tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75234896495203952402024-03-12T20:18:22.349-07:00My Children Think I'm PerfectThe far too honest ramblings of an unwillingly divorced, recently re-married, stay-at-work mother of two + two ridiculously hilarious children, who, much to the incredible dislike of those who tolerate her, will not stop publicly divulging every silly thought that enters her head.jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-35837998967732472662015-03-10T20:57:00.002-07:002015-03-10T22:00:33.292-07:00The Things That Matter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The past year and a half has been rough for my family. For lots of families, I am sure, but also for mine. That's the less than fun thing about the internet, if you write something about yourself, you have to specify that you are only speaking to your own story. You have to let the world know that your experiences do not reflect on them. On the internet anecdotes become opinions and opinions become facts. All are fighting words, in this place where differences are meant to be debated and acceptance of those unlike ourselves are only celebrated in inspirational memes. For example:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u0wePg9-j6o/VP-ekWDG-3I/AAAAAAAAAfg/ScpWHKzn2ok/s1600/01933b53543d73a51754da55fe17da50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u0wePg9-j6o/VP-ekWDG-3I/AAAAAAAAAfg/ScpWHKzn2ok/s1600/01933b53543d73a51754da55fe17da50.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unless you are different from me. Then I'll yell at you.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The past year and a half has left me holding on with both hands. Put down the phone. Log off. Pay attention and HOLD ON TIGHT.<br />
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The past year and a half made me realize, when something REALLY matters, nothing else will.<br />
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It's easy to become enveloped in the things that don't matter here. Here in this quiet glow, where all keyboards are created equal. Here where our lives are laid out in black and white narratives, our filtered pictures calmly tell our stories. We stand up for injustice with strongly worded keystrokes, and practice superhero diligence over crimes of semantics. We pass our days, sustaining our egos with like counts and validating our worth by refreshing our character. <br />
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Like Oscar speeches and open letters, none of it really matters. And so, when our eyes eventually grow heavy, because no amount of caffeine and blue glow can keep us up forever, we X out and log off. We sign out, plug our lives into the charger and we move on to tomorrow's theme. If it weren't for #TBTs and Timehops we'd almost forget what we thought we cared about.<br />
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So much of what we do here just really doesn't matter. It's filler. It's busiwork, sent home as proof that we are DOING. Proof that we are LIVING. Proof that we are Keeping Up With Someone. I'm not downplaying the importance of a good laugh. Laughter is the best. And I'm not ridiculing the importance of social relationships. Loving and sharing, both giving and receiving each, is the very stuff that makes life beautiful. These things can matter very much. I am a strong believer in finding truth in the world of make believe. It's just that when something else REALLY matters, nothing else will.<br />
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So, over the past year and a half, I've needed both hands. Because of my children. Our children are what make us strong, make us roar, makes us love and make us believe. Our children are who we hope for. Our children lead us to the knowledge of what matters, that decisive line between courage and serenity, the wisdom to know the difference. My children, quite simply, are my Why. In a world where we each have so much access to that which doesn't matter, the children lead us to that which does.<br />
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Once in a while, something here, in the virtual world where we crop thoughts like photos, really matters. Two years ago I became part of that. Donna. Donna matters. Because every three minutes a child is diagnosed with cancer. Every three minutes parents get news that force them to hold on with both hands and navigate a world that is unjust and cannot nor will not be forgotten. There is no Xing out. It forever matters. Donna forever matters. It can't stop mattering, because cancer doesn't stop. IT DOES NOT STOP. So even this once upon a time blogger, squints at captchas, resets her Blogger password and sits down in hope that someone is reminded.<br />
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<b>Reminded that we still need you, YOU MATTER. <a href="https://www.stbaldricks.org/events/DGT" target="_blank">DONATE HERE.</a></b><br />
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<b>Reminded of why this is important, CHILDREN MATTER. <a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/" target="_blank">ST BALDRICKS</a></b><br />
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<b>Reminded of Donna. DONNA MATTERS. <a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/mary-tyler-mom/donnas-cancer-story-2/" target="_blank">DONNA'S STORY</a></b><br />
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If you've never read Donna's story, please, do it now. Take time for the things that matter. Be thankful to have them and grateful to know them. May the children guide us on the delicate journey of holding on tight and gracefully letting go. <br />
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To the things that matter.<br />
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<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-63538626725504161512014-02-25T13:55:00.000-08:002014-02-25T14:08:41.035-08:00Don't Turn Away, It's Donna's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Something happened to our family one year ago.<br />
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An idea, one spark of life, an acorn seed, was planted inside our hearts. <br />
One day. One moment. One decision that will touch us forever.<br />
One chance to make a difference.<br />
One opportunity to be a part of something greater than us all.<br />
One day, decorated in memories BUT beaming with HOPE, that ONE DAY children will not die from cancer.<br />
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Surely by now you know her story. If not, visit her mama <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Tyler-Mom/159776680754263" target="_blank">Mary Tyler Mom</a>. Donna's Cancer Story has reached into the hearts and souls of many, giving a face and name to our hero. I first met MTM a year ago when we shaved our heads for <a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/" target="_blank">St. Baldricks</a> in honor of <a href="http://www.donnasgoodthings.org/" target="_blank">Donna's Good Things.</a><br />
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I've written quite a bit (for someone who never blogs) about the effect Donna and her story have had on my family: as parents, as shavees, as friends and as advocates for children's issues. She touched my heart. She is family, even though I never knew her physically. She is our Donna and she is our inspiration.<br />
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We love her as if she were our own because she could so easily BE our own. At least her story could be.<br />
The reality is that every 3 minutes a child is diagnosed with cancer.<br />
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And that is scary.<br />
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But not hopeless. <a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/mypage/6969/2014" target="_blank">Give hope.</a><br />
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This year I am not shaving my head. Neither is my daughter, son and husband. And I feel tremendously guilty for that! How can I not be fundraising? How can I know what I know and not ACT? How can any of us TURN AWAY? I even hid from the internet for a while. I have a fear of uselessness.<br />
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But every 3 minutes chimes in my head.<br />
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We all have a voice and we all have the ability to become acorns for Donna. We can all plant seeds. Some of us will shave and some of us will give, some of us will paint and some of us will share. Most of us will weep and many of us will rejoice. Hopefully, more of us will empathize than will relate. But we can all do SOMETHING.<br />
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For Donna, because it's HER day. If you are able, PLEASE donate and help other children in Donna's name. DGT has already raised almost $200,000 for cancer research.<a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/mypage/6969/2014" target="_blank"> DONATE HERE!</a><br />
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<i><br />(I'm not a real blogger. I'm not even sure anybody will see this. Really, <b>THIS</b> below is what I want to say. And I guess I believe that words somehow find their destination, if you say them out loud)</i><br />
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<i>Dear Donna,</i><br />
<i><br />I never actually met you, I didn't get the chance. Can you believe all this? You're a world famous dancer. We all know your name and your ridiculously adorable smile. And your strength. You are a WOW. Just like your mom. The love she has for you inspires us all. She will NEVER let you disappear or your life be unimportant. She is funny and rambunctious, serious and brilliantly smart, silly and beautiful. She commands an audience and then presents the best of you. Her love for you radiates in everything. </i><br />
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<i>I get that. My first born, my daughter, has my whole heart. She is my very best friend and I am SO proud of every thing she does. She shaved her head last year to raise money for Donna's Good Things and let me tell you, middle school kids are ROUGH. But she didn't even flinch. First born daughters are tough stuff. I think it's a rule! Here's her picture: </i><br />
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<i><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7_FrVHWERqI/Uw0F6TEF08I/AAAAAAAAAeU/kReoNzz6EmU/s1600/575651_10200618611899965_1964016134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7_FrVHWERqI/Uw0F6TEF08I/AAAAAAAAAeU/kReoNzz6EmU/s1600/575651_10200618611899965_1964016134_n.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></i></div>
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<i>That's her with her little bro. He shaved his head too, but it wasn't a big deal because he's a boy and boys shave their heads all the time and nobody says anything. And that's not fair, but that's a whole other story!<br />Anyway, she got a LOT of questions about being bald and do you know what she did? She told a LOT of people about YOU. She also told them about children and cancer and how little money goes toward research and how many children are diagnosed. And she told them about Donna from Chicago.<br /><b>Donna, you made her feel strong when she could have been scared.<br />Do you know how powerful that is?</b></i><br />
<i>It really is. POWERFUL. You have touched our lives in ways that words could never do justice. And I want you to know that I love you for that. I love you. I think of you when I look into our woods and the wind blows against the oak trees. Thank you for what you have given this world. And continue to give. I will never turn away from you. Or hope.<br /><br />Pinky swear :)<br />Miss Jeanna</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/mypage/6969/2014" target="_blank">Give to St. Baldricks, Do Not Turn Away</a></span>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-62190320026409266312013-12-31T13:08:00.001-08:002013-12-31T13:20:31.406-08:00Why I Hope You Fail At Your Resolutions (But Not All Of Them, I'm Not An Asshole)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">2014 is upon us. A New Year, holding new hopes and goals, and the
promise of possibilities for old dreams. Yesterday, I posted a status on Facebook
listing all the day to day resolutions I make and then break. I have always
felt to be in a constant state of self improvement. My point was, I always
have goals that I am working on, no matter the time of year. It made me chuckle
to see how many I had not met. It was impossible to think of starting
fresh on January 1<sup>st</sup>, when I have so many resolutions that I have
abandoned, forgotten or lost the will to achieve. <i>I accomplished a million things
I had not even planned to attempt and failed the dozens of things I had. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i><i>And so goes life. Uncontrolled. The New Year resolutions of “The Unplanned Life”. </i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">My friends rallied behind me. Some laughed and some encouraged me to focus on
the all the positive things I had done this year, as to not beat myself up.
<i>Focus on the positive and positive things will come to you</i>, they assured me.<br />
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Except, I am positive. Positive I failed at these things! And I’m OK with that.
<i>In fact, I’m glad</i>. </span></span>And I still had an absolutely incredible year.<br />
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I am positive and I am negative. I am generally happy and I am sometimes sad.
