NaNoWriMo and the 30 Days of Write

(Heh. I'm quite proud of that title.)

I have signed myself up for NaNoWriMo. What, you ask is something so ridiulously named? National Novel Writing Month is a project designed to get people like me, people who have been writing for ten years and have 7 pages, to write. Just write. The goal is to write a 50,000 novel in 30 days.

In order to write the approximately 175 pages in only 30 days, you have to do what is so very, very hard for writers like me to do, shut up and write. There is no time for self-doubt, for constant revision, for spending three hours finessing a single sentence of dialog. There is only time to write full-tilt-boogie and get it on paper.

Which, I think will be good for me.

I've decided to NOT do the Great American Novel for this project. Too much pressure. I've been working on it so long and accomplished so little and I know I would just get stymied and stuck, so I've decided to start a new project instead.

To write that much in 30 days, one must average 1,666 words (or approximately 6 pages) per day, every day, for an entire month. Do you think it's of the devil? Should I add a word?

It'll be gruelling. It'll inspire near-suicidally late nights. It'll take a lot out of me.

The hope is that one thing it'll take out of me is a really crappy first draft of a novel. Because, let's face it: a really crappy first draft of a novel is much better than the Great American Novel in my head and 6 pages of stunning dialog on paper.

So, wish me luck. Wish me smooth sailing and silent internal critics. Wish me words.

Is It Just Me?

Have you ever wanted to call someone you hadn't talked to for like 12 years and say, "Hey, I had this dream about you last night and I wanted to call and catch up and also, like, see if you are okay. Because I'm not saying I'm psychic or anything, but I don't usually have dreams about people I haven't talked to in 12 years." But then you decide not to because you think they might find it creepy, but you don't think you would find it creepy.

Unless it wasn't someone you wanted to talk to in the first place. So then you wonder if they don't want to talk to you in the first place and you remember that time you passed them in the mall and it was kinda close to Christmas and a Saturday, so the mall was packed and right in the middle of expounding on how much you hate the mall, you walked past them way on the other side of the corridor and waved and they turned and walked away. And you didn't know if that was on purpose or if they didn't see you, so maybe they don't want to talk to you at all.

Or maybe they just didn't see you. So then you wonder if there's anyone who waved at you and you didn't see and think that maybe you hate them. And wonder if maybe this is the reason for war and strife worldwide. People not seeing each other in the mall and then think that probably not, because it doesn't account for religious war and poverty and class struggles.

Or is it just me? Because, okay, that's specific, but that kind of thing happens to me all the time.
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Do you ever wake up a few minutes late and get so panicked about being a few minutes late that you end up sitting on the edge of the bed freaking out for ten minutes before you realize that this is not an appropriate reaction and actually get up and start getting dressed?
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Do you ever watch marathons of reruns of shows that you never watched (and possibly scorned) when they were actually on TV the first time and end up getting totally addicted to them. This is how I got into Buffy. Fortunately, it wasn't completely off the air yet. Also Ally McBeal. And, yes, I'm ashamed to admit that. I discovered that I love M*A*S*H* after a Memorial Day marathon. I watched that show all the time as a kid, but I always kinda put up with it because Klinger was funny. Turns out it's a fabulous show. Who knew? I spent an entire maternity leave watching Judging Amy. Seriously.

My most recent affliction is Ghost Whisperer. I don't know why. I still think it's kind cheesey and the effects leave quite a bit to be desired, but for some reason I'm watching Jennifer Love Hewitt talk to ghosts and finding it compelling. Compelling enough to watch almost every night in bed. Also, Camryn Manheim is on that show. I love her. I had no idea that she and her funky earring were present in the ghost communication. So much better than The Practice. (Which I tried very hard to watch because of her and also the Ally connection. I know. Sad.)

So, does anyone else do that? Or is it just me?
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Does anyone else lose jewelry? I mean, I always find it because I put it somewhere that makes sense where it won't get hurt. But I currently can't find my wedding ring. Which is weird when you think about it. I only don't wear it in the shower and to bed, so where could I have possibly put it? But I can't find it. I'm also missing a lovely lime green and teal necklace that I would have liked to wear today, but can't find. It's huge. It's really long and it has tiny beads, but like 20 strands of them. It's really not the kind of thing you can easily misplace. I remember Brynna broke part of it, but I fixed it so that you couldn't tell and now... Gone. Hopefully it's with my wedding ring and my comfortable silver hoops, because these things weigh a ton.

Which brings me to another topic. Does anyone else have a ton of nearly identical jewelry? For me, it's silver hoops, which, match everything. But I'm sort of picky. I don't want anything that's going to stab me in the neck when I'm on the phone. And I don't like them to be too heavy, but if they are too light, then I forget I have them on and something bad happens involving a hairbrush. Also, weirdly, I don't like them to be perfectly round. I don't know why.
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Finally, does anyone else ever drive down the road analyzing everything that just happened for the last eight hours trying to decide if any of it is funny enough to blog? Then finally decide on something that would make a good blog, write the entire blog in your head on the way home, get home, forget it and never post it? I think I need a tape recorder for the car. Then I could just say my blog out loud while I drive and transcribe it later. Of course, this would involve more talking to myself.
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So, is it just me? It is, isn't it? Oh well.

My Babysitter's Back (and you're gonna be in trouble...)

Not really. I just wanted you to sing it to the right tune. Am I the only one who thinks like this? Yes. Okay.

Yesterday was Maren's first day back to the babysitter after a week and a day's absence due to swine flu. (Not Maren's. Not the babysitter's either, her son's.) I wish I had taken a camera. No child has ever in the history of the world, been so thrilled, so uncontainably excited to see another human being. She jumped, she squirmed, she squealed with delight. She was more than happy to show off her new walking skills and scream DAAA-DAAAA at the top of her lungs.

She's pretty much always like that on Monday mornings, just less so. After our last vacation, I saw it a little, but she was much younger then. This was... incomprehensible.

And I feel that it should make me sad. I feel like it should drive home that I don't spend enough time with my darling. That this foreigner in our family gets the same (if not more) affection than I do. But the truth is, I'm glad. I'm glad that she loves her caregiver so much. That she's so happy there that she gets sad when she has to be away.

Also, I spent Monday home with her all day, and frankly, I'm glad someone else does that most of the time. Don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I think that if I could be a stay-at-home-mom, I would choose to in an instant. Then, I would immediately start trying to figure out what methods I could put in place to keep me sane, because let's face, I? Just not cut out for that.

