ( and I think we all know how I feel about her) never stuck me in a bunch of activities. Oh, that's not to say she didn't try. There was the failed attempt at Bluebirds and the Misery of Girl Scouts. Oh, and let's not forget The Horror of Religious Summer Camp 1982. Ah...and last, but certainly not least, my favorite, Torture by Volleyball. That was the last one. After that she figured out that she was wasting money, I wasn't going to actually participate and she wasn't getting refunds...the insanity stopped, thank god.
Here's my point folks. I was much happier when The Mother just let me run out the front door and spend my days happily roaming the neighborhood with my friends. I wanted to be out in the fresh air, in the sunshine. I wanted to stick my hands in the dirt and see what was there. I wanted to climb trees and hide and ride my bike until my legs hurt. I hated the "joiner" activites she wanted so badly to force me into.
Parents today seem to feel that if they don't sign their children up for every conceivable activity from birth that they are somehow neglecting them or harming them. They have classes for everything now...and starting at an age when the child really isn't getting anything out of it, but the parents feel better about themselves and whoever is putting on the class if making a ton of money off the guilt factor.
Children don't get to be children anymore. They don't even have Saturday morning cartoons anymore. That makes me sad. Everything has to be "educational" now. Why? Whatever happened to just letting kids be kids? Isn't there enough time to be a grown-up when you actually have to? Let your children just be children. Buy them some Playdough. Fingerpaint with them. Sing stupid songs at the top of your voices in the supermarket because it makes your child laugh. Watch dumbass cartoons and spin until your dizzy in the middle of the living room. Send your children out to play in the afternoon sun. Let them BE.
Is there a place for piano lessons and scouting? Sure...but quit obsessing about it. It should be something your child comes home from school and asks you to do, not something you tell them they have to do. My daughter takes art lessons...because she wants to. She doesn't take dance lessons, because she hated them...we tried it though.
Letting your children be children isn't going to land them on Dr. Phil when they're twenty telling the whole world that if you had only put them in voice lessons they would have gotten into Harvard and wouldn't be working at McDonald's now. Ease up. Let it go. You can not control everything, but you can make sure your children get to actually be children. Let them hang on to that joy for as long as they can, huh?
3.26.2007
3.21.2007
And Baby make Three.....
As many of you may have noticed, I haven't been around for the past week. That's because on Tuesday, March 13th, 2007 I gave birth to a 7lb 3oz baby boy. We named him Galen Michael Sorensen. He was beautiful and perfect and two weeks early.
Just like his sister before him, we placed him for adoption...with the same family that adopted his sister. They named him Archibald James. He is still perfect and beautiful, but he is gone today. They got the official okay from the state of Utah to go home this morning and I'm feeling a little numb.
I know that it was the best decision for my son. I know that he will be loved and cherished. I know that I will see him and that he will know I made this decision out of love for him. But on the inside I ache a little. This is the third child I have had to say good-bye to in my life time and part of me wants to be selfish and ask why. Part of me wants to cry and scream and be angry.
And then there's the part of me that rejoices knowing that all three of those children are living the lives they were meant to live. All three of those precious gifts are being cherished and snuggled and loved. They will always have the warmth and safety of a family and they will always be part of something beautiful. People say they don't understand how I could give my children away. I don't look at it like that. I didn't give my children away. The adoption didn't make them any less my children, it just made them my children in a different way. I did the one thing I could for them as their mother, I made a good choice for them. Being a good parent isn't always about the easy choice.
To all my children: You mommy loves you.
Just like his sister before him, we placed him for adoption...with the same family that adopted his sister. They named him Archibald James. He is still perfect and beautiful, but he is gone today. They got the official okay from the state of Utah to go home this morning and I'm feeling a little numb.
I know that it was the best decision for my son. I know that he will be loved and cherished. I know that I will see him and that he will know I made this decision out of love for him. But on the inside I ache a little. This is the third child I have had to say good-bye to in my life time and part of me wants to be selfish and ask why. Part of me wants to cry and scream and be angry.
And then there's the part of me that rejoices knowing that all three of those children are living the lives they were meant to live. All three of those precious gifts are being cherished and snuggled and loved. They will always have the warmth and safety of a family and they will always be part of something beautiful. People say they don't understand how I could give my children away. I don't look at it like that. I didn't give my children away. The adoption didn't make them any less my children, it just made them my children in a different way. I did the one thing I could for them as their mother, I made a good choice for them. Being a good parent isn't always about the easy choice.
To all my children: You mommy loves you.
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