Sometimes, I succeed, sometimes I fail and that is what makes me <i>human</i>. It’s OK
to not achieve everything you set out to do and it’s perfectly fine to be in a
constant state of self-improvement. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s awesome. If
life is an adventure, then a wrong choice, here and there, is necessary. Screw
ups keep us on our toes, keep us motivated, give us confidence and teach us
gratitude.</span></span></div>
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I am OK with screwing up. I am OK with being imperfect. Aw hell, I ENJOY IT!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>Happiness is not the absence of sadness.</b></span></b></span><br />
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</b></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>And success is not the absence of failure.</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Happiness thrives on truth, acceptance and gratitude. <i>It is possibility and it
can be present even in the face of despair.</i> I am usually a happy person, often
a sad person and generally, optimistic to a fault. I remember lying in my own
blood, razor in hand, on the bathroom floor and still knowing that if I “ended
it all” I would be missing out. In fact, I remember being mad at my optimistic
mind for reminding me, despite my hatred and pain, there would be a silver
lining. I’m lucky to be an optimist, genetically given the nature of a child,
reluctant to go to bed and miss out on the fun that must occur when only the
grown-ups are awake. Optimism is happiness wrapped in possibilities BUT it
realistically acknowledges the presence of negativity. <i>It tells us to keep on
keeping on and whispers promises in our ears when the negative noises weaken
our resolve.</i></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Another friend suggested that maybe I needed a shorter list. Truth
be told, if given more time, I could added dozens of active personal pursuits
to my list. We should be constantly striving to better ourselves; physically,
mentally, socially and intellectually. <i>Attainability should not determine what
we strive for.</i> Because growth does not end and the presence of failure should
not detract from success.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hurdles are for jumping and jumping makes you strong. True success requires
practice and true self-improvement requires failure. Acknowledge those
failures! Relish in them. Let them make you laugh. Screwing up can be hysterical. I am
fully aware of the mistakes and unaccomplished goals that led me to here. I do
have regrets. I regret the decisions I have made that hurt other people. But I
also look to my errors with complete <i>gratitude</i> for molding me into the person I
am and lighting my path. <i>Being imperfect is the most universal thing you can be
and therefore, the last thing anyone should be ashamed of.</i> <br /> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">If I could suggest anything for anyone in 2014, it would be to <i>EMBRACE YOUR
TRUTH</i>. Become ridiculously comfortable with your imperfections, fall
shamelessly in love with your story and stay incredibly excited by your
potential. Other than that, don’t change a damn thing.<br />
<br />
Much love and Happy New Year ~~ <i>Jeanna</i><br />
</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-81374588984908051992013-11-11T12:24:00.002-08:002013-11-11T12:30:19.142-08:00The Happiest MomentRight now I am the happiest I could be.<br />
<br />
Granted, I would be happier if I had paid time off left and my son were not sick; but these are the hurdles that brought me to this place of happiness, so I embrace them. They are tiny hurdles and from darkness comes light and all that yin and yang jazz. Any which way, I couldn't be more content.<br />
<br />
Plus, he's not THAT sick. <br />
<br />
Sniffles and a cough. The cough is just nagging enough that he was up all night. It was just enough that I knew I had better not send him to school. So, after a brief jaunt to work, to open and ready the office I came back home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NQJTAGwo1dE/UoE7pPDptII/AAAAAAAAAdE/K7_vFO-w9uE/s1600/1459835_10202091991693539_1162458915_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NQJTAGwo1dE/UoE7pPDptII/AAAAAAAAAdE/K7_vFO-w9uE/s1600/1459835_10202091991693539_1162458915_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Now we lay in front of the woodstove. In a nest of blankets and pillows and yawning dog we lay. We are surrounded by tissues, bellies full from toast and homemade jam. We are snuggled in thick, watching Rescue Bots on Netflix, while the first snow of the season falls outside. The gentle fire crackles and I stare at his fat, little toes, unsocked, peeking from the end of a green blanket. They wiggle enough to keep him awake and then they stop. His rhythmic breathing turns to stuffed up snores.<br />
<br />
I am happy.<br />
<br />
There is no place on the entire earth I would rather be. And I am the luckiest person alive.<br />
<br />
He opens his eyes and I tell him it's snowing. He runs to the window and says, "do you hear it?!"<br />
"What?" I ask, not following. <br />
"Santa's sleigh! I hear it! It's snowing, Christmas is almost here!"<br />
I laugh, "not yet, but soon."<br />
<br />
Tomorrow he will head back to school. Tomorrow I will be back at work. Today I will will relish the absolute deliciousness of simplicity. Nothing is as sweet and everything is soon.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GNbDu0a2EGY/UoE83hi7ZBI/AAAAAAAAAdM/optwi128Lwo/s1600/559897_10202092028534460_1616554950_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GNbDu0a2EGY/UoE83hi7ZBI/AAAAAAAAAdM/optwi128Lwo/s1600/559897_10202092028534460_1616554950_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-41663355881090836832013-09-10T14:48:00.000-07:002013-09-10T14:52:32.448-07:00Self-Harm: What I Believe.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8SIT5wQYysg/Ui-RNJudkFI/AAAAAAAAAc0/RJB_xnLwsvU/s1600/538954_374024459334587_1181763188_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8SIT5wQYysg/Ui-RNJudkFI/AAAAAAAAAc0/RJB_xnLwsvU/s320/538954_374024459334587_1181763188_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I wasn’t going to put this here.<br />
<br />
I haphazardly typed out my story of self harm and threw it at Plucky. I thought
I’d let her anonymously divulge my disease. Because <span style="color: #cc0000;">I am acutely aware of the risks of
being considered crazy.</span><br />
<br />
I have always been aware of the risk involved in living out loud. These risks
have wrapped themselves around my heart for as long as I can remember. No
matter how much easier it makes things, Jeanna can’t fake it to make it. I am
always 100% passionately myself. Even if it makes me look bad.<br />
<br />
Well, sometimes I photoshop my under-eye circles. <br />
<br />
But my story of self-harm? The whole story? I didn’t want it here in black and
white, where one day my children could read it. Where my ex husband could read
it and think “SHE IS RAISING OUR KIDS!” Where my husband’s ex-wife could read
it and think, “SHE IS CO-PARENTING MY KIDS?” Where my mother could read it and
think, “I didn’t give her enough or treat her enough or do enough.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">See, I don’t want to hurt anyone else and I don’t want to hurt myself.</span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t want to hurt myself.<br /><br />
</i><br />
Those words are why I must share. HOPE. 17% of young women self-harm. SEVENTEEN
percent. How many days did I feel to be the loneliest freak alive? Our stories
build awareness and awareness brings action. By not hiding we allow ourselves
to be seen, to reach out, to get help. <br />
<br />
And help is possible.<br />
<br />
The day after I checked myself into the psych ward I called my mom.
Disappointing her has always been the scariest thing to me. But I called her to
tell her what I did and I expected her to be mad. After all, no responsible mother
goes and has a nervous breakdown! What she said to me was this: “Are your kids
OK? Were they away for the weekend? IT IS THE PERFECT TIME TO TAKE CARE OF YOU.
No judge would EVER take away children whose mother is looking to get better,
who admits defeat and is battle weary and exhausted. <span style="color: #cc0000;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There is nothing saner than admitting you need help</i></span>. You are
proving you are responsible.” Now, I know some judges would. Some judges, like some people, are just dicks. Because 90% of the time I AM awesome. But those words, "nothing is saner than admitting you need help," they chimed through my collapsed mind.<br />
<br />
So I will hold those words, hope for the best and share my story.<br />
<br />
I remember being a child, laying in my closet, wanting to die. I had a big
white and green toy box. It was covered in fantasy pictures, unicorns and
Technicolor rainbows, I remember being huddled next to it and sobbing. I begged
God to let me die. <span style="color: #cc0000;">I wasn’t old enough to know I could have a say in Life and
Death.</span><br />
<br />
I don’t remember a time where I didn’t think about suicide. Still, when I am
angry, frustrated or sad, it’s the first place my mind goes. Habitual imagery
it seems. I look at ceilings and see places that I could hang myself. I picture
my body lying in a bloody bathtub. I imagine cold on cold and apologize to the
person who will find me. I cannot help where my mind goes; it’s always the
first response. I will be suddenly overwhelmed and it’s what I see. <span style="color: #cc0000;">It’s the
bad habit. It’s my dirty secret. </span><br />
<br />
I was 14 when I began to self harm. <span style="color: #674ea7;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barely,
older than my daughter now. I watch her skin and follow her injuries with strategic
inquiries. I wonder if she thinks like me and hurts like me. She is my clone in
so many ways, will she inherit this? God, I worry.</i></span> When I was 14, I swallowed a bottle of
Tylenol and then threw them up. I lit matches and burned designs in my skin. I
found razor blades and acquired scars. I practiced bulimia not because I wanted
to be skinny, but because I liked to cause myself pain. I enjoyed making myself
binge and then purge. It was about power and discipline. I smoked, I drank
bottles of cough syrup, I did acid, not to try and fit in, or have fun, but because I knew
it was hurting myself. And I wanted that. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">I wanted to control my pain and numb my pain at the same time.</span><br />
<br />
I was able to be the catalyst (controller) for my external pain, while
releasing endorphins to calm my internal pain.<br />
<br />
Cutting saved me from suicide. Cutting calmed my mind. When I was in the
hysterics of anxiety, cutting was Xanax. It was an addiction and soon, when I
was upset, I wasn’t thinking, “I want to die,” I was looking for a blade. I
wanted to cut. As soon as that familiar sting hit my brain, the rest of the
world melted away. The rest of the pain melted away. <span style="color: #cc0000;">I had something I
controlled.</span><br />
<br />
And I had a secret.<br />
<br />
I have heard people say that cutters are just out for attention, but nothing
is further from the truth. I hid my wounds and guarded my secret as if sworn by
magic. NOBODY saw them. As I grew up, I cut less. Adulthood gave me external
responsibilities and no longer could I internalize the world. Parenthood made
me fear judgment. <span style="color: #cc0000;">Fearing judgment made me fear madness.</span><br />
<br />
Adulthood brought on 2 main points of relapse. In fact, I almost thought I had grown out of the
behavior. The thoughts were still there, the cravings still present, but I didn’t
give in. Until my world (my marriage) fell apart. At that point I began to harm
myself in all the ways I could, except drugs. <br />
<br />
The last time I cut myself was July 29th, 2011. (If you’ve read Unsinkable, you
know the story). I admitted myself to the mental ward that night. I admitted my
addiction to self harm, on a physical, mental and emotional level. Whether it
was<span style="color: #cc0000;"> physical injuries, self-shaming, alcohol, sex, suffering, guilt driven over
achievement or co-dependent behaviors,</span> I needed to stop. <span style="color: #cc0000;">I was addicted to pain.</span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I decided to no longer remain silent. And that keeps me honest.<br />
<br />
Like any addiction, it doesn’t go away. My first urge when I’m upset (still)
is to self-harm. I have not let myself go there. And I have been successful, so
far. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">Reasons I feel successful:</span> <br />
1. I am doing this for me. I do not WANT to be a self-harmer. <br />
2. I admit to my sickness. I acknowledge I suffer anxiety disorders. I admit to
an addiction to self harm. I hold myself accountable to my promise of honesty.<br />
3. I recognize the addictive properties of my illness. I recognize cues that
drive me to crave self harm. <br />
4. I can speak to others about self harm without being embarrassed. <br />
5. I am dedicated to July 29,2011 being the last quit date I ever have.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">What does any of this have to do with National Suicide Prevention Day and why
do I tell this story?</span><br />
<br />
Because I am just like you. I mean besides living in a treehouse and wearing
aprons and stuff. But I am just a regular mom and wife and professional woman. I am actually pretty frickin "together". I am college educated and own a home.
These people are all around us. And they might be overwhelmed and need help. Or
they could be scared to seek help. But they are helpable! Life can be
beautiful, even for those who don’t think so. And self-harm wears SO many hats, this isn't just about razors and matches.<br />
<br />
I said above that self-harm saved me from suicide. Indeed, I feel it was a
coping mechanism for stress. It was habit forming and addictive. It allowed me
to deal. But I wanted to live. I never truly (other than some VERY bad moments)
wanted to DIE. Strangely enough, those moments, are stories I’ve never told and
because of the hysteria in my mind, barely remember. <span style="color: #cc0000;">I wanted to live</span>, but for many
self-harm is still one of the strongest indicators of suicidal tendencies. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">I believe by removing the stigma, and looking to have a better understanding
of the self-harmer’s struggle, we can save lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">
</span><span style="color: #cc0000;">I believe by recognizing the addiction component of self-harm, we can treat
and save lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">
</span><span style="color: #cc0000;">I believe by sharing our stories we can unite.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">
</span><span style="color: #cc0000;">I believe in wellness.<br />
<br />
I believe in hope.</span><br />
<br />
And I know they are all possible.jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-23083024330334805502013-08-29T16:16:00.000-07:002013-08-30T03:45:14.467-07:00The Post I Wasn't Going To Post Until My Daughter Unblurred My Lines<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ncN7Y4HO3ZM/Uh_WHto5gkI/AAAAAAAAAco/H-HYN7ZBS04/s1600/good-or-bad1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ncN7Y4HO3ZM/Uh_WHto5gkI/AAAAAAAAAco/H-HYN7ZBS04/s1600/good-or-bad1.jpg" height="164" width="200"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I
didn’t really want to write about this or talk about it anymore. But sometimes
things come up. Sometimes, discussions take a certain turn and I feel the need
to navigate my thoughts to a destination. This is one of those times and I’m taking
the time to write my feelings.<br>
<br>
A few weeks back I made a post on my Facebook page addressing Miley Cyrus’s
recent comments regarding her song ‘We Can’t Stop.’ She stated that it was
indeed about drug use. The lyrics “everyone in line in the bathroom, trying to
get a line in the bathroom” and “dancing with Molly” were indeed about using
drugs (probably ecstasy as the reference is normally used). She stated it was
time for people to stop viewing her as a child. As in, adults can use drugs, it’s
our bodies, lay off. This upset me and I stated drug use was a stupid way to
express maturity. <br>
<br>
I am a sobriety advocate. Sobriety, for me, is in no way an immature choice. On
my page and in my life it is a reoccurring theme. I am fully aware many adults
choose otherwise, whether it’s getting high, drunk, tipsy or the many other
points in “under the influence”. I know and love many people who use some
substance or another to cope, medicate or release tension. But, I advocate
sobriety. It could be the next door neighbor, the 8<sup>th</sup> grader at my
daughter’s lunch table, my good friend or even a pop star, but when someone makes
a blasé statement about drugs, I respond. It’s kind of my THING. So, after I
read her statement, I made my post. While some people agreed, quite a few
attacked me for being “judgmental”. Being that every opinion is a judgment and
I stand fast to mine, especially when it comes to my “thing”, I let it go and
moved on with my day.<br>
<br>
A couple of weeks later we were at home listening to the radio. “Blurred Lines”
came on and immediately we all started moving our hips. My 12 year old daughter
came over to me and said, “mom, do you know what this song is about?” I replied
“yes”, instantly feeling a bit bad about enjoying the beats. By age 14, I was a
self-proclaimed feminist. I heard “you’re a good girl” the first time I heard
the song and knew the lyrics would irritate me. It was the good girl vs. bad
girl categorization that I had fought, as an outspoken woman, most of my life. “Yeah,
I know.” I told her. “Mom,” she continued, “do you REALLY know?” I turned down
the music and I looked at her, “what do YOU think this song is about?”<br>
<br>
She told me the kids had been talking about it at school. She told me it was
about date rape. “It’s about getting a girl drunk and talking her into doing
things. So she won’t know what’s right or wrong. So the lines get blurry.”<br>
<br>
I smiled, “but it has such a fun beat!” She didn’t smile back. <br>
<br>
Now, I have been aware, for 20 years, that the best way to make racism, sexism
and all other forms of hate OK, is to make them a joke. Tell a joke, people
laugh, and those who don’t are haters. “It’s just a joke, get over it” is how
the stereotypes are able to flourish. Blonde jokes, man jokes, Polish jokes,
women jokes- they perpetuate a much deeper expression of hatred. I could mark
this up to “just a song”. But this song was teaching my child, and her peers,
about dating, about boundaries and about the blurred lines. And it was making
them cool and acceptable. In fact, the easy beats and “hey, hey, heys” were
blurring my lines as an equality advocate and parent. I was missing the bigger
picture. She was right.<br>
<br>
Those who enjoy the song can make excuses; it’s actually about infidelity or it’s
actually a parody of women pitting themselves into “good girl/bad girl” roles
and how they should just do what they want. Certain people could even make us
think the song PROMOTES equality. But not to our children. To our children it
is a song about date rape.<br>
<br>
Perceptions are where we derive our reality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Fast
forward to the night of the VMA awards. My husband went on Facebook and
immediately turned to me, “woah, Miley Cyrus did SOMETHING.” We went to YouTube
and looked up the video of her performance. As we sat and watched it on his
Kindle, my comments went like this, “what’s up with the teddy bears”, “this
song is about ecstasy,” “I like her new haircut,” “she’s dressed like all pop
stars, what’s the big deal?” We continued watching, “why is he dressed like
Beetlejuice?” And then, I was hit with that sinking feeling…”this song is about
rape.” Then I giggled a little about her boning him with giant foam finger.<br>
<br>
Because that’s something I would do if given a giant finger.<br>
<br>
The next day the internet was in uproar. The same people who admonished me for
being judgmental were hoping Miley could find Jesus. She was vulgar and
disgusting and her parent’s must be ashamed of her. It was everywhere in
Facebooklandia. I, like so many others, brought it up. But I wondered 3 things:<br>
<br>
1. Which female pop stars DON’T use sexuality to promote their careers? Was her
outfit all that different from what we’ve seen on Gaga, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj,
Brittney Spears, Christina Aguilera or Madonna? Why was it even an issue?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">2.