On Monday, Maren hit her head 7 times, bit her tongue once, fell off the bed once and nearly ate a Polly Pocket dress 1,748,934 times. I accomplished pretty much nothing all day. I did some laundry. I had to put her in her high chair to do it, but I did. I got no cleaning done and she ate babyfood and I ate pizza rolls for lunch because there just was no other way.

I have this crazy stir-crazy thing, where I have to leave the house at least once a day and get OUT or I get all crazy and weepy and over-critical. Maternity leave nearly killed me. At least the part where I couldn't drive because I might rip open my internal stitches. Whatever. I would have preferred massive internal hemmoraging to sitting in my living room all freakin' day long. Monday night, I had a huge breakdown and went to Kroger at 10:00 p.m. (I really did need to go because we forgot Brynna's snack day.) I had been out of the house that morning though. I took Brynna to school and went to the library. Not enough, it turns out. I needed more escape than that.

I also need some sort of validation outside of motherhood. I know I could get that as a stay-at-home mother. I could volunteer. I could write more. I could maybe add AdSense and get paid for these ramblings (cents! I could be a centionaire!!) I could make it work.

And I would if I could afford it. I would in a heartbeat. I would love to be home with my kids. I'd love to be able to take them to all the library activities. I would love to go to the library when it isn't filled to brimming. I would love to go grocery shopping at 8 a.m. I would love to bake bread and learn to knit and keep my house cleaner and all the other things I imagine I would have time to do as a stay-at-home mom, but acknowledge that I probably wouldn't.

But, for now... I am secretly glad that I can't afford to be a stay-at-home mom. Because, even though I get frustrated and hate living in a pig sty and want to learn to knit and hate the library for only having activities during the work day and find yeast to be a wonderful-terrible mystery, I find my life pretty satisfying. Hectic and sometimes miserable, but mine and satisfying.

And if that means that my almost-eleven-month-old likes the babysitter better than me, well, screw it. It is what it is.

Embarrassed Is the Name of My Land - Join Me There

So, I talk to myself. I always have. It's just a habit I didn't ever grow out of. I used to worry that I was crazy, then I realized that of course, I was crazy and that was okay.

I talk to myself whenever I am alone, almost. In the basement doing laundry, in the shower, in the car, whatever. I talk to fill the silence. Sometimes I have hypothetical conversations. This is dangerous, because often I think I've told you something or we have talked about something and really I've just talked to myself about it.

Sometimes I interview myself. You know about The Great American Novel. Or about successfully bring Buffy the Vampire Slayer back to the big screen and the addition of Jessalynn (the pudgy, funny psychic that totally saves Xander from a future of demon women).

Sometimes I vent about things I'm mad about. Politics, religion, work stuff. The stuff it's hard to talk to real people about without offending someone.

I used to stop talking to myself in the car whenever I got close to another car. Because I didn't want to look crazy. You know, driving around in the car talking to myself, like some cat lady. Once in high school, I was in a car with a friend's dad and he spent the whole car trip making fun of a woman who was talking to herself in her car. I realized that people pay attention to that stuff.

Then, they invented cell phones and then, oh then, glorious then, they invented hands free sets. Now, I just talk away, assuming that everyone will think that I am on my cell phone with my hands free or my speakerphone or that nifty thing that makes your phone run through your radio.

Sometimes, I kinda forget that it's not entirely socially acceptable to talk to myself. After all, I'm a great listener and I always get my jokes. So, those times, I will be walking somewhere, say the restroom in my office building, muttering to myself about something and will open the door and see a gaggle of horrified women staring at me like I might pull out a gun and start picking them off.

I want to explain that even though I'm crazy, I'm a semi-pacifist and so I would never pick them off one by one, although I may someday be talking about it to myself.

Smokey and the Child Care Bear

When one makes the choice to be a two-working-parent home, one brings a big and scary term into the home. A term that makes grown women quake in their very fashionable boots. A term that strikes fear into the hearts of parents everywhere: Child Care.

There are many facets to the horror of child care. First is the cost. We spend more on childcare for our two rugrats in a month than we spend on our mortgage. That's right, our single largest line item in the monthly budget is babysitting.

Except that it's so much more than babysitting. I spend 40 hours a week at my job, which means that my kids spend about 45 hours a week with someone else. That's over one quarter of their week, and nearly half of their waking week. That means that my kids spend as much time in childcare awake in a week as they spend with me awake in a week. And I've got it easy (not much overtime, shortish commute, etc.).

Choosing a childcare hinges on so many factors that it's mind-numbing. Money has to count, even though you don't want it too. In Georgetown, childcare ranges from about $100/week to about $200/week. And, yes, the more expensive places often offer things that the less expensive places just can't: more educational opportunities, web cams, better food, etc.

In addition to money, we all want someplace that isn't going to park our kids in front of a TV all day. A place where they will learn something, be challenged. A place where they will encounter the same sort of learning environment we would give them at home if we could be at home with them.

Then, there's safety. And that covers so much, from good staff to good facilities to good food. Are the procedures there? How close are they to a fire station? Are the staff CPR trained? What's the staff turnover look like? How long are the staff's days? Etc. Etc. Etc.

And then, well. There's love. When your kids are going to be in a place as much as they are in their homes, you want them to love it. And you want it to love them. You want there to be love. And that is a hard thing to measure.

Brynna started out in an in-home daycare setting with an old friend of the family. She was loved. She was safe. She was educated. And I could afford it. It was perfect. Then the family friend blew out her back (from keeping kids for almost 30 years) and we had to find another place. After some flailing around, we landed.

The new place was educational, shiney. There were webcams and lots of staff education. Brynna's teacher adored her. The food was good and the procedures were nice. I was comfortable there and Brynna loved it. Then, she stopped loving it. Her teacher had moved on and there was a new teacher and at first I thought that was it. Then, I thought maybe we were dealing with some separation anxiety. I ignored it.

Then came the bites. I found bite marks on her and I talked to the director. The director told me that she would take care of it. A few days passed and the anxiety got worse and we started seeing behavioral changes. Our angel had obviously hit the terrible twos. Right? No other explanation.

The bite marks continued. The webcams weren't working. The kid who was biting her was the teacher's son. The teacher's creepy boyfriend was hanging around in the parking lot and sometimes in the reception area. Things just became worse, somehow.

Eventually, we hit critical mass. I went to pick her up one day and this other kid, the teacher's kid hit Brynna. Hard. In the face. And the teacher... did nothing. I got Brynna's coat, and everything I could without making it obvious we were never coming back and I left. I took some time off work and interviewed new places and found her a spot.

And that's when I realized what had been going on. Those behavioral changes weren't the terrible twos, they were symptoms of abuse. The disturbing habit she had picked up of begging us not to lock her in the dark when we put her in time out didn't come from nowhere. The biting that she was doing to us when she was angry (which was most of the time) was because no one ever stopped it from happening to her.

The anger. God. I can't describe the anger. The rage that ripped through me. And then the fear. And then the anger. And then the fear. I was terrorized. It's a miracle I ever let that child out of my sight again. And to this day when she says she doesn't want to go somewhere, I have to fight the urge to promise her that she doens't have to. Because I didn't listen once and it hurt her.

So, when I went looking the second time, I didn't care about webcams. I didn't care about education. I didn't care about money (although I still had to have limits). All I cared about was staff. And love. And I found a place that loved her. I hated it. I hated how much they watched TV. And I hated that most of the kids there were on childcare assistance and looked at Brynna like the rich kid. Which is sooo funny compared to Montessori. And I hated how dirty they got. And I hated the junk food. And I hated Spongebob. But it didn't matter what I hated because they loved her and they wouldn't let anything happen to her.

Now, she's in Montessori and their afterschool program, and I'm mostly done for her. Next year, she'll be in public school, which will come with YMCA afterschool, or maybe something else, but it won't be as much. It'll never be like daycare again.

So, when I started looking for a place for Maren, I had a brand new terror. Now, I understood just what could happen to a kid. And I understood that this new kid wouldn't be able to talk and tell me about it. And I understood just how freakin' big this decision is.

I didn't even look at daycares. Frankly, when Brynna left her in-home situation, I felt like daycare was safer. There were lots of people there. Multiple teachers. Who would be watching each other. It seemed like abuse was less likely in a place where there were adults to tell as well as the kids. It seemed better.

But it wasn't.

What I learned is that centers have the problem of turnover. Their staff that you and your kid love will leave for a different job with healcare benefits or more money or to move away and they will be replaced. Without even talking to you about it. They will be replaced and the new person may be fabulous. Or they may be a serial killer and you just don't know. And you don't have any control. You are subject.

And the adults aren't watching each other. They are too busy. Too afraid. Too us-against-them. They don't watch and even if they do, they don't tell.

So, we went with in-home. And I love my babysitter. Can I say that again? I love my babysitter. She is funny and smart and quipy and she treats the kids the way I would. With humor and tolerance and she's not above saying "Whatever." She talks to me about Maren's issues. And there aren't webcams or checklists, but there is "circle time" where the kids learn sign language and how to count and their ABC's. There is free time to play and they do go outside. And the TV is always on, but it's always on in my house and that doesn't mean that anyone is actually watching it. But, mostly, there is love. This woman loves my kid. Yeah, she doesn't love her like I do. I know that. And I will never forget that because I learned that lesson the hard way. But she loves her all the same. Her kids love her and her husband (who is a little something, but not creepy) loves her.

But there are problems with in-home care. Right now, the problem is flu. The babysitter and her two sons have it so there is no babysitter. For the rest of the week. And I am scrambling around like a crazy person trying to fill that gap. Trying to find someone to watch the kid. Trying to work it out. And I still owe the babysitter for the week, even though the kid isn't there, so I'm trying to find someone FREE so I don't have to double pay.

Because there is no RIGHT solution. There is no this-is-the-way. Everything has it's downside. There is no best. There is best-fit and right-for-my-kid. But even those are filled with anxiety and worry and what ifs. Even those are filled with sleepless nights and anxiety ridden days.

Child care sucks. But that's like saying money sucks. It doesn't matter, you have to have it. You have to work it out. You have to worry and stress and cobble things together and make a plan and stick to it. You have to figure it out. For better or worse, you have to decide. And you don't have to live with the consequences of your decision. Your kids do, and that's much, much worse.

I'm happy where I am. And I will gladly put up with flu weeks to avoid abuse or neglect. There are so many things I don't worry about when she's there. And that's worth a lot.

No More Babykins

Maren is walking. So, my baby days are officially over. Forever. I have a toddler and a preschooler.

I'm not sure how I feel about all this. On the one hand, it's so exciting when babies take that first step. For Maren, there was look of amazement on her face, like she couldn't believe what was happening. "Mom, mom, look at this. My legs are carrying me across the floor. Like yours do. Check it, mom. I'm (what's this called) WALKING! Who knew?"

She took those first wobbly steps on Saturday, then promptly dropped to the floor and went back to crawling. Because that child is FAST. I'm not even kidding. She can really move. And crawling fast is probably a little better than walking slow. Sunday, she only even tried a couple of times and always with this not-again look on her face. She did it last night for the first time without thinking about it. On autopilot, you could say. Then came the look again. "Hmm. How did I get here? Did I walk? Well, lookiethere."

On the other hand, though. It's over. The cuddly baby stage is over. It's different when you know it's your last. With Brynna, it was all excitement, not a touch of bittersweet. I couldn't wait for the next big thing because I always knew that eventually, I'd be right back here changing diapers and mixing formula.

Now, though. I don't know, it's sadder. My baby will never be a baby again. And I will never be the mommy of an infant again. How weird is that? Understand, I am not mourning for Maren, because really, she's thrilled to be alive. She's happy to be her. She's excited and moving and amazed and I am too. I'm amazed at how quickly it went. And amazed at how funny she is. And how sweet. And how different from Brynna. (Really, she's 11 months old and I'm still not over the fact that they are not the same person.)

But, I'm also sad because a stage in my life is over. The other day I read a comment from a mom whose oldest had just turned two. She said, "Now that I don't actually have "two under two" I wonder what my excuse for the messy house and the uncooked dinner will be." My response was, "um... two under three? It's still pretty impressive." And I stand by that. My baby (even though she's technically a toddler now) is still a baby. She still giggles like crazy when you blow in her face. She still takes a bottle every night at bedtime. She's STILL not sleeping through the night. (Which is obviously because of the years that I bragged to anyone who would listen about what a great sleeper Brynna was and how she slept through the night at six weeks. And blah, blah, blah-de-blah.)

But, it's a reminder that I have grown up, too. I have grown right out of being the mother of infants. Now I'm the mother of toddlers and preschoolers and some day I'll be the mother of college and high school students and eventually, I'll be the mother of mothers (maybe).