It’s a performance. On a stage. If you have ever been in a stage performance or
SEEN a stage performance, they are supposed to be over the top. Especially at
the VMA awards.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">3.
Why was no one discussing the guy in the Beetlejuice suit? But I didn’t state
it like an asshole. I made it a joke. Easy to accept. WHY? He was as much a part
of that performance and HE has the song that blurs the lines of rape. HE was
the one the kids at my daughter’s middle school were talking about. Why was HE
cool and SHE not? Why was HE good and SHE not?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">She
was not a good girl. We all knew she wanted it. We all knew she was animal. He
was cool. These are all the factors that blur those lines. Our anger at her
propagated the lie that the “cool” guy was in the right and the “bad” girl
doesn’t get our support. No, we judge her. We know she’s bad by the way she
dresses (or doesn’t dress). We know she’s bad by the way she dances and sticks
out her tongue. She’s a bad girl and she deserves to be judged. Her parents
should be so embarrassed.<br>
<br>
Have you ever been on a date or in a social situation where after the fact you
aren’t sure if you were just raped? It’s a weird feeling, knowing you said you
didn’t want to, but were just so uncomfortable that you went along with it all.
I mean why the hell not? It’s 2013 and you’re not a virgin waiting to give your
goats to some man. Plus, you were horny. You kind of did want it. Just not
there with that guy. One thing leads to another and eh, you said no, but
finally you just said, “fine”. That happened to me once. “No, no, no, FINE.” It’s
a weird feeling, the feeling of shutting down. Blurred lines are strange, even
when you’re completely sober. Because we don’t want to fight. We don’t want to
hear, “it’s just a joke, lighten up.” We don’t want to be judged. I don’t want
my daughter to ever think I will make light of blurred lines.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I
continued to read about what a poor role model Miley Cyrus was for our
children, so when my daughter got home from school I asked her, “was everyone
talking about Miley Cyrus?” She looked at me strangely, “no, why?” I was kind
of surprised. I told her what happened and she told me no one cared. If
anything, her age group likes Miley better now. No middle school child is going
to be interested in Hannah Montana, after all. “So, do you think your friends
view her as a role model?” She laughed, “uh, no mom.” I wondered why all the
parents online were so concerned. Their children saw Miley Cyrus for what she
was: a performer. Why, as adults, could we not? She wasn’t a role model, she
wasn’t out to become a role model and our kids don’t care for her to be one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Over
the next few days, today included, I explored this subject more with my
daughter. “who in the entertainment business, WOULD you look up to as a role
model?” She told me no one. “Mom, most of them have made mistakes, or tried
drugs or done other “bad” stuff. Some worse than others, they are just people,
but I don’t look to any of them as role models, even if I like them.” I asked
her, “well, who influences you and how you decide to act and how you make
decisions and stuff? Anyone?” <br>
<br>
She answered, “you.”<br>
<br>
“Maybe it sounds corny or whatever, but I learn about stuff from you and think
about what you’ve taught me when I make decisions. I guess, you are my role
model. Not those people, I don’t even know those people.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And
it was that simple. Just because our children LIKE something doesn’t mean they
want to BECOME that. The main role models in our children’s lives are not
singers on a stage or musicians in a studio. They are US. They aren’t formulating strategies
as to how they will conduct themselves for the rest of their lives based on
what they read in magazines. UNLESS WE LET THEM. If we, as parents, decide that
we will let entertainment icons be responsible for the role modeling of our
children, if we let them see or hear, without discussion of moral and social
consequence, then entertainment icons will fill the role. But our children will first turn to
us. They will turn to us to learn if they are supposed to judge a person by the
color of their skin OR the clothes they wear. They will turn to us to determine
who is “good” and who is “bad”. They will turn to us to learn what qualities
are most important to us, to know WHO we judge and why. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And
if what we teach them has blurred lines, eventually they will turn away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eh6edAOw21E/Uh_VWYBts-I/AAAAAAAAAcc/pmaPDSJhlqc/s1600/193675_1820684729107_2725530_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Eh6edAOw21E/Uh_VWYBts-I/AAAAAAAAAcc/pmaPDSJhlqc/s1600/193675_1820684729107_2725530_o.jpg" height="240" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's always helping me see more clearly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-45320768515900293962013-08-07T11:56:00.003-07:002013-08-07T11:56:54.878-07:00Character Building with Pickles<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Rain poured outside. My five year old stood in the kitchen smearing
peanut butter on a piece of bread. Lightning flashed and the power went out.
The kids looked at me to do something. So I yelled, “COME BACK ON, POWER!!”<br />
<br />
Nothing happened. So I shrugged. My eldest shook her head at me, “sorry, mom.”<br />
<br />
The lights came back on.<br />
<br />
I did a HAHAHAHA dance, “that’s right! Mama has the……”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The lights went back off.<br />
<br />
My son looked at his sandwich and pouted. Food is important to him and for a
moment it seemed that this sandwich wasn’t going to happen. “Shit.” I declared.
I swear in front of my kids. Not all the time, but often enough that they know
I am grown up and I can do what I want. Most importantly, I can do things they
can’t. I earned that right by surviving my parents and one day they will also
earn the right to establish superiority over their kids. It is the cycle of
life. Like lions and giraffes and the word “shit’. Anyway, we needed to get
this lunch show on the road, because I had to get to work.<br />
<br />
I turned to the kitchen shelf and saw the dill pickles Mr. P and I had canned
the weekend past. “We are ready for this, guys!” I exclaimed to the kids. “We
are PREPARED. We have canned goods! We can handle an outage! You can bring
pickles to school!” It was obvious to me, at this point, I am a professional
homesteader. I was ready to go off the grid. I imagined my bonnet. As long as I
could charge my phone in the car I would be OK. “We don’t need electricity!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My daughter gave me the ‘da fuq?’ face. “Or, Mom, we can finish making
the sandwich.” Well, that was hardly fun. But she was right. So, he smeared on
the last of peanut butter and stuck the sandwich in a bag as the lights came
on. The children and Mother Nature collaborated to dash my Little House on the
Prairie dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“It’s POURING out.” I declared as I gathered my car keys. “And I have to
get to work.” I eyed the children who were getting their backpacks. “I could
take you with me, then drop you off, each at school, then go back…. But…” The
frontierswoman inside of me said “NO. They can get wet.” I told the kids to get
umbrellas. “Get umbrellas. You can make it to the bus and get wet if you must!”
I felt good. I was not going to raise children who were scared of water. Or
bugs. Or mud or sweat or hard work or the word ‘no’. That’s right. I. AM.
MOTHER. This was good.<br />
<br />
I nodded my head, empowered by my parenting decisions. Damn straight. This is
what we call “CHARACTER
BUILDING.”</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I squatted down and looked the kids in the eyes, “I will drop you off at
the bus stop, but you are going to wait in the rain for the bus. OK?” I
searched their eyes for fear. “This is what we call ‘CHARACTER BUILDING’”
My daughter put her hand on my shoulder, “we can walk mom, it’s no big deal.” I
turned to her, “No. I could drive you to school. I could. You wouldn’t have to
stand in the rain at all. I could even pick you up a donut at Tim Horton’s. But
I AM NOT GOING TO. I am going to make you stand in the rain. You will thank me
one day.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I smiled at her and took her hand. She smiled back and said, “OK, Mom,
whatever.” <br />
<br />
“Grab your umbrella!” I enthusiastically pushed them toward the door. And we
exited the house. We exited into a new day, filled with opportunities and
lessons. Ready to take what comes our way and roll with it. A day of silver
linings to dry our doubts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">A day where the sun was shining down on us as soon as we got in the car.
The kids chucked their umbrellas in the back seat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Thanks, Mother Nature, thanks for the support.</span></div>
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jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-36131886147559193272013-07-19T17:51:00.000-07:002013-07-19T18:01:21.861-07:00Happy Birthday Donna<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9pFWfikm6mI/Uendq6vmbPI/AAAAAAAAAY8/WqSO3P4TOC8/s1600/article-new_ehow_images_a07_20_st_oak-trees-acorn-types-1.1-800x800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9pFWfikm6mI/Uendq6vmbPI/AAAAAAAAAY8/WqSO3P4TOC8/s200/article-new_ehow_images_a07_20_st_oak-trees-acorn-types-1.1-800x800.jpg" width="154" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">I have Parent Privilege.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I am a parent who has never lost a child. I cannot imagine. I cannot look at my children, living and breathing and sitting in front of me; children who argue with me and whine and lay their little heads upon my shoulder, I cannot imagine my life without them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I cannot imagine losing them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I huff at waking up early to deliver them to daycare and I fight with them to go to bed. I count down the days to free moments. I scold them for bothering me when I'm writing. I pride myself on their accomplishments and take photos of their faces.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I am privileged.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I cry when I read stories of loss. I type, "I am sorry." I EMPATHIZE, but I do not understand. I am luckily not part of the that club, "The parents who have buried a child club." I have parent privilege. I offer my condolences, I wear ribbons, I do 5Ks, I buy the T-shirts and I shaved my head, but I do not really understand. And I hope I never do.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On March 30th, 2013, my family shaved our heads in honor of Donna. We raised money, like good privileged parents, for the St. Baldrick's Foundation and pediatric cancer research. People praised our courage. But all we did was go bald. As my hair grew back I became more and more acutely aware of my privilege. Hair grows back, but children who died of cancer do not come back. My family was not brave; we never even saw a battle. We hopefully never will.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I do not want to be a warrior or a survivor or a part of any clubs. I just want to continue being lucky.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YUr2Cyiit-A/UenbzCFXinI/AAAAAAAAAYs/QIUmD_RYpfw/s1600/554530_10200618614980042_376793335_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YUr2Cyiit-A/UenbzCFXinI/AAAAAAAAAYs/QIUmD_RYpfw/s200/554530_10200618614980042_376793335_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So what was the point? What IS the point of honoring Donna? What does mourning a child I never was able to meet do, besides stroke a philanthropist's ego? What is the take away of a day that changed me forever?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Simple facts:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1. In the U.S., childhood cancer kills more children than any other disease.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2. Worldwide, every 3 minutes a child is diagnosed with cancer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3. 1 out of 5 of those children will die.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">4. Nearly all children who survive childhood cancer will suffer life long health consequences from treatment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">5. Out of all the funding in the US, for pediatric cancer, only 4% goes to all the types of childhood cancer combined.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 6. Our $2,000 to St. Baldrick's, in Donna's name, was part of the $22 million that provided 63 grants this summer for research into pediatric cancer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Those are simple facts that I carry with me like a sword. They have changed the way I parent. They have changed the way I look at other parents. Those facts are a reality that gives me the HONOR of representing a person who I was never able to meet and a mother whose path would probably have never crossed mine, had it not been for her tremendous loss. A mother whose pain I cannot understand, but will forever hold deep within my soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">For I am privileged, but I have been touched.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">July 20, 2013 is Donna's would have/should have been 8th birthday. I will be wearing her favorite color. I will be thanking her for four years of beauty and strength, which are now, despite her physical absence, changing the world.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/mary-tyler-mom/2013/07/if-a-birthday-happens-and-no-one-is-there-to-blow-out-the-candles-do-you-still-celebrate/" target="_blank">If a Birthday Happens and No One Is There To Blow Out The Candles Do You Still Celebrate?</a></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IEej-cQ7UJo/UenbmC0kF7I/AAAAAAAAAYk/38mfbzvjmZ4/s1600/304748_415895501791328_976240564_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IEej-cQ7UJo/UenbmC0kF7I/AAAAAAAAAYk/38mfbzvjmZ4/s1600/304748_415895501791328_976240564_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/" target="_blank">St. Baldrick's Foundation</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Tyler-Mom/159776680754263" target="_blank">Mary Tyler Mom</a><br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/donnasgoodthings" target="_blank">Donna's Good Things</a></span>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-14155400391841899862013-05-15T06:59:00.000-07:002013-05-15T07:11:36.526-07:00Put Your Money WEAR Your Mouth Is<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y_Ry7scHdFY/UZOWNdzdsbI/AAAAAAAAAYU/TN55nhYwTSw/s1600/mike-jeffries-AF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y_Ry7scHdFY/UZOWNdzdsbI/AAAAAAAAAYU/TN55nhYwTSw/s320/mike-jeffries-AF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike Jeffries: The face of popularity, beauty and coolness. Or something.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lately there has been a ton of internet chatter regarding the remarks by
Abercrombie CEO, Mike Jeffries.
Basically, he is an asshole, a proud asshole and it bothers people.
Frankly, I was unaware that Abercrombie and Fitch was a brand hell bent on
excluding the ugly. I never shopped there because I thought the clothes were
boring. <br />
<br />
Not the point.<br />
<br />
In response, angry people are writing long letters to the CEO. They blindly
seek out his heartstrings, “I was never popular…”, “My family could never
afford…,” “As an overweight woman….,” and I keep thinking, ‘The guy is a proud
asshole. He doesn’t care.’.<br />
<br />
He is glad. It proves what he is doing works. He has managed to build an entire
brand while excluding you, if you are the unpopular, poor, fat kid. It worked.
He is probably celebrating with each letter from within his evil clothing
laboratory. He is probably sitting there, eating chocolate in front of poor
children dressed like Charlie Bucket and pushing fat kids. Every time someone
writes a letter telling him how they have found self worth, regardless of their
weight, self proclaimed assholes like Mike Jeffries grow a little bit stronger.<br />
<br />
So, I proclaim <span style="color: #ea9999;">we actually do something.</span> By we, I mean the old (over 25) and
fat (if you can pinch something you are in). Are you in? Here is MY open letter
to Mike Jeffries.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8;">Dear Mr. Abercrombie and Fitch,<br />
<br />
I’m not actually a fan of your brand. I think it’s boring. In fact, until all
this recent media (good job, dude), I thought the store name was A{M}bercrombie
and Fitch. Obviously people are pissed over your recent comments regarding your
branding decisions. They were pretty heartless, man. I’m old and way too fat
for your clothes now (if I didn’t find them monotonous), so I know you don’t
care what I have to say. You don’t want me wearing them any more than I want
to. This isn’t what this is about. <br />
<br />
I may not be welcome in your stores. But my child is. See, the old fat people
you pissed off? They are the wallets for the popular kids. Oh snap. I will not
wear your clothing, thanks to your exclusive branding. You have made sure of
that. But, now, neither will my four children.<br />
<br />
They are thin (well, except the linebacker one, but he’s a boy and I think you
said that is OK). They are popular. And we have money.<br />
<br />
My daughter had stacks, STACKS I tell you, of Abercrombie and Fitch clothes.
But not anymore. What to do with them was a bit of a problem. I hated to just
throw them away, but then again, I hated to see them re-worn. So, before we
donated them, we drew a big line through the logo. With black sharpie. They are
forever marked “the poor people A & F.”<br />
<br />
I am now asking this commitment from the world of blogger parents. “Don’t buy A
& F for your kids. Keep this clothing out of the hands of our thin and
popular youth. Soon, there will be nobody left. You, the parents, hold the
wallet.”<br />
<br />
It will be interesting. Because I know you don’t care about seeing me in your
clothing.... but I am far more powerful than what I wear.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Jeanna Kaye<br />
</span><br />
Independent thinker and dresser since 1978</span></span></div>
jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-82380393704177570382013-05-08T07:39:00.003-07:002013-05-08T13:22:48.573-07:00Listening To An Invisible Child<span style="font-size: large;">I yelled at my 5 year old son to get dressed, as I brushed my teeth. Mornings are always like this; scream, scream, go, go, hug and kiss. I went into his room and looked at his outfit: a t-shirt, 2 camouflaged sweatshirts and camo pants. "It's supposed to be in the 70's, you don't need 2 sweatshirts, take all that off!" I added a "hurry up" for good measure, swallowed my anxiety meds and went to establish an ETE (estimated time to exit) on my daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My son slithered down the stairs and I examined his outfit, he had traded in the camo sweatshirts for a camo fleece zip up. "Fine, but take it off if you get hot. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE SHOES ON YET?" He giggled, "I'm invisible." My daughter stood in front of him. "Camouflage doesn't make you invisible, it makes you blend into your surroundings," she corrected him. "Why is no one listening to me?" I screamed, clapping my hands <span style="color: #b6d7a8;">like a drill sergeant</span> "car, car, car...."<br /><br />Once outside, my self-dressed child ran up to a tree and held very still. He smiled. "I'm invisible." My daughter mumbled, "blending." I stopped for a moment and looked at him. He did blend pretty well, so I took a picture. "Let's see what you look like in front of a tree with rougher bark." He ran from tree to tree and I snapped some shots. "Let me see them!" He gleefully asked, "can we show them to my teacher?" "Sure." I replied, losing interest, "get in the car, I'm late for work."<br /><br />The entire ride to school he discussed camouflage. We pulled up and I got out to walk him to the front door. His little warm hand clung tightly to mine. "You have to come in and show my teacher the picture." I looked at him, "I'm late for work. Later. I'll come in when I pick you up." <br /><br /><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">"No, mom, now."</span><br /><br />I looked at him and back at my daughter waiting in the car. "Honey, I have to go, you have a good day. My phone is in the car. I'll show her later." I hoped he would forget about this by then. He held my hand tight. <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">"No."</span> I looked around at the bigger kids mulling around in front of the school, was he scared to go in alone? "Fine." I told him. I went back to the car and grabbed my phone and walked into the school with him. We walked through the office. "Can I show her?" I asked. He told me she was not the one. In the hall a women said hi to him. She, too, was not the one.<br /><br />We turned the corner and two teachers stood in a classroom talking. My son lit up, "there she is!" I was about to ask which teacher when one woman came walking toward us. She looked at my son and exclaimed, "WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS Z?" She looked around confused. "He is just a floating head?! What happened to Z?" My son stood as still as a rock and giggled. "I hear his laugh, but I can't see him!!" She grew closer and closer. Z unzipped his fleece, showing her his T-shirt beneath. "There you are!" She smiled, "you survived the meteor crash! Great camo Z!" I remembered I had pictures to show her and I fumbled for my phone, "I'll take a copy of that," she nodded at me.<br /><br />"So, Z are we gonna go thrift shopping?" She asked him. He laughed and yelled "Hey Vacklemore, you wanna go thrift shopping? What? Wha wha wha what? (like the song Thift Shop)" The two of them started doing the robot. She threw back her head and laughed to the teacher next to her, "Oh, I just love him!"<br /><br />I walked down the hallway and my eyes welled up with tears. All night he had planned that. This morning he woke up wanting to be in camo. I kept yelling at him to change his clothes. He spoke and I ignored. He spoke and his sister corrected. He needed to show her, because she saw him. <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">Even when he was invisible.</span> He had probably heard her exclaim<span style="font-size: large;">, "I love THAT kid." Him. HE was listening. </span>I rushed him through his day like I rush him through his life. "Why aren't you listening, Z?" Why wasn't I? He tried to tell me. And I told him to hurry up. But he stood his ground. He had to fight to wear his outfit and fight to get me into the school. He had to fight and repeat himself because I wasn't listening. I almost missed the moment. I almost never knew the impact this woman had on my son.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The moment our children are born we tune into their every noise. We lay awake at night listening for a peep. We learn their cries and know when they are hungry, bored or hurt. We listen intently as the learn to speak, "Did she say ball? Was that mama?" And excitedly we beg them to communicate with us. We implore them to use their words and say "bye bye." Then, just as they master the language we all speak, we, parents, stop paying attention. We shush them and rush them. By about age 9 or 10 they learn we do not listen so they stop communicating. By 11 or 12 we are lucky if they don't speak a whole new language. <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">We wonder why our children don't listen, but never stop to teach them how</span>. We talk at them as they interrupt our phone calls, dish-washing, TV watching and Facebook browsing. <span style="color: #b6d7a8;">The years of childhood blend quickly into our timelines, like camouflage against a tree</span>. We plan to sit with them, but after work, after dinner, after bathtime, in the morning, tomorrow, this weekend... hours become <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">invisible </span>and children become adults. We need to stop and pay attention<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">. And</span> <span style="font-size: large;">n</span></span>ot just when we get a chance<span style="font-size: large;"> or when it's <span style="font-size: large;">convenient</span> for us.</span> <span style="font-size: large;">A</span>s my son said, clinging to my hand, "No. NOW."</span><br />
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<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-24090071878475846062013-04-27T06:15:00.001-07:002013-04-27T07:28:41.357-07:00Dear 16 Year Old Me<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I posted the question on Facebook:<br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><br />If you could speak to your 16 year old self, what would you say?</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />And I answered:</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="font-size: large;">"You
are exactly who you are supposed to be. Stay the course. Don't change a
thing. Unless you decide to. Embrace possibility. You can't fuck it up
if you hold hope in your hand. Never let go of the power of truth. You,
my dear, rock."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I was a mess at 16 years old. It is the year I got pregnant by a guy who would become a heroin user. I had an abortion. I dropped out of school. I ran away and lived in the basement of a drug house, until the police found me and made me go home. To my mother's house where I hadn't lived in three years. I moved from my father's house where I had complete and utter freedom, a father who let me go so that his latest wife could move in. A father who gave up on me, for his own disgustingly selfish needs. I ran away again. I hated so much.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />At 16, I made a lot of bad decisions.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">And I HURT. Immensely.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I COULD tell 16 year old me to not get pregnant and not do drugs and not shave my head into a defiant mohawk in attempt to tell the world to fuck off. But, I imagine some adult, at some point, already told me that. I want to tell the young me that it doesn't matter. We ALL make mistakes, but they do not <span style="color: #9fc5e8;">DEFINE </span>us. Unless we let them.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Stay the course.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TlB0Nh77Emg/UXvgdji6KaI/AAAAAAAAAW4/dxHDxAKlAWU/s1600/538954_374024459334587_1181763188_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TlB0Nh77Emg/UXvgdji6KaI/AAAAAAAAAW4/dxHDxAKlAWU/s200/538954_374024459334587_1181763188_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Perhaps it comes from a person who has swallowed a bottle of pills and prayed to not throw them up before they took effect. A girl who has sat inside a dry bathtub and ran razor blades across her tiny, white wrists.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">Stay the course.<br />This will not define you.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #cccccc;">I told my husband last night that I feel closer to the girl I was then, than I ever have. Not because of the life I am living, but because of who I am on the inside. I was passionate. I was determined. I based my actions on a compass magnetized by independent thinking rather than following the path of society's norms. I was curious. I was open. I was alive. And I am, again.<br /><br />Surely, my independent thinking was brand new. Surely, I made a thousand mistakes. But I stayed the course. The end result was bliss. I am happy. And I am happy being uniquely ME.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cccccc;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"></span><span id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[10]"></span><span style="font-size: large;">What is a teenager?</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />A teenager is US, before.<br />A teenager is our children, in the future.<br id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[11]" /><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[12]" /><span id=".reactRoot[3].[1][4][1]{comment468285379908494_3920610}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[13]">Teenagers are people, caught in a moment of time. A small moment. They are listening. And learning. They just don't want to become.... as dead inside as they see some adults. And they do not have to.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="fbPhotoCaptionText"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Remembering<br /> You running soft through the night<br /> You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow<br /> And screamed at the make-believe<br /> Screamed at the sky<br /> And you finally found all your courage<br /> To let it all go<br /> <br /> Remembering<br /> You fallen into my arms<br /> Crying for the death of your heart<br /> You were stone white<br /> So delicate<br /> Lost in the cold<br /> You were always so lost in the dark<br /> <br /> I've been looking so long at these pictures of you<br /> That I almost believe that they're real<br /> I've been living so long with my pictures of you.<br />~The Cure</span></span></div>
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My son is not an easy child.<br />
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He does not want to play with the other kids. He doesn't want to go outside. He is chubby and serious. He doesn't like sports. He never stands still. His indoor voice can be heard indoors at the neighbor's house. People don't have much to say to him. Mainly this:<br />
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1. Did you hear what I said to you?!<br />
2. Sit down!<br />
3. Be quiet!<br />
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And then a lot of repeating patterns like 2, 1, 2, 1, 2 or 3, 1, 3, 1, 3, 1.<br />
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Sometimes, he drives me nuts. He is almost always on red at school. He sits on the toilet for 45 minutes at a time. He doesn't listen. To anyone. Me, included.<br />
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But I never get mad at him for the way he plays. He has great adventures with the characters in his head. He wages battles, usually winning, with his superpowers. He is an expert on magic powers, robots and spirits. He runs back and forth, talking to him and zapping unseen bad guys. He protects our souls inside crystal circles and talks to our spirits. He does it all without telling us. He believes 100% in his powers.<br />
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This morning while the other kids ran around with iPods, leaving a trail of stuffed animals and game boards, listening to Bruno Mars and begging to go do something, my son paced back and forth, talking to a turquoise blue ribbon. He tied it in knots and made it zap things. Back and forth he paced, finally tying the ribbon to his wrist. "Zap!" He pointed it at the wall.<br />
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I asked him to explain the ribbon to me. It's name was Zap. It had powers. Thunderbolt powers to freeze anything. Zap. I asked if he wanted me to write Zap above the ribbon. He smiled SO BIG. So I tatted up his arms. He beamed. "This is exactly right, mama". He quickly froze me, then giggled. "It was just a little thunderbolt, mama, it will only hurt for a minute."<br />