Walking. It's the beginning of the end, I tell you.

A Crafter's Conundrum

I found out this morning (from a totally out-of-state-blogging-friend (thanks Suze)) that my local yarn shop is closing. This fills me with a certain, je-ne-say-I-don't-know-what. Mostly regret, I think. And why? Because I've never even been there.

I know, I know. I'm a horrible person. A ridiculous excuse for craftiness. A lazy, lazy individual. A total cheapskate. An idiot in a big box store. Yes. Yes. and I suppose, Yes.

But, thinking about it has led me down a dark path that I felt the need to share (mostly because I was 7 the last time I wrote a What's in my Crochet Bag).

I live in a very small town. A town with no stores. Seriously, we have a gas station, yo. And there's a butcher down the road, but they mostly specialize in wild game and since I don't spend my mornings in the cold, wet, rainy woods with a shotgun or a compound bow, I've only ever bought ice from them.

Those of us blessed enough to live in TinyTown, population 240 (not making that number up, by the way, just the name of the town) drive to Bigger Town to get everything from groceries to clothes to rubbermaid wear. Bigger Town has a Super Wal-Mart. Which used to have a fabric and craft section, but doesn't anymore. Now they have six skeins of yarn and some "silk" flowers. Oh, and scrapbooking supplies, because those freakin' scrappers never get shafted for some reason. So, you can't even buy a spool of thread without driving to the Small City or the State Capitol. (And, really, Wal-Mart sucks, but let's face facts, there were other big box retailers who got rid of their craft sections waaay earlier and many who never even had any. Also, I think the last time Bigger Town had an actual fabric store it was called "Dry Goods" and carried mostly calico, when it wasn't being raided by Native Americans and soldiers.)

But, there are speciality shops. And I have watched many come and go through the years (when I knew they existed at all. Honestly I didn't know this particular shop sold yarn until Suze mentioned it on her blog) and it's tough to get there.

For one thing, when you work 8-5 and a shop is open 10-6, you're cutting it pretty close, what with kid pick-ups and all. But let's face it. They probably had Saturday hours and it's not like I haven't had a day off in six years or anything, it hasn't even been that long since the endless stretch of maternity leave ended.

No, the real problem isn't the hours I work at that job, but the paycheck I leave it with. I'll admit, I'm broke more than I'm not. I think most crafters came to their craft under the (extremely misguided) perception that you could "make that for cheaper." And sometimes it's true. I've made my share of $30 skirts for $9. And I've certainly saved a small fortune by repairing what many of my friends would have thrown in the trash. But the problem with crafting is the better you get at it the more you spend.

See, the better you get, the more you understand that good raw materials are half the battle. You can stuff a quilt with cheap batting, but next year it'll be a thin double-sided blanket with no body to it. And, yes, Virginia, there is a difference between $4/yard velvet and $40/yard velvet. And what you need for most projects is firmly in the middle. I recently became enraged that you couldn't buy a bathrobe for a kid that wasn't made of polar fleece and they were $20, so I spent $40 buying the materials for a robe FOR A FIVE YEAR OLD.

So, since Brynna was born, I've gotten a lot better at crochet. This is mostly because when she was born, my craft du jour was beading and it only takes once or twice of trying to get your crystal beads away from your crawling baby and jerking the jeweler's epoxy out of her mouth before you realize this will not work. So, I returned to crochet (which has always been the center of my stress relief and the craft I always go back to) and I started working with a vengeance. I downloaded patterns and I bought more hooks and I collected ideas and I started working on projects other than afghans. And, now I'm pretty good.

Which means that I have hand-spun tastes and at least Lion Brand skill and a Red Hart budget. Hey ladies who are expecting a craft by the end of the year, do you know why you haven't gotten one yet? Because I don't have any yarn that isn't already spoken for (except for this hideous hot pink that Brynna picked out and scraps). I have time, I have patterns, but I don't have cash for nice yarn and I don't want to make you gifts from SuperSaver. But, I'm running out year, so prepare for the scratchy.

Honestly, I've put $30 into a sweater, only to realize that I only have half as much yarn as I need. I could have bought a similar sweater for $30. I know that I'm not saving money by doing it myself. That's not even why I try anymore. I crochet now because I love to. Because it calms my soul. And because (despite the fact that the man with whom I have chosen to spend my life hates all things crocheted) I feel proud of my work when I am done. I feel proud of my accomplishment. Of the finished product. I love it when people say, "Oooh. I love your scarf." and I can say "Oh, I made that."

And I don't do little projects. Oh, sure, sometimes I make hats. And once I made a cozy. But, mostly, when I crochet, I crochet. I make sweaters and blankets and baby dresses. And a few scarves, but even those usually take at least a whole skein of yarn. I just don't have the money for the stuff I love.

And I'm sure I could go into the cutesy little local yarn shop and pick up something for a couple of bucks. But I wouldn't. I would drop $50 just walking in the door. Because my love affair with yarn is obscene. And then I'd have to diaper the baby with paper towells and we'd be eating peanut butter crackers for supper.

I'm going to make a valiant effort to go there before they shut their doors forever. And I know that's too little, too late. I want to buy the good stuff. I want to support small, local businesses. I want to build up my community into something better than a collection of big box stores. But, financially, I can't make that choice. Because, for me, it's the choice of giving up the thing that I love.

Ever since I found out there's yarn in that there store front, I have driven past wistfully promising myself that someday... Someday I will go in there and buy yarn. Someday I will buy the yarn I want. Someday I'll be able to put a few more dollars into supporting places that I believe in. Someday I'll have the money, the freedom, the time, the ability.

I hope someday comes soon. Before my choices are completely gone.

What's In a Name

Warning: I am on cold meds. I feel terrible and I'm really rambly and I have thrown away my letter opener seven times accidentally today. Please, remember as you read this mess that I am just not all there. Please, someone send me a meme or something so I can post something more coherant tomorrow. Consider yourself warned, and boy am I sorry...
I'm fascinated by what I call the psychology of naming. It's a huge responsibility naming someone. Even yourself.

As many of you know, I picked really unusual names for my daughters because I had a really common name and I didn't like sharing it with so many. Which means, my kids will grow up miserable because they don't know anyone else with their weird names and name their kids whatever is the height of fashion. In 1978, Jessica was the 3rd most popular name in the U.S. In 2004, Brynna was the 330th name in the U.S. (only spelled Brenna). In 2008, Maren was the 965th most popular name in the U.S. My poor girls.