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He looked me in the eyes and as clearly as can be, with full attention, he said "thank you."<br />
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And then he ran away, quick as lightning.<br />
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Sometimes, I am scared I am contributing to his weirdness. Sometimes I think I need to be the adult that instills the ideals of reality in him. The person that teaches him how to interact without superpowers. But here's the thing: I believe him. And I want someone around to zap away the bad guys. So, rather than break him down, I build him up. And I help him design his costumes.<br />
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Maybe we should all tie on a ribbon and feel the power of being special.<br />
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<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-77939934623843173612013-03-22T18:24:00.001-07:002013-03-22T18:24:18.569-07:00Wonderful Wednesday 3/20/13<a href="http://mctipswonderfulwednesdays.blogspot.com/2013/03/quote-or-saying-that-has-helped-you-get.html" target="_blank">What Quote or Saying Has Helped You Get Through Darkness?</a>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-68063378957099482032013-03-05T10:01:00.004-08:002013-03-22T15:34:01.662-07:00McTip's Snips Part Two<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2013/03/mctips-snips.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Read </span>McTip's Snips Part One</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/teams/mypage/84780/2013" target="_blank">DONATE HERE!</a> <span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;"><span style="background-color: black;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fear becomes me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I scared to be bald? You bet ya. But every 3 minutes another child around the globe is diagnosed with cancer. THAT IS SCARY. Imagine those parent's fears? If they can do it, if they can wake up each day and put on a smile and a superhero cape and maintain HOPE and SPIRIT, for their children, then surely I can handle a temporarily bald head.<br /><br />Fear motivates me to OVERCOME.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I decided that each day I would share<i> the story</i> a child off of the St. Baldrick's website.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent">1 child each day.<br /> 1 child to remind you.<br /> $1.<br /> 1,000 people.<br /> 30 days.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><i>=Why I am shaving my head.</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/kids/mypage/4667" target="_blank">Cari Jane Hadac's Story</a> </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_wpXcDldHRU/UTYvAxroaKI/AAAAAAAAAP0/HHt3xlT0ZKk/s1600/b735d887-7e47-4a67-b970-9a2e999a86ea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_wpXcDldHRU/UTYvAxroaKI/AAAAAAAAAP0/HHt3xlT0ZKk/s200/b735d887-7e47-4a67-b970-9a2e999a86ea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">L</span>ast night we passed the $250 goal, thanks
to a generous donation from Isaiah Hankel. Which means my daughter has
to shave her head too. Imagine that strength, she is 12! She is scared
to death what her middle school peers will say. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>So, this morning we
decided to go from FREAK to ICON.</i><br /> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm meeting with her
counselors and principal this week. We want to make this a school wide
event. Where she is a mascot. She is getting her own sign-up on team
McTip's Snips. She is also going to use the experience to coincide with
her new anti-bully page.<br /> <br /> The Universe hears you. Sometimes you just gotta scream. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="userContent"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Make a bald move<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span></i></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></i></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/isaiahhankelphd?ref=ts&fref=ts" target="_blank">Dr. Isaiah Hankel</a></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/weare.Kids.Against.Bullying?ref=hl" target="_blank">Kid's Against Bullying</a> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/teams/mypage/84780/2013" target="_blank">Donate to McTip's Snips</a> </span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">3/5/13</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent">1 child each day.<br /> 1 child to remind you.<br /> $1.<br /> 1,000 people.<br /> 30 days.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><i>=Why I am shaving my head.</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/kids/mypage/3663" target="_blank">Linsey H.'s Story</a></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></i><br /> <br /> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My daughter was trying on scarves tonight. She is the most powerful 12 year old I know. She is absolutely strong. Well, we are TOGETHER. Her dedication to service comes from deep within. She has a BELIEF that she CAN make a difference. She believes good triumphs over evil. She believes in sacrifice. Now if I could only get her to clean her room...</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">3/6/13</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent">1 child to remind you.<br /> $1.<br /> 1,000 people.<br /> 30 days.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><i>=Why I am shaving my head.</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/kids/mypage/3153" target="_blank">Berand's Story</a> </b></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VTfQAL9lJNg/UTqqmtcXAeI/AAAAAAAAAQc/LfNJ97reUY0/s1600/890f364c-f736-4de7-bd99-a72dbbfb83cd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VTfQAL9lJNg/UTqqmtcXAeI/AAAAAAAAAQc/LfNJ97reUY0/s1600/890f364c-f736-4de7-bd99-a72dbbfb83cd.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/teams/mypage/84780/2013" target="_blank">Donate to McTip's Snips</a> </span></span></span>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-23768967814593415102013-03-02T07:28:00.000-08:002013-03-02T07:34:04.784-08:00Don't Judge A Status by What You Want It To Say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nNQwZFapwZ8/UTIax0eLyGI/AAAAAAAAAPE/y87oqKUUHtE/s1600/medical+marijuana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nNQwZFapwZ8/UTIax0eLyGI/AAAAAAAAAPE/y87oqKUUHtE/s200/medical+marijuana.jpg" width="140" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other day I made a comment on Facebook about how I was sick of seeing Marijuana called "harmless" on the internet. I was frustrated that because of the push towards legalization, my children are constantly seeing misinformation and propaganda regarding a drug with potentially harmful side effects.</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was met, as Facebook lovingly will greet all posts more controversial than a smiling puppy,</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">with both "thank you's" and malicious attacks. I never stated my opinion about using marijuana or the legalization of the drug. I, in fact, clearly stated that I had many good friends who used marijuana, both for medicinal and recreational use. Beyond that, my father is a licensed grower and I, personally, have completed the paperwork for patients to obtain medical marijuana. I have used it and that, is how I discovered I have a severe allergy to it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My point though, was this, this drug has definite psychological, cardiac and pulmonary affects. The fact that the amount of THC can vary so immensely and is poorly regulated, can create major discrepancies in use. There are risks. There are both psychological and physiological risks to marijuana use. These side effects or potential for allergy need to be acknowledged and recognizable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was not a debate on whether marijuana is safer than cigarettes or beer. This was not a debate of whether your husband with cancer should be made to suffer. This was not a debate on how major pharmaceuticals have destroyed the market for safe drugs. Or a debate whether marijuana is even a drug. This was not an exploration into the possibility that there could be healthy uses of marijuana.This was not a debate on whether, you, as a grown adult, should be allowed to smoke a joint with your girlfriends on a Saturday night. This was me, standing up, saying I will not tell my children something is harmless when it is not harmless. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BxDY7ZPxznw/UTIa-Vx1WDI/AAAAAAAAAPM/ZOGrT7LDKKo/s1600/marijuana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BxDY7ZPxznw/UTIa-Vx1WDI/AAAAAAAAAPM/ZOGrT7LDKKo/s200/marijuana.jpg" width="174" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The internet has created a world where the misinformed come armed with memes, cheap one liners and reactionary tactics. It is the problem we come across when facing any political discussion these days, whether it be gun control, drug use, equal rights,</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">economic policy or foreign affairs. We scream foul politics and beg for bi-partisanship, then turn our computers on and "share" one-sided misinformation. There is no room for moderate discussion. All the while, our CHILDREN are watching, and learning how to resolve conflicts with sarcasm and greet debate with misinformation.<br /><br />It is irritating that we can have access to so much information and come armed with so little.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-72894171322014657432013-03-01T14:40:00.000-08:002013-03-06T05:37:21.567-08:00McTip's Snips Part One<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I knew things were going on today for Donna's Day. Goodness<span style="font-size: small;">, I had read Donna's story on Mary Tyler Mom mo<span style="font-size: small;">nths before. <span style="font-size: small;">My heart had wept for their beautiful family. But I<span style="font-size: small;">'m always so busy, and what could I do? I didn't really look deeper.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DVuCVehBvSU/UTJfoCy2x3I/AAAAAAAAAPc/o5U2A876aPI/s1600/549459_481469818584946_1103163446_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DVuCVehBvSU/UTJfoCy2x3I/AAAAAAAAAPc/o5U2A876aPI/s200/549459_481469818584946_1103163446_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know the statistics. About 1 in <span style="font-size: small;">300 children will experience cancer. I know it costs them more. <span style="font-size: small;">I <span style="font-size: small;">know from my meetings with our AFLAC rep that treatment costs more for children. And I know funding for resea<span style="font-size: small;">rch on pediatric cancer is terribly low. I sat down at my desk and started filling out patient paperwork. I complet<span style="font-size: small;">ed the</span> FMLA paperwork for a patient with recurrent breast cancer</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and stapled it together with my pink ribbon stapler and noticed the post on DeBie Hive. She was cutting her hair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't have anything to give financially. Not right now. But I have all this hair. <i>So much hair.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I have been growing my hair out since I started my life over. It, for some reason, makes me feel pretty and feminine, despite the major weight I've gained or wrinkles I've found over the past several years. A daily ponytail has become my staple</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">look. And when I let it loose, or let it drip long and wet, down my back, I feel like a goddess.</span> <i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel beautiful.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Could I cut it?<br /><br />I texted Mr. Perfect "would you still love me if I shaved my head for childhood cancer awareness?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I will always love you" he replied. And 10 minutes later he added, "Maybe I'll do it too."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt a wave of strength, like we could do this. <i>We could make a difference</i>. I went up front, with the office scissors and asked the girls if they wanted to cut off my hair. No guts, no glory, we needed enough for Locks of Love. We measured and found I had well over 10 inches, about 12 or 13 in fact, in my ponytail. So, we cut.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I was left with a really cute cut and a lot of hair to send to Locks Of Love. Then, something else happened. My Sudden Attack Of Conscience sent me a message and asked me if I wanted to drive to Chicago at the end of the month, to attend a Saint Baldrick's Event in honor of Donna. And I said ABSOLUTELY.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I knew this meant some heads were going to get shaved. And I knew I'm always down for a double dog dare. So, I went to the St. Baldricks website and set up a team.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/teams/mypage/84780/2013" target="_blank">McTip's Snips DONATE HERE!</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If $50 is donated, Mr. Perfect will shave his head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If $250 is donated, Mr. P and Eldest daughter will shave her head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If $1000 is donated, all 3 of us will.<br /><br />All it takes is 1000 people to donate ONE DOLLAR.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Will you be part of this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">http://www.acco.org/Information/AboutChildhoodCancer/ChildhoodCancerStatistics.aspx</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">http://www.newswise.com/articles/parents-update-pediatric-cancer-myths-facts</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.stbaldricks.org/teams/mypage/84780/2013" target="_blank">McTip's Snips DONATE EVEN A DOLLAR HERE!</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/mary-tyler-mom/donnas-cancer-story-2/" target="_blank">Donna's Cancer Story</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Tyler-Mom/159776680754263?ref=ts&fref=ts" target="_blank">Mary Tyler Mom</a> <br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/mysuddenattack?ref=ts&fref=ts" target="_blank">My Sudden Attack of Conscience</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2013/03/mctips-snips-part-two.html" target="_blank">McTip's Snips Part 2</a> </span></span></div>
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jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-37382156576798829632013-01-24T10:47:00.003-08:002013-01-24T10:56:02.265-08:00Hi. My Name is Jeanna and I'm Boring.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I have a confession. I'M BORING. I go to work Monday through Friday. I
sit at a desk. Then I go home. I have kids and dogs. When I’m at work I
daydream about boring things like naps. My favorite way to spend an evening is
in front of my wood burning stove, maybe with a dog on me, next to my fiancé. Eating.
He is also boring. We are monogamous. I don’t even drink.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Hell, I don’t even eat bacon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m boring and that’s why people like me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We live in a world that has become so impersonal and so segregated from
the community, that people all feel crazy. They feel alone. They feel lost. And
they feel hopelessly “different”. Human beings were meant to be communal
animals. <span style="color: #990000;">Being with others is an integral aspect of our ability to be alone. We
derive our consciousness of self through the reflections of others.</span> We learn “self”
reflection by acknowledging our likenesses with others. From viewing “without”
we gain insight to “within”. And this ability to self reflect, well, “sapience”,
“to know”, is a vital part of being a “homo sapien”.<br />
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I turn on the TV at home and see a show about people who write parking tickets.
We make dinner with Honey Boo Boo’s family. We go tuna fishing with a group of
strange guys. Why? Are these lives really more interesting than our own? Why do
we care about things that aren’t that interesting? Why do we care about people
like ourselves?<br />
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<span style="color: #990000;">Simply, because, we can relate.</span><br />
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We live in a world that moves fast. We have the ability to access so much
knowledge of so many interesting things. Most of us possess this ability in the
palm of our hands. We, for the first time in history, are able to know how NOT
interesting we all are. Most of us live simple lives. So, when we see a glimmer
of recognition in the mediocrity of someone else’s life, we cling to it. <i><span style="color: #990000;">We
cling to it and breathe a sigh of relief that we aren’t missing out on a life
better lived.<br />
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And the more we get to know each other, the more we delve past the surface and
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mediocre lives, it is our individual experiences and our ability to share them,
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><i>***Dedicated to Mary, who says I'm not interesting.</i><br /><span id="goog_1252325760"></span><span id="goog_1252325761"></span><br /><br /><br /><span id="goog_1252325758"></span><span id="goog_1252325759"></span><br /><br /></span></span></div>
jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-24220037766314662013-01-05T07:14:00.000-08:002013-01-05T07:37:36.528-08:00How I wooed him in.<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As most folks know, Mr. P and I met on Facebook. But it was not the online dating experience one might expect. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He was FB friends with my ex husband's cousin. They went to prom together back in the days when everyone was skinny and he had a giant high school porn star mustache. I've seen the pictures. She looked stoned and he had a protruding <span style="font-size: small;">adam's apple and bad posture. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He added me because I made him laugh. I imagine he spent all day, as a stay at home dad, online waiting for pics of her to pop up so that he could read our commentaries. Knowing this made me want to delve into the past and find his first comments. Back when he called me "she" (because he was posting on my pics that Cousin was tagged in). Back to the beginning of how we met. Mr. P and me, and apparently, we started with a duckface....</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kuxOkAd3Pnc/UOg33F26BrI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/eDH5WOiaMNE/s1600/5061_1120845753570_1092761_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kuxOkAd3Pnc/UOg33F26BrI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/eDH5WOiaMNE/s640/5061_1120845753570_1092761_n.jpg" width="427" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[1]"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Comments on this picture, July 1, 2009:</span><br /><span style="color: red;">Me:</span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> I would prefer to be Latoya.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[181].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171510}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171535}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> I've always been Penny therefore I am Janet<abbr>.</abbr></span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]">Me: </span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Ms. Jackson ( I'm nasty)</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171538}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171548}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171548}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171548}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Nasty pretty much sums us up.</span></span></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">Me:<span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">yep.</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120845753570&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171549&offset=0&total_comments=30" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246410889" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171549}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Tuesday, June 30, 2009 at 9:14pm"></abbr></a></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171559}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171559}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171559}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171559}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">'tonite, I'm livin in a fantasy, my own little nasty world, tonite, dontcha wanna come w me, do u think I'm a nasty girl!'</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[2]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[2]">Me</span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[2]"><span style="color: red;">:</span> </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171561}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[2]">Who's that thinkin' nasty thoughts?</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171565}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span>who's dancin 2 my nasty groove?!</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171568}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> I hate u. U r photogenic. I have 2 b appreciated in person. good thing I dnt need 2 do any internet dating!</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171569}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> No my first name ain't baby...</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171572}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171572}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin</span>: </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171572}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171572}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171572}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">...sittin in the movie show thinkin nasty thoughts.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> i was channeling some Vanity 6 earlier. much nastier, more our speed.</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120845753570&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171573&offset=0&total_comments=30" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246412766" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171573}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Tuesday, June 30, 2009 at 9:46pm"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> I don't like no nasty car, I don't like a nasty food!</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120845753570&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171574&offset=0&total_comments=30" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246412784" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171574}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Tuesday, June 30, 2009 at 9:46pm"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171575}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> Hey, what was the hateful comment stuck in there? U r gorgeous!</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171576}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> lol! yeah but i take crappy pics. it was a compliment!! 'hate' meaning 'love'. kinda like how 'no' means 'yes'!</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"><span style="color: red;">Me</span>: </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Right! As long as they're wet!</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171578}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">OMG!
we r TOTALLY sharing a brain 2day! I was gonna put that in next! I
swear! Why did those Drs ever separate us and adopt us out 2 diff
families in the first place?? Damn them! Damn them all 2 hell! ...and
they took our brother [other fb friend] away as well, which was prob a good thing
since he has no reservations about sibling sex<abbr>.</abbr></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><abbr><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> </abbr></span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120845753570&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171584&offset=0&total_comments=30" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246413336" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171584}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Tuesday, June 30, 2009 at 9:55pm"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">he's scerry.</span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120845753570&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171586&offset=0&total_comments=30" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246413382" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171586}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Tuesday, June 30, 2009 at 9:56pm"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171589}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> so r we actually related to [ex-husband]? maybe im more like [fb friend] than i want to admit...</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171594}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> no, [ex-husband] was found in the dumpster behind Fraser Ice Arena. That's why he
doesn't look like us. [fb friend] is frightening but we are more dangerous.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171595}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me:</span> oh so its not even weird that he is madly in love with yo<abbr>u!</abbr></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171600}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Cousin: Right! Damn, i was gonna mention that 2. The 'force' is strong btwn us 2nite</span></span></span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: purple;">THE ENTRY OF MR. P: </span>1st
of all, very cute pic!!! 2nd,,,,,, reading this, you two need a comedy
show!!!! You two ROCK!!!!! Or a reality show, could you emagine???? LOL</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"><span style="color: red;">Cousin:</span> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Yes I could imagine bcz we r funny, but it would have 2 be an internet routine since we are at our funniest online.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172081}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Mr: P: </span>Oh to be fly on the wall!!!!</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172108}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me: </span>i know a web designer....</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_171986}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: red;">Me: </span>[Cousin],
we should set up a website. I'm serious. We will be billionaires. I
could finally buy the team of cabana boys I've been saving up for. You
could have fried chicken every night. And pay naked men to oil up and
mow your lawn. Things would be perfect.</span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span style="color: red;">Me: </span>[Mr.P]r would be our first web customer for sure.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]">That was it. From that moment he was hooked. He would like all my photos for the next 2 years. He would "laugh his butt off" and give {{hugs}} whenever I was sad. Cousin and I would tease him, calling him "Norman Rockwell" with his statuses about his kids and cleaning and how he loved them, God, his country and fuzzy animals everywhere. I would roll my eyes at "Mr. Perfect."<br /><br />And tell him to "stop being so obviously, in love with me."</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]">On August 14, 2011 we met for lunch. Just because we talked so much online we might as well. It wasn't a date. It was a curiosity. It was a whythehecknot. It was a wehavebecomefriends. And I knew. I knew right then and there as I said "hi", I would marry the guy. I didn't know when or how, but I knew I would.<br /><br />So...Happy birthday Mr. Perfect. I love you and am so glad you thought I was funny! May I always make you laugh.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QddWXnaqgcQ/UOhAr9rwusI/AAAAAAAAAKk/0uzStgxjGuE/s1600/317538_4448437341280_1432674449_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QddWXnaqgcQ/UOhAr9rwusI/AAAAAAAAAKk/0uzStgxjGuE/s200/317538_4448437341280_1432674449_n.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[248].[1][2][1]{comment1120845753570_172524}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]">And the reason I started My Children Think I'm Perfect, to deal with http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2012/04/never-wake-bleeding-bear.html</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C07qIiot0nc/UOg2W3NtIlI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/1OuQOWq0JxA/s1600/5061_1120847473613_5129108_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C07qIiot0nc/UOg2W3NtIlI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/1OuQOWq0JxA/s400/5061_1120847473613_5129108_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: purple;">July 1, 2009:</span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span style="color: purple;">Mr. P:</span> She just ruined this pic!!! </span></span></span><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1120847473613&set=a.1120840513439.19149.1599863733&type=1&comment_id=171993&offset=0&total_comments=3" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1246451047" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Wednesday, July 1, 2009 at 8:24am"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_171993}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[1]"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_172044}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="color: purple;">Me:</span><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_172044}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_172044}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_172044}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[139].[1][2][1]{comment1120847473613_172044}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">not if u saw the bottom half...</span></span></span></span></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_E_Pe3hBFBM/UOhCGsmO9lI/AAAAAAAAAK4/Z8rj_n13Pbg/s1600/312761_2233301164260_7450742_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_E_Pe3hBFBM/UOhCGsmO9lI/AAAAAAAAAK4/Z8rj_n13Pbg/s400/312761_2233301164260_7450742_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our first photo together 2011</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-76823195765841332652012-12-19T07:46:00.001-08:002012-12-19T13:22:47.908-08:00Putting On My Socks (A Quick Jaunt into Panic)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToiOSIjsnPk/UNIwEh94loI/AAAAAAAAAJo/-C9HZgaaw1w/s1600/207536_1024553066313_7541_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToiOSIjsnPk/UNIwEh94loI/AAAAAAAAAJo/-C9HZgaaw1w/s200/207536_1024553066313_7541_n.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The kids weren't at home. Mr. Perfect was at work. The day had started off miserably, so I figured the quiet house was begging me to take a nap. And I did. It was the hardest I had slept in months, I was solidly tucked into dreamworld, comfortably pantsless and wedged between my squishy pillow and the rhythmic breaths of my sleeping dog.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I woke two hours later, startled by my phone. Mr. P was on lunch and wondering what I was up to. Nap guilt washed over me. Sleep, as is the case for most moms, is my guiltiest pleasure. "Not much," I assured him. I drifted downstairs and threw a frozen pizza in the oven. Thank goodness for lonely days where I can sleep when I want and eat what I want, I thought. I sat down and absent-minded flipped through the Kindergartener's backpack papers that were strewn on the table. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I was contemplating ordering over-priced meats of which 5% would go back to his school, I noticed my heart was racing. That's strange, I thought. I must just be tired. Am I dehydrated? Did I take my thyroid medication? Did I take it all week? What if I collapsed and died alone with the oven on? I went back to the papers, signing off on his report card. I smiled, he is too social and having a hard time following directions? Ha, what a shocker. Son of a bitch, why am I having palpitations?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I got up and checked the pizza. It was difficult to tell myself to walk to the kitchen, but this pizza was taking what seemed like hours. I took it out of oven and cut off a giant piece. I sat back down, winded and shoved it into my mouth. I chewed thoughtlessly and swallowed. I hated eating the pizza, but something felt wrong and my mouth seemed to be working so I went with it. I devoured another slice while I listened to my heart race. I tried to catch my breath. I felt panicked, but I also felt to still be half asleep. I crawled upstairs and laid back down. It suddenly hit me what was occurring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was having an attack. It had been so long since I had a panic attack. I didn't want to. I started sobbing hysterically. I hated being so screwed up. Why had I eaten that pizza? All I did was get fatter and now I'm back in bed. I needed to go outside but I couldn't get to my sock drawer. It was so far away. I was fairly certain my underwear were suffocating me. GET THEM OFF. I couldn't, though. I was never happy when I wore these underwear, was I? I thought if I could get up and kill myself I would. The man who lived here before me did. Imagine what they would say about the creepy suicide house in the woods! Maybe I was possessed by him. I knew I shouldn't have stopped taking my anti-anxiety meds 2 weeks before. Why was I still in bed? A normal person would just GET UP AND PUT ON THE FUCKING SOCKS. Breathe, breathe, breathe. You are a fucking nutjob, I told myself. Snot and tears covered my face. I looked at my phone. I had been crying for an HOUR. Nausea pushed me from my paralysis and I slid from my bed, like an obese, insane snake. I crept on all fours into the bathroom and threw up my pizza. As I started to breathe again, I noticed most my day was gone. I begged myself to get in the tub. I sat in the water until I began to shiver. I begged myself to get out. You can do it, I pleaded. Get dressed. Put on a shirt. Good job. Put on pants. Yes! Put on socks. No? Skip socks, then, put on shoes. See? Leave the house. You HAVE to get out. You have to breathe. STAND UP. STAND UP and go take your medication.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sometimes, my hands go numb. Sometimes, I just cannot catch my breath. Sometimes, it takes me hours to convince myself to put on my socks. I have to be extra careful during those strange moments between waking and sleeping. I have generalized anxiety disorder. There are triggers, but occasionally I will just be happy as a dancing clam and I will feel the nagging tightness in my chest. I used to be paralyzed by it. Now, I am a seasoned warrior.</span><br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OYssaeHnkQs/UNHfCNALzjI/AAAAAAAAAJA/ugrXZGyKA_8/s1600/600063_353242861412747_1742728557_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OYssaeHnkQs/UNHfCNALzjI/AAAAAAAAAJA/ugrXZGyKA_8/s320/600063_353242861412747_1742728557_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What they didn't know was that she was a warrior, a survivor of a thousand battles, within her head.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-83486722677863321172012-10-26T13:15:00.002-07:002012-10-26T13:15:57.543-07:00Missing: Parent<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Last night, as I lay in bed adding celebratory pictures for the Facebook
page’s 6 month anniversary, Mr. Perfect came into our room sobbing. Not tears
in the eyes, general weepiness, but full on spastic, chest heaving, gasping for
air sobbing. Anyone else might have thought someone he loved just died. But I
knew better.<br />
<br />
For his son’s recent 8<sup>th</sup> birthday we bought him an iPod. We bought
it for him not so he could download Minecraft, 12 versions of Angry Birds or
the football game he loved to play on his dad’s phone, but so he could have
Facetime. We bought it the week his dad came to live with us in the Treehouse,
an hour north of his kids. We bought it so that every night he could see his
daddy and so his daddy could see him and his sister. We grasped methodically at
ways to allow a parent/child relationship to flourish, without kisses
goodnight. Mr. P had just gotten off a call where his six year old daughter
begged him to retire so that he could take them trick or treating. He told them
he loved them and put them to bed.<br />
<br />
It’s not the same to say “I love you best buddy” without being able to ruffle
your son’s golden hair and pull up his covers tight. It is not the same to tell
your princess it’s time for bed, without being able to tickle her tiny body,
smooth back her messy hair and kiss her forehead. For a parent, who loves their
children, to infinity, it’s not enough.<br />
<br />
“I want to smell them.” He sobbed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> When my children’s father and I first split I tried hard to keep him
updated on their lives. I sent texts of our 2 year old son doing cute things
and our daughter’s accomplishments. I sent adorable pictures of his smiling
offspring, happily adapting to their new lives, splashing in the pool, jumping
at the park, dressed up for events. Sometimes he responded, sometimes not. One
day he sent me a text back and told me to stop “guilt tripping” him. I honestly
didn’t understand. <br />
<br />
There have been many times in my life where I have passive aggressively played
dumb in order to solicit a response, logically back someone into a corner and
intellectually dominate them. Heavens knows, I’m practically a professional Facebooker.