I've been surrounded by the issue of self naming lately, though. The choices we make at those moments when our identity is in flux. Like marriage.

I always thought of myself as a hyphenating girl. But I never really liked my last name and I never really liked my father and I didn't know his family. So, when the time came and all the hyphenated versions looked silly, I opted to take The Husband's last name.

I had always seen taking on another person's name as an act of submission. Like slaves used to have to do. But, when it came down to it, I saw it more as an act of alliance. Who do I want to be associated with? My husband or my father. I chose my husband.

But what if? What if I had a normal name that sounded good with a hyphen? Or a healthy relationship with my father? I don't know the answers to those questions because I can't separate myself from my own circumstances.

Many of my friends have changed back to their maiden names after they were divorced. I wonder if I would do that. I think I would want the same last name as my girls. Beyond that, though, I just don't know what I would do.

Our names are a piece of our identity. They don't just reflect who we are, they help to define it. Certainly, I am me, no matter what I choose to call myself. But, would I be the same me if I had been named Zoe or Mathilda or Catherine? Who knows. I think we grow to fit our names in much the same way our names become the descriptors of us.

Undeniably our names say something about who we are and how we choose to use those names says even more. I may be named Jessica, but don't ever, EVER call me that. I am Jessi, thankyouverymuch. And Jessi is a much better descriptor of my personality, my presence. Hyphenating says something. Taking your maiden name back says something. Choosing to stay where you are, or follow the status quo says something? Going by a nickname or insisting on your full name being used says something. Spelling says something. Perhaps something different for each person, but something all the same.

How do you choose names? Those of your kids or yourself or even your dogs. (I once had two cats named Skye and Morgan for Skye Vodka and Captain Morgan Rum. They were an homage to dogs I had as a child named Whiskey and Tequilla.)

I'd Leave if I Were You, When My Head Explodes, T'Will be Messy

Anyone out there ever seen Big Trouble in Little China? I love that movie. I love it when Jack Burton says to someone, "You know what old Jack Burton says?" and the someone says, "Who's Jack Burton?" I also love the spunky redhead who never really gets her due. And the guy with the funky eye. And the Porkchop Express. Frankly the movie is freakin' funny. If you don't think so, I suggest you watch it drunk or stoned. Although I need neither chemical to make me love this treasure of cinema.

Anyway, when I was a kid, my favorite part of Big Trouble in Little China was when the one dude gets soooo mad, that his whole body swells up with rage and he EXPLODES! I am not making this up. You see his head swell first, then his hands, his abdomen. There is an especially nice shot of his tiny little balloony toes at the end of his big balloony feet. Then, smoke (or steam) shoots from his nostrils and there is a satisfying train-like sound. Finally, you see tiny bits of him flying through the room. As an adult, I have totally outgrown the gross-out factor of that scene. Now my favorite scene is when Jack tries to talk all cool with the lipstick all over his face. Or the one when they are down in the secret underground place and everything is outlined in neon.

(Side note: when Brynna was younger (and deafer) she said "underdown" instead of underground. But she had dreams of things taking her "underdown" and I totally got creeped out and convinced that Brynna knew about some ghost world where the dead rise and stuff. Then I found out she had misheard underground and was totally disappointed to find myself not in a horror novel. Oh, and relieved.)

Anyway, all this is to say that I feel like that guy. That exploding head guy. Throughout the day, today, my head has steadily filled with... um... mucus... sinus juice... snot. Pick whatever is least offending to your sensibilities. Anyway, my head is full. It hurts. Behind my eyes and in my teeth and behind my ears. It didn't this morning, now it does.

I have used half a box of tissues this afternoon alone.

I gave myself some Zicam and Tylenol.

Tonight I will drink a gallon and a half of orange juice. (Note to self: Self, buy a half a gallon of orange juice on the way home.)

Also, my throat hurts.

I hope I don't have the swine flu.

Not because I'm afraid of the swine flu. I stand assured that all this flu hoop-la is overblown media bull and that it's the flu, people. The flu kills. Always has, always will. But I hope I don't have the swine flu, because I'll have to keep my kids home with me so that all the kids at school and daycare aren't exposed to the stupid swine flu. Then when I start to feel better, they will get sick and I will have to stay home with them. Then, when they finally start to feel better, I'll get it again. That's how my life works, yo.

Pity me.

Mommy Madness...

Elsewhere on the Mommy blogosphere, I have been embroiled in battle. (Yes, it's the same thing I wrote about Wednesday, and I didn't even bother to write yesterday. Deal with it.)

And the cake has been taken. I hope it was something gross like confetti cake. Who came up with that anyway?

A mother has informed me that she has "no respect for anyone who never tried to breastfeeding" and that all women should be required by law to consult with a lactation consultant. If this was done, then there would be no question about "who couldn't and who wouldn't."

And I have decided that this is the root of the problem. The whole problem. Not the breast vs. formula debate, but the entire Mommy War issue. This granting of respect.

Will someone please explain to me why I need/want/appreciate/can't live without/care at all about this woman's "respect?" I don't respect anyone who hands out blanket statements. I don't respect anyone who is so pompous and self-righteous that she can't hear words as they are coming out of her mouth (or keyboard) only the vacuous whirring of her head. I don't respect imbeciles who believe that what we need is to ignore child abuse, drug addiction, PPD, poverty, whatever ills of the world, so we can all stand around and pass judgement on other mothers.

Shall we stand in the town square and confess our parenting sins? I can wear a big red F for formula and a blue P for pacifier and a flaming C for CIO. We can all stand around and judge who gets our "respect" and who doesn't.

Since when did any random individual's esteem become some prized possession worthy of war? Since when did we decide that we all have the right to grant and withhold favor like queens.

So, here is my challenge, blogospere: Quit Caring. Quit caring what these morons think. it seems so clear and obvious now that this is the answer. You know whose opinion you need to worry about? You kids. Perhaps your husband, mother, mother-in-law and pediatrician. Although all of those last ones are option. Do what makes you happy, makes your kids healthy, what works and screw anyone who has a problem with it.

This rant will self-destruct very soon. Please be aware that antagonizing the crazy woman is a bad idea.

The Breast Debate Ever

I have written about mommy wars before. I swear I have. I cannot find the post to add a link, which means that I gave it some really cute quipy title that doesn't mean anything to me. So, you can look for it or take my word. I wrote about it. I think they are bad.