Knowing how one comment can affect the next is an interesting game to play in
the land of words. This time though, I was clueless. The last thing I wanted to
do was tell him anything. The last thing I wanted was contact at all with their
heartbreaking dad. I kept him “up-to-date” because I thought I had to,
according to the court mandates and what was probably best for the kids. I was
enraged at the thought that having children hurt him and he was choosing to
withdraw. I let him know the children would like to hear from him. I gave my
daughter a phone. I stopped “bothering” him. I decided if he wanted to call
her, he could, and vice versa. He let go and stepped into the role, I’ve not so
affectionately named, The Wallet Father; obligatory every other weekend visits
(usually) and scheduled child support payments. He is lost to communication in between.<br />
<br />
I will never know if he is off living the life he prefers or if he was just
unable to cope. Unfortunately and more importantly, neither will his children.
And no child should have to wonder whether their parent actually cares.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Mr. Perfect was a stay at home dad and when he did go back to work, he
worked midnights so that he could be with his 2 young children during the day.
When he was little he only wanted to “be a dad” when he grew up. He considers
his children his dreams come true. Being a devoted father is how he has defined
his last 8 years and who he is in this world. His ex-wife was the primary
breadwinner and he was the booboo kisser, sandwich cutter and the guy you
called for play dates. He loved his position as Daddy. I loved him as a father
on Facebook, a friend of a friend, long before I knew there was an option of
falling in love with him as man. <br /><br />
When his divorce originally was finalized a joint arrangement was worked out.
He worked nights and picked the kids up from school, dropping them back off
with their mom for the night. In the summer he picked them up at 2:30 am on his
way home from work. He did his best to have his children as much as he did
living in the same home. It became an impossible battle. He knew he could no
longer do his dangerous night job and live sleepless days, entertaining two
bored kids in his tiny apartment. He also knew moving to days meant giving up
his joint status.</span>
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We knew it wasn’t going to be easy. We knew he would ache for them. No one
could question his devotion. Or could they? As Mr. Perfect slipped into the
non-custodial role everything changed. How does he now define himself? How does
he keep his connection? What if they don’t miss him? What if they do? Can you
wish for your children to be happy but also take a smidge of glee in them being
sad? If you choose to go home early and drive one way rather than another, do
you become unfit? How do you cope with the absolute destruction of a dream and
transform it into an acceptable reality? Does eating breakfast with my 2
children remind him of what he had or does it close the hole and make it all a
little easier to handle? Should I hug him or let him be? Am I doing enough? I
held him as he sobbed, like a child lost, but he was a father, missing his
identity and weeping in my arms. His happiness, health and future versus what…?
What was right?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
We live in a country where 50% of marriages end in divorce. Nearly 25% of
parents do not live with their kids. Add in the children who never had married
parents and we have an enormous amount of non-custodial parents out there who
are missing their children right now. Where is their support I wondered? How
many times have I taken the grand power of being the sole caregiver? How many
times have I complained about absent parents? Can I imagine the guilt, pain,
uncertainty and longing these parents feel? I cannot. I was blessed to have my
children with me through ever step of the chaos that was divorce. In my most
imperfect of days I was still able to smell them, still able to feel the
incredible burden of doing it on my own; and take credit. No one ever doubted
my loyalty and most importantly I didn’t need to doubt myself.</span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><br />
Here it is, if you are a non-custodial parent, mom or dad, no matter your
story, I am asking that you share it here with other parents. This can be done
completely anonymously if you wish. I want to know you, support you and I hope
together we can find ways to ease the pain and strengthen the bonds between
absent parent and child. Personal stories, tips on blending families, custody,
staying connected, active non-present parenting, distance parenting will be
incredibly appreciated. Please send me a facebook message at </span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/Mychildrenthinkimperfect">www.facebook.com/Mychildrenthinkimperfect</a>.</span></span></div>
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jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-52306633555305059372012-07-29T07:20:00.000-07:002013-03-29T10:11:58.256-07:00Reflection<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>This post is a celebration of one year since the night of <span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><a href="http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2012/05/unsinkable.html" target="_blank">Unsinkable</a>.</span> It should be read first. Thank you.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My apartment smells of bananas. I am not harboring monkeys, despite what the downstairs neighbors may have thought over the past two years, my children running and screaming and jumping all hours of the day and night. No, I am moving. The walls are lined with banana boxes, picked up in sets of 5 or 6 from the grocery store. Inside I pack the contents of my life; 25 boxes of books, 6 boxes of shoes, dishes, paints, blankets and other acquisitions with which I define my life. Packing, unlike cleaning, is comforting to me. Packing is organizing the past and preparing it for the future. Cleaning is hiding, hiding stains and dirt, removing them from existence and putting things away, lost behind cupboard doors and in drawers. As the stacks of boxes grow taller, the apartment grows tidier. The children and I glide</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> around our towers of possessions, labeling their ownership with a purple magic marker, trying not to stub our toes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I spray Windex on my bathroom mirror and scrub hard, but the writing merely fades. Apparently it is going to be harder to remove the words than I thought it would be when I wrote them two years ago: "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step- Lao Tzu" printed in black Sharpie. <span style="color: #f4cccc;"><i>Is moving to a house my 'step' or my 'thousand miles'? I wondered, smiling. </i></span>Moments are letters that become words to the chapters of our lives. The ending of a chapter is not the end of the book. I scraped at 'thousand' with my nail and decided I would consider this the first in many thousands of miles.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Last time I printed these words it was on a chalkboard in rec room at the hospital. One year ago, I chose the quote of the day. I looked around at the addicts, the schizophrenic, the compulsively lying teenage girl who spent hours a day on the phone at the end of the hall, giggling with various men, telling each how she loved them. It seemed like a good quote, despite the fact that a year of having it on my bathroom mirror hadn't done me much good. I wrote it across the chalkboard in pink chalk and dedicated it to the skinny old biker who was recovering from a heroin addiction and suicide attempt. He had lent me a hair tie earlier in the day which the nurse had acquiesced to letting me use, despite my restrictions. He laughed and I egotistically told myself I was helping him. Chronically addicted to deflecting my own painful need to let go, I dedicated it to him with no idea that my step from the hospital on Monday would be my first step to my 'thousand miles'.</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A couple days ago I was thinking to myself how well I am doing for a 33 year old. I am educated, have a good job, am purchasing my own home on four acres, I have two fantastic kids, one starting kindergarten next week and another starting middle school next month. I drive a nice car and I have some good friends. I have a loving and funny boyfriend. I'm 33, still young, not bad at all. One year ago all I could think<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"> </span>is of how<span style="color: #f4cccc;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> I had lost 13 years</span></span></i><span style="color: #f4cccc;">.</span> And now I feel ahead of the game, or at least right on time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Two years ago I printed the words at the top of my mirror. I was broken, split and determined to find myself. For a year I clung to identities and filled my every moment with self realizing activities, which kept me busy and deflected my pain. I took pottery classes and watched art films on the lonely nights that my children left. I volunteered at the soup kitchen and the community garden. I worked out. I kayaked and biked, I sweat and I bled. I tried to purge the guilt of failure, to "clean up" my identity through good karma and positive living. I scraped up my old life and hid it in cupboards and drawers until I became a hoarder of my past. And then, one year ago, I took my first step. I stopped trying to find myself and accepted who I was. I stopped searching and started living. Today I celebrate the anniversary of pulling away from the dock.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One year from now I might look back on what I thought I knew now and laugh. Realizing this makes me happy. No good journey ends at a thousand miles.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-20852298859884213632012-07-20T14:45:00.001-07:002012-07-20T15:34:30.412-07:00Not My Problem...Yet.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was walking out of Walmart when my ears were accosted by the words.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Get your ass in the store, woman."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I looked up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"Get your ass in the store. Get your f**king ass in the store."</span><br /><br />A couple was walking across the parking lot coming toward me. The woman was walking ahead of the man, her face gave no expression. "F**k you, bitch, get your ass in the store." The man trailed behind her, taunting her. For a moment I thought, "maybe they're playing." Maybe, he was teasing her. But his rant continued. "F**k you, bitch." Again and again. I stood, appalled. I didn't know what to do as I walked in their direction. I wanted to say "no, f**k YOU, asshole, don't talk to her like that!" But I knew better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Mr. Perfect had recently sat before the gun board to get his concealed weapons permit. He told me how many people were there. He relayed to me the story of a man who had a domestic violence charge on his rap sheet. The man on the board fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable giving this man the right to carry a weapon. The wife hadn't pressed charges. Having no conviction, the board had no reason to say no. The man got his permit. I knew too many people carry weapons. I knew this man before me could be one of them. I couldn't react for my own safety. I couldn't react because it might cause him to go home and beat her. I stood helpless and stared.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">She turned, just slightly and told him to shut up. He continued his tirade of profanities. I stood in the parking lot and stared him in the eyes. I willed him to look at me. I willed him to challenge me. I dared him to turn his hate toward me, a stranger, who would not have been willing to take it. I refused to ignore him.<br /><br />The woman turned around and walked back to her car. He followed her. I walked toward my vehicle. She got into the driver's seat, he got into the passenger's seat and I got into my truck. She stared ahead looking exhausted. He rolled down his window and propped his elbow out. He wasn't a young man, born into a culture that wore pants around their asses and called women bitches. He had a head of silver gray hair; he was born of an era where people knew better. I followed them from the parking lot, my hand on my phone, waiting for him to lay a hand on her. They didn't speak, and I didn't breathe as we slowly drove the expanse of asphalt to the main road. We turned in opposite directions, toward opposite lives. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I left Walmart with new underwear, a DVD and a question burning in my brain: Did I do enough?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">I kept thinking, 40 years ago this wouldn't have been OK. A man walking through a parking lot yelling F bombs, in front of women and children would have been looked at as a crazy person. He could have been arrested. Now no one even looked up. Nobody got involved. It wasn't their problem. We live in a world where everyone has access to everybody's business, but nobody really cares. No one cares because it doesn't affect them; but it does. His words affected my ears. He WAS my problem.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Recently, Michigan passed a law allowing motorcycle riders to ride without wearing a helmet. Some people rejoiced, because it was their heads and their business. Even people who thought it was a stupid rule said, "whatever, it's Darwinism, weed out the idiots, it's their problem." But freedom isn't a personal thing in a society. EVERYTHING we do and are affects other people. If a person dies, riding a motorcycle with no helmet, does it only affect them? What about the person that accidentally hits them and in a moment becomes a killer? What about the children that might be in the car or the drivers on the road who witness the smearing of the cyclist's brains on the street? What about the EMS workers and the doctors who will work three times as hard to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, called away from their lives and families because the rider wanted the freedom to be unsafe? We affect each other.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Individuality is a right. Who we worship, how we dress, what we read and believe is a right in this country, and thank goodness. But how we act and what we do cannot be. We are a society made up of communities of people, and our actions affect others. No longer can we afford to be OK with violence and with hatred. No longer can we sit idly by and smirk off people we deem "not our problem." This is reality, one cannot simply change the channel and move on. There was a time when certain behaviors were shameful, because people said something. It is time we spoke up and out about what is not OK.<br /><br />Staring evil down and willing it to become your problem is not enough. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I write this with a heavy heart thinking of the many victims, families and friends affected by the horrible Colorado movie theater shooting. Hindsight is always 20/20, but I know I will always wonder about the Walmart woman. And it makes me wonder if we also let this shooter slide by, until he became...our problem.</i></span></span><br />