There are so many things that mother's fight about. So very many things. Co-sleeping, mattress wrapping, babywearing, CIO, SAHM vs. WAFH mom. The list goes on and on. Mostly, these debates do not concern me. I used to bulletin board and when I was a member of various mommy communities, I was constantly attacked for something. Once, I participated in a game of sorts on one of my bulletin boards. There was a list of questions: will you mattress wrap, will you babywear, etc. etc. Each participant told their number of yes answers and then their "friends" guessed at which questions they had a yes for. I thought it was good harmless fun. Until someone posted in response to my 4 post that she couldn't believe that there were 4 things I would do for the health and safety of my baby. That was when I realized how biased the "game" was, and really how biased the entire forum was.

But, now. I don't know. I usually don't get my feathers ruffled. I have given up the bulletin board community entirely and now when I need commiseration or advice from other moms, I look to the blogosphere, Facebook and Twitter. I find people to be much less insulting in these forums, although I don't quite understand why.

The exception to this is feeding. I still get uptight about the feeding debate. One of my favorite bloggers, Her Bad Mother, posted today about breastfeeding advocacy. The post is largely about "lactivists" trying to fight for respect for breastfeeding mothers without demonizing bottle feeding mothers. I have an answer, but I don't think she'll like it.

You can't. You can't preach over and over and louder and louder that "breast is best," without implying that formula is somehow less than the best a mother can do. You can't fill the world with billboards and pro-breastfeeding rhetoric without telling those of us who made a different choice that we are wrong. Not different, but wrong.

I have a friend, whose daughter is a few years younger than I am. She breastfed and tells about how she had to fight in the 1970's. How no one understood, no one supported her. Her mother thought she was crazy. I fought the same fight.

Okay, my mother didn't think I was crazy, but she was it. My doctors thought I was lazy, my in-laws thought I was weak, my friends thought I was insane. Everyone, everwhere told me I was wrong. That I was making the wrong choice. Strangers told me that I was feeding my child poison. I had a number of women tell me that formula should only be available by prescription. My boss, told me that I would regret the decision not to breastfeed for the rest of my life. I haven't started regretting it yet, and I've made the same choice for two children, so let's just assume she is wrong. I do, however, regret continuing to work for a judgemental twit like her.

My point, here, is that I'm not sure who "lactivist" are fighting. I don't see it. I don't see the other side of the battlefield. I see mothers nursing all the time, in public, without fear or shame. Okay, I don't see bare breasts, but really, I don't think the battle is about not using a blankie. I see the entire baby industry telling you to breastfeed. Pumps, nipple shields, nipple cream, containers to store and even freeze breastmilk, bottle systems built to attach to your pump. And I see formula companies refusing to give out coupons because it "encourages" formula feeding. I see books that come from the formula industry that spend 40 pages on breastfeeding and 2 pages on formula feeding. I see a lack of thoughtful information on comparing formulas, which formula is the best, how to mix and store formula.

I see mothers who formula feed called child abusers and murderers. I see people attacking the mothers of SIDS babies and telling them that it was probably the formula that caused it. I see hatred and lies and hurt and anguish.

And I see breastfeeding mothers called hippies. That's it. The absolute worst of what I have seen. Hippies.

Now, maybe I don't see it. Maybe it's there and I'm not sensitive enough to see it while nursing my own wounds. Maybe it's somewhere else and not in my town. Maybe it's all kept very hush, hush. I'm not denying the existance of this anti-breast movement. I just don't see it.

And, so, to me, the war seems one-sided. Okay, women should be guaranteed a place to pump in the workplace. I support that. Although, I support the need for paid sick leave and easy access to healthcare as "mothers' issues" more. I see where there are still a handfull of crazies babbling something about "sexualizing" infants. I get that. But, I really feel that it's few and far between. And most of us know better.

I am almost out of formula (praise the Lord!) and as Maren is my last baby, I hope to put this all behind me in two short months. But I have spent years now, walking on eggshells, trying desperately not to offend my breastfeeding sisters. Who have not treated me the same way. They have talked about formula feeding like it was abusive and have talked about breastfeeding like it is the only intelligent choice. Formula feeding has been linked in their rhetoric to the stupid, the uneducated, the poor, the lazy, and the weak-willed.

I quit telling people the reasons behind my choice to formula feed years ago, because I was tired of being attacked. I was tired of the name calling and the mean implications. Now I just say "personal reasons" and people may make some snide remarks, but they mostly drop it.

And you know what, I have happy healthy kids who are well-fed, neither over or under weight, intelligent and amazing. I bonded with my kids just fine, thankyouverymuch.

I made a choice. A choice that I am happy with to this day. And I support women's rights everywhere to be happy with their parenting choices. To not have to defend a choice or get worn down listening to the name-calling. If people are making you feel guilty or ashamed of breastfeeding, then they are idiots. And if you decide to combat those idiots by screaming from the rooftops about how breastfeeding is the only right choice, then you are an idiot too.

Motherhood is hard. I will say that again, Motherhood is hard. We have a million battles and only sleepless nights to prepare us for them. We should all be on the same side. The side of ensuring that babies are fed, without casting judgement on what they are fed. The side of ending actual child abuse and not confusing that fight by calling alternate choices abuse. The side of preparing our kids to run the world and choose our rest homes.

The Mistakes Our Parents Made

When I was younger I kept (as I assume most kids did) a list of things that my family did that I would never do to my kids. Most of the items on that list (like let my daughter wear whatever was stylish no matter what I thought of it) I am already laughing at. A few things (like never tell my kids they have to clean their plate) have actually been added on as I got older. Mostly, though, I've realized that none of them were really mistakes. Parenting choices, yes. Mistakes, no. I had a pretty great childhood, actually.

But, still. I think we all make our parenting choices by examining our parents' parenting choices. You examine what your parents did and decide how that worked out for you. Then you either run in the opposite direction or do it exactly the same way. The decision to run or copycat is not always a sensible one, but is often based on gut feelings, childhood hurts or stubbornness. Especially in my case. Let's just face it, I'm really stubborn.

We won't even talk about what I learned from examining my dad's choices, because, well, he was never really a parent, and therefore, doesn't count. (Also, if there were awards for number of commas in a sentence, that sentence would have a tiny gold statuette for it's sentence mantle piece.)

I learned a lot from my mom. Mostly, my general parenting style comes from my mom. She was always so laid back, so fun, so relaxed. But you didn't cross her. I try to get there, but Brynn crosses me all the time, so I assume I'm failing.

My grandparents had a lot to do with my raising (and yes, I know it should be rearing) too. They were always there and I have learned lots of lessons from them also.

Thanks to my grandfather, I will never, never yell at a child to quit crying.
Thanks to my grandmother, I will never, never make a child try liver.
Thanks to my mom, I will always, always be excited about the accomplishments they are excited about even if they are stupid.
Thanks to my dad, I will never, never send a birthday card in the wrong month.

See, little things.

But there is one thing that has been nagging at me for years. Sports.

I was never pushed to do sports. And, I don't know, if I had asked to play a sport, I probably would have been signed right up. I exhibited an interest in basketball and a hoop was promptly installed in the driveway. I exhibited an interest in volleyball and a net and regulation ball were promptly purchased. But I was an only child living in the country. A net and a ball do not volleyball make when you are all alone.

And, in their defense, I never wanted to play sports. I never wanted to play sports at all, even a little. I played church league volleyball for a summer or two, but other than that, I was pretty much a good-book-in-the-hammock kind of kid.

But I look at myself now and I feel like I would really have benefited from sportsly participation. You know, I might not hate the outdoors. I might enjoy something physical. I might have learned teamwork and not be such a control freak. (I can also accept that I might have complained nonstop until my mother's ears bled and still turned out to be exactly the same person I am now, but with a jersey.)

So, since Brynna could walk, I have wanted to put her in sports. An array of things have prevented that from happening:
I never seem to have any money when it rolls around,
That is, of course, assuming I know when it rolls around, because I normally miss the cut-off date,
Brynna and I can't agree on a sport

It's the last one that bothers me. You see, my daughter wants to be a cheerleader. (Shut up people who knew me in high school. And college. Oh, whatever, and ever.) A cheerleader. Cheerleaders were the bane of my existence for my 12 years of public education. (I could ignore them easier in college.) I hated those girls. Some of them were nice and some of them were pure, unadulterated evil, but it didn't matter, they put on those stupidly short skirts and got out in the gym during pep rallies and tried to rally my pep and I couldn't help but hate them.

I hated that the cheerleaders had like seven uniforms and the speech team couldn't even get a bus to tournaments. I hated that they were always practicing loudly somewhere where I wanted to be. I hated that they were always the popular girls even when they were hateful people.

And theoretically, I hate the idea of cheerleading. It's a sport (yes, I do acknowledge that it takes a great deal of athletic skill) that is based on the premise of girls not being good enough to have their own sport. It's based on cheering on the boys. Because they are better. And worthy of some sort of archaic worship.

But, I am faced with a conundrum. Is it better to force her to play soccer or football or t-ball or basketball when she doesn't want to or give in and become a *gasp* *choke* cheerleading mom? Is it pure selfishness to say no because I don't want to know how to put her hair in those ridiculous sponge rollers? Because I don't want to go to a football game and have no idea what the score was when we leave? Because I don't want to slather glitter eye shadow on my 5 year old before a competition. (And yes, I know, there probably won't even be competition until middle school, but the thought it the same. I don't want to have anything to do with glitter eye shadow EVER, okay?)

I think that if I just enrolled her in soccer or t-ball or whatever, she would probably have a great time. She would probably love it. But she might hate it. Or she might never give it a chance because she really, really wants to be a cheerleader.

And I've considered letting her do gymnastics. Because, let's face it, gymnastics rocks. And, is, sadly the basis the cheerleading. But, it all leads back to the same place. She is probably not going to the Olympics. She will probably not be on the middle of the night airings on ESPN of college gymnastics. But she just may have a closet full of cheerleading uniforms, warm-up suits, jackets and stupid swirly hairbows in high school. We may have pompoms in our house.

And then my head would explode and I would die.

So, make me feel better, Internet. What were your parents' mistakes that you are determined not to repeat? And how has that screwed you?

Does Constantly Wondering if I'm a Bad Person Make Me A Bad Person?

Lately, "Does that make me a bad person?" has eclipsed all other questions in my life. I ask this question nearly constantly. It even annoys me.

It started as a joke. You know, "She's a terrible human being and I hope she falls out of a plane, plummets to her death and breaks every bone in her body first. Does that make me a bad person?" And it entered my vernacular.

I have a strange vernacular. I use the word wicked a lot and I don't think I'll be changing that any time soon. I say "spendy" instead of expensive. I say "a touch" and "a bit" instead of a little. I love adding an est to words that are already superlative - bestest, mostest, giantest. I have not, in the past ten years, said I was tipsy. I say "I'm a little gypsy." I don't even remember why. There is probably something there, but I just can't remember what.

Everyone has their own personal language. Everyone has words that sort of sum them up. Words that remind you of them, because they say them so often. And I love language, so I love to play with that concept. You know in Mean Girls where the one girl is constantly trying to bring in "fetch?" That's me. I like to say things a lot and see if other people pick them up. Not because I want to be the girl that made everyone say fetch, just because I like the way language works, the fluidity of what's accepted and expected.

So, does that make a bad person? I'm kinda driving myself crazy with it. The other day, The Husband answered "sort of" and I realized that I am not just joking anymore. I am really asking. When did that happen? I have never NEVER said "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" Part of the reason for that is because my butt needs no help. It looks big all on it's own. Plus, why ask? I don't really want to know. I can't see my own butt in the course of a normal day, so if it looks big, then whatever, everyone else is suffering, not me. So why do I care if I'm a bad person?

First of all, I'm not really asking if I'm a bad person, because, um. Yeah. I am. I don't like people. In general. Don't get me wrong, I lurve all of you. It's just that I don't like people as a group. Individuals, fine, dandy. People, a scourge. I speak my mind even when it's not exactly prudent. I try to do good. I try to make the world better than I found it, be the change I want to see, yadda, yadda. But am I a good person? No, not really.

What I am really asking there is Does this make me look like a bad person. And who cares? I've never cared before. I don't care if people think I'm good, bad, evil, saintly or completely utterly neutral. I have this unnatural desire for people to think I'm "nice" but that's not the same thing. Lots of evil people are "nice." Serial killers are nice. If they weren't people wouldn't hang out around them and they'd never have anyone to kill. Plus, they'd get caught.

Sometimes, I want people to think I'm a bad person. Snarky people. Cool, snarky people. I want them to think that I am really bad, but also "nice" because I want them to want to be around me. I'm needy like that.