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<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-35516555867592921042012-07-15T21:31:00.003-07:002013-04-24T20:12:29.043-07:00I Might Be Batty, But I Love Who I Am<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was sitting on my bed when it swooped over my head. "Oh my God," I thought, "there's a bird in my room!" Then it struck me that birds don't normally fly around in apartments, so I thought, "The missing hamster! It's flying around in my room! It's been found!" Then I realized hamsters don't fly. So, I ran out and slammed the door the behind me. Feeling curious, I cracked the door just a bit; to see the bat perched on the tapestry that hung above my bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I had a bat in my house. It took to it's swooping, circling my bedroom in a frenzy, so, feeling slightly nauseous, I again slammed the door. I called Mr. Perfect and told him we had a situation. Normally I wouldn't have called him, not at 1:30 in the morning, even being vaguely aware I was dealing with a man job. I normally wouldn't have called him because I wouldn't have felt this was "his problem." The reason I allowed myself the call was because his children were sound asleep in the other room. Their presence somehow made it appropriate for bat containment to become his issue. He left work as soon as he could. While I waited I Googled "how to catch a bat". Information is power and armed with a cyber diagram, I donned a winter jacket, grabbed a tennis racket and a towel and prepared myself to take care of the problem. I swung open my bedroom door, walked in, stared at the little brown fur ball attached to the wall and prepared for battle. It started flying at me, so I screamed and ran out, slamming the door. Again.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sj_GkC6GOjM/UAOWPMcyaZI/AAAAAAAAAGk/WjPn9lgY7t4/s1600/little-brown-bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sj_GkC6GOjM/UAOWPMcyaZI/AAAAAAAAAGk/WjPn9lgY7t4/s200/little-brown-bat.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Mr. Perfect arrived, we couldn't locate the bat. Until the middle of the afternoon the next day. He took it out with the same racket I had left on the other side of the door. He took its lifeless little body out on the back porch tossed it up in the air, like a perfect serve, and lobbed it over the back fence. I, of course, cried, wishing it could have lived.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tonight I sit in my bat free room, wondering what I would have done if there was no man to come and rescue me. And I stumbled upon an interesting reality about who I am. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fBaC1vvIJFI/UAOWtb-PK4I/AAAAAAAAAGs/V0t2-5MbC-k/s1600/count_cape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fBaC1vvIJFI/UAOWtb-PK4I/AAAAAAAAAGs/V0t2-5MbC-k/s200/count_cape.jpg" width="123" /></a> I would have given the bat my room.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let's be honest, I'm moving soon anyway. So I really think, that for the next month, I would have just let the bat have the room. During the day I would have gone in and packed up my stuff, always conscious that Mr. Bat was nearby. I would have slept on the couch. I would have carefully kept the door shut and advised the children to stay out. I would have studied it when it was perched and screamed at it when it swooped, but all in all, I would have left it alone.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #b4a7d6;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is why I love living on my own. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I really, really like doing things my way. I like wearing the same outfit all weekend. When I read a book I like to start and finish it in the same sitting. If I stay up until 6 am reading, I just take a nap the next day. Taking a nap, for me, makes far more sense than cleaning a garage. I name trees and talk to frogs. Sometimes, I eat bowl after bowl of dry Life cereal for dinner. I like to eat out when I feel like it. I like to sit around and tell stories. I like to stare at the wall and think about things. I'd have no problem letting a bat boarder take over my room. The only time I use the clock is when it comes to work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm acutely aware that my living style is not the "normal" grown-up one. I have asked Mr. Perfect if it was going to bother him, when we live together, if I spend a whole day decorating a tree, or painting stripes on the wooden walkways, or sleeping away my days off of work. Will it bother him if rather than matching up socks, I just stop wearing socks for a while? Will he understand that I cannot do the dishes until I've finished another chapter? I am scared of these questions, because after almost 3 years of being on my own, I like my life the way it is. It's a calming life. I don't want to change it, but I know myself and know I will readily change things to make the people I love happy. Up until the point where I can't take it anymore. And breaking points are never a good thing.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ti1l5A7_Mkc/UAOXdwKgKEI/AAAAAAAAAG0/i7_EzluS560/s1600/Oma-Ibarrola-2007052722181814xm1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ti1l5A7_Mkc/UAOXdwKgKEI/AAAAAAAAAG0/i7_EzluS560/s200/Oma-Ibarrola-2007052722181814xm1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's a peculiar thing, knowing oneself. Defending an identity is tricky, because so much of a relationship is about compromise. As wonderful as it is having someone there to kill your spiders and trap your bats, pick up a gallon of milk or tell you they love you at night, it's also a situation requiring sacrifice. Some bats may die and some selfish moments of lazy reflection may be compromised. I am going to have to change and that, I am very uncomfortable with, because I have spent so much time building the confidence to be exactly who I am: A woman willing to share space with a bat, as long as it lets her sneak in a get her blanket out. And her phone charger.</span><br />
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<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-89945327416668825242012-07-11T09:07:00.000-07:002012-07-11T09:07:00.774-07:00I'm still here...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LULLCY44YHU/T_2kID-eWEI/AAAAAAAAAGY/YtsUcVJHuOk/s1600/374831_2532127434730_820567042_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am acutely aware I have not been writing. Every night the awareness seeps into my skull, tsk tsking at me like a Catholic mother, filling me with guilt. I have lists of things I want to say. My brain drips with words. But nothing can seem to hit the screen. It's like I can never tell my story until that story is done and I find myself back in the seam, between two chapters of my life and it leaves me tongue tied. Just as I had adapted to my "new life", my <a href="http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2012/05/unsinkable.html" target="_blank">Unsinkable Life</a>, here I am on the Journey into the Woods; moving again, redefining again, transitioning again.<br /><br />My new house has a writer's desk, in an artist's room. And it seems my brain, until I am sitting in that chair, is holding back. All I can promise is that it's coming. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LULLCY44YHU/T_2kID-eWEI/AAAAAAAAAGY/YtsUcVJHuOk/s1600/374831_2532127434730_820567042_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LULLCY44YHU/T_2kID-eWEI/AAAAAAAAAGY/YtsUcVJHuOk/s320/374831_2532127434730_820567042_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7523489649520395240.post-68047531931140897612012-06-14T22:40:00.000-07:002013-04-08T07:12:13.953-07:00My Bad Parenting Moment: Let Them Eat Cake.<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1sAt6s9gxts/T9rENBgtfMI/AAAAAAAAAFM/Os5X9pHDx_g/s1600/vintage_housewife_cooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1sAt6s9gxts/T9rENBgtfMI/AAAAAAAAAFM/Os5X9pHDx_g/s320/vintage_housewife_cooking.jpg" width="281" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before we begin this tale, I need to tell you something; I don't bake. At least, I don't bake desserts. I can make a MEAN vegetarian lasagna, but cookies, cakes and pies I leave to the professionals. There are 2 reasons: Mainly, I don't like to measure when I cook and secondly, I hate decorating. Don't get me wrong, I desperately WANT to like decorating, as I consider myself somewhat of an artist. I even have a whole Pinterest board dedicated to awesome fondant covered designs. The problem is, I have the attention span of a gnat. So, lets say I bake 2 dozen sugar cookies; I will decorate the most beautiful hand painted cookie you have ever seen, but the next 15 will just have frosting smeared across the top. The last 8 cookies I'll throw at the kids, plain, and tell them they are lucky I feed them. Frosting food is boring. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My boyfriend's daughter was turning 6. He didn't have much planned for her birthday. She had been planning for 6 months, though, since she was five and A HALF, so I KNEW we had damn well better do something. I decided I would make her The Cake of Her Dreams. Basically, I was kissing up, so he would be awed by my sexy, domestic skills and his parents would see how much I loved her. I wouldn't bake a birthday cake for MY kids. I go to the grocery store and buy cupcakes, candles and have the nice bakery employees squirt their names on top with green icing. I said I would make this cake so his little girl would know I loved her and so she would love me more than anyone else who ever made her a cake for the rest of her life. Plus, I dig a challenge. Bad parenting problem number one: self serving love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Me: If you could have an cake in the whole world what flavor would it be?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her: Pink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Me: Like strawberry?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her: Yes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Me: And what animal would it be shaped like?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her: I don't know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Me: What's your most favorite animal in the world?!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her: Rats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And so, I faced the challenge of making a STRAWBERRY RAT CAKE. Like the kind every demented little girl dreams about for her 6th birthday. Yeah, no problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vFCZEVXJfjI/T9rGacNd0BI/AAAAAAAAAFc/jthXLqINThU/s1600/525951_3105990300056_533832129_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vFCZEVXJfjI/T9rGacNd0BI/AAAAAAAAAFc/jthXLqINThU/s320/525951_3105990300056_533832129_n.jpg" width="283" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I planned the cake for weeks. Once an idea settles into my head it doesn't go away. My brain is like Miracle Gro. That idea roots in and becomes enormous; well nourished by habitual daydreaming. I plotted exactly how I wanted to go about constructing The Rat Cake. I told myself it was completely possible. I told everyone I knew I was baking it, thus, making it impossible to back out. They all eagerly awaiting pictures of the cake. I pretended to know what I was doing and set my plans in motion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step one: make the cake batter. I mixed strawberry cake mix (from a box, I'm not a masochist) into two loaf pans. When they were done baking I placed them on the counter to cool. I was amazed. The little pink mounds actually looked like they were made of cake. So far so good. I turned to my kids and said "<span style="color: #e06666;">NOBODY is to touch these cakes</span>. They need to cool." Which I assumed they did. I wasn't really sure if cakes are supposed to cool, but I think I read about cooling cakes in a book, so it sounded legit. "DO NOT touch the cakes!" I warned. Being that my kids had heard me talking nothing but Rat Cake for weeks, I knew they knew how important this was. So I retreated to my room, with my computer, to stare at pictures of rats, still determining the appropriate fur pattern.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--3XJS65bBR4/T9rHbPIuGkI/AAAAAAAAAFk/RQpd_WvUQ-U/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--3XJS65bBR4/T9rHbPIuGkI/AAAAAAAAAFk/RQpd_WvUQ-U/s200/images.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">About an hour and a half later (I admit, I might have drifted into Sleepytown for a few), I emerged to frost the cake. I walked into the kitchen and saw it; bite sized chunks taken from the sides of the cake, from head to tail. Some little mouse had been nibbling on my rat. Following the crumb trail it became quickly apparent who the culprit was. After all, it was cake. And I have a fat kid. One who doesn't listen. My eyes kept widening. I felt that wave come over me, my rational brain said, '<span style="color: #e06666;">Stop. Breathe. You are going to freak out in a completely inappropriate way.</span>' But my other brain (temporary disassociation?) said, 'Fuck you brain. I HAVE to freak out, so they get it. I'm going to go overboard, ON PURPOSE and I don't care.' I herded the children into their room where I unleashed it; my Very Bad Parenting Moment. Just understand, I had really put A LOT (of thought) into the stupid cake! Bad parenting problem number two: great expectations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F4zsdz3BbTw/T9rH_VpNIXI/AAAAAAAAAFs/lB7Rg10cqZ0/s1600/lady-screams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F4zsdz3BbTw/T9rH_VpNIXI/AAAAAAAAAFs/lB7Rg10cqZ0/s320/lady-screams.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"HOW DARE YOU!? How could you? Why would you do this to ME? You knew! You knew! I can't do this! There's no more time! There will be no cake, no birthday, no birthdays forever! WHY?"</i> (Incoherent sobbing) <i>"I just wanted to make a cake! I can't get anything I want! You ruin everything! I'm running away! I'm not just running away, I'm running away to another country. FOREVER!"</i> (Run into my room and slam my door) <i>"I am done! I can't do this anymore! I hate you people! I hate my life! I can't!</i>" And I sobbed myself into a pity pile. <i>"I'm never talking to you AGAIN!"</i> I screamed through the closed door. I called my boyfriend. No answer. So, I texted him, "Don't come up. The weekend is canceled. There will be no birthdays for anyone, ever, again." I sent it. And I sobbed. "I'm running away, forever, to another country, without the kids." I texted him a second time. No answer. So I screamed at the door. Not anything in particular. I just screamed from the core of my emotions. From my desperation. From the complete and utter sense of overwhelming that sometimes engulfs me as a mother. I heard my son crying, "mommy doesn't love me" over and over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I screamed I told myself to stop it. I told myself I was being abusive. I told myself I was acting like a child. But, I could not stop. And, the fact that I could not stop, <span style="color: #e06666;">the fact that I hated my utter loss of control made me sink even lower.</span> I collapsed into a pile of unfolded laundry and cried.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then about 30 minutes later, I got up. And went into the kitchen. I got out a knife…</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And I began carving the cake into the shape of a smaller rat.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And I frosted it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ShOHEVMuH3I/T9rJGkrrR8I/AAAAAAAAAF0/ISgYuzXz9F8/s1600/154583_3703767284994_549111445_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ShOHEVMuH3I/T9rJGkrrR8I/AAAAAAAAAF0/ISgYuzXz9F8/s400/154583_3703767284994_549111445_n.jpg" width="285" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I apologized to my children for my words. "We know, mom" my daughter told me. "You are always fine if we just leave you alone for a while. You never run away." She told me. I knew no mother should ever make their child even consider these things, but I appreciated the understanding. It's not easy maintaining sanity when the going gets tough. Or when silly micro-problems break the stressed out camel's back. Especially, for single parents. We have to learn to ask for help. We have to learn to say "Oh RATS" and move on.<span style="color: #e06666;"> The only people who will ever think we are perfect anyways are right there in front of us: Our kids</span>. As to what anyone else thinks… let them eat cake.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yua6pzPLVH8/T9rKShs9SWI/AAAAAAAAAGE/yWz_plx1AIM/s1600/462361_3439003706070_946943723_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yua6pzPLVH8/T9rKShs9SWI/AAAAAAAAAGE/yWz_plx1AIM/s320/462361_3439003706070_946943723_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">We continue to forgive each other. <3 JK</span></td></tr>
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jkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02753009970157918496noreply@blogger.com5