So, why keep asking. Mostly because it's habit now. But also, because I'm using it to apologize. We have a couple from Fiji in our book club and, in additional to discussing books, we like to teach them about the South. Because it's funny. Their favorite lesson so far is on "bless her heart." For non-southerners, saying "Bless her/his heart," excuses whatever you said immediately prior. For instance, "That man is the spawn of Satan, bless his heart." Perfectly acceptable. "She is a tramp and a half, bless her heart." Fine by me.

So, it's sort of like blessing my own heart. It's like saying, I'm really evil incarnate, but at least I care that I am. Which, again, is stupid. Who cares?

And yet, I'm having a really hard time not saying it. I'm having a really hard time striking it from my vocabulary. This is like trying to not cuss when the kids start repeating you. It's wicked hard and you don't even realize you did it until it's too late. There should be a 12-step program. Then all of us terrible phrase addicts could go once a week and try to sweat it out. With coffee and cigarettes.

The Baby's an Alien

Our youngest is a morning person. This either means that I had an affair with a morning person or she is actually an alien who was transplanted in my uterus. I have no idea which.

She wakes up when The Husband gets up for work every morning (5 a.m.) and refuses to go back to sleep. She isn't fussy or mad, like I am at 5 a.m. however. She's chipper. She's happy and giggly and rambunctious. She doesn't want to sit alone in her crib, because, hello! Obviously it's time to rise and SHINE! Or else.

So, I bring her to bed with me. I try to get her back to sleep by cuddling. She usually puts up with this for about 14 seconds, then she wants to climb on my head. Mostly I don't mind this part, because I can sleep through almost anything.

After she sits on my head for a few minutes, she's ready to start moving. She begins by crawling up to the head of the bed. There, she beats on the headboard, sings to herself and tries to grab my curtains. A month ago that bothered me, now the sun agrees with me and has decided not to come out of hiding until much later.

After a few minutes of that, she decides to pull my hair. This is an exercise worthy of thousands of hours of entertainment value. I have a problem with having my hair pulled. I can't quite explain it but I would much rather you break my arm than pull my hair. It triggers some sort of adrenaline response in me whereby I turn green and huge and tear up my jammies and speak with bad English. And I like my jammies.

Finally, she moves on to her final morning exercise. This one requires a little coordination and a lot of prayers. Shutting the bedroom door. She hasn't mastered it yet, but she is determined to do it. She crawls swiftly and surely to the end of the bed, looks over her shoulder to ensure mommy's eyes are at least half closed and reaches, reaches, reaches for the doorknob. It's just out of reach. She adjusts and reaches again. Adjusts and reaches again. One final check with mommy and she props one leg up on the footboard and reaches, reaches... FAIL. She falls to the floor and screams.

It is my sole job between 5 and 6:30 a.m. (my normal time of rising) to not scream, not scream, and keep her falling. It's a full time job. I couldn't get anything else done if I was at the top of my game. But seeing as how this starts at 5, well, I'm not at the top of my game. I'm still trying desperately to sleep.

The funny thing is, I was going through Brynna's baby book the other night and found a note in there about Brynna being a morning person. So, apparently, the demon child who won't rise from bed started out much the same way. Perhaps there is hope for us all. Perhaps one day, my children will not want to get up too early, but be willing to get up when it's time.

Or maybe that's when I should worry about the aliens.

Unsurprised

I was not going to write about Roman Polanski. I wasn't. I really, really wasn't. But, alas, as it is the only thing I have been able to think about this week, you're stuck with it.

But, I'm not going to write about Roman Polanski. Obviously, I am sickened and appalled by what he did. Or at least I was ten years ago when I read about it for the first time. Now, I don't know. I'm more floored that something is happening. And more than a little curious if this has anything to do with the never-ending press game surrounding the Manson murders. Sadie died, Squeaky got out, no one seemed to care, so we need to draw more attention to it.

Anyway, what I want to write about is the reaction that everyone seems to have. I'm not talking all the idiotic famous people who want to clarify a difference between rape and rape-rape. (The only justification for this that I can think of is a complete and utter non-understanding of the definition of the word rape.) No, not them. And not the people who think that he's a genius, so he should be allowed to rape children.

I'm talking about the people who are outraged that there is a separate justice system for the rich and famous. Really? Have you been living under a rock? Turn on the freaking TV. The rich, famous and powerful lie, cheat, steal, rape, get caught with drugs, drive drunk, etc, etc. and get away with it everyday. 9 years ago, we elected a President with a past cocaine possession conviction. And then re-elected him. This in a country where our prison system is overrun and overcrowded with people guilty of carrying pot.

How many senators have gotten caught in acts of gross misconduct? How many movie stars got community service for a drunk driving accident that would have put you or me away for a at least a few months? How many times do we look the other way when a star walks onto the stage or red carpet obviously under the influence of something?

And it's not just the very rich and powerful. It's the very poor and powerless, too. How many people living in abject poverty are imprisoned for offenses that a middle class person would have gotten community service over? Because of court-appointed lawyers? Because of lack of witnesses? Because of jury bias?

Understand me. I am not defending what he did in 1976. I am not defending the action itself, the running from sentencing or the hiding out for 30+ years. But, I am saying: stop being so surprised.

You know what's surprising? The fact that we all want to turn our heads and ignore the human trafficking and child sex trade in the U.S. The fact that people will justify 9 year olds being forced into prostitution because they are illegal aliens. And therefore, what, deserve systematic rape?

If you are mad about Polanski, good. You should be. But do me a favor, don't act like this is some sort of all-powerful wake-up call. And don't let it blow over as soon as Polanski's mess is over. The sentencing of a 70+ year old man on 30 year old charges is not going to change the world. It's not going to change anything. If you are mad, stay mad. Do something. Don't get mad because a girl was hurt 30 years ago and act like she is the last one. Get involved to stop it from happening again. Nearly 2,000 rapes are reported in the average day. When you consider that it's estimated that twice as many rapes go unreported as those that are reported, you are talking about 6,000 women per day. Over 2 million per year. Just in the U.S. And that doesn't even begin to touch the victims of sex trade, who aren't considered rape victims because someone was paid for their "services."

If you are mad, be mad at what happening right now. In your town. Under your nose. Be mad about the girls who are right this very minute being raped and believe that they have to endure this to become citizens or to save the lives of their families or to eat supper tonight. Be mad about the injustices that exist outside of Hollywood. If you feel that Polanski's conviction will send a message, then rally for it, but remember that one message sent is not going to end the crisis. The crisis will only end when we admit that there is a freakin' crisis and do something about it.

This is Jessi. Stepping off of her soap box and promising to have some funny story about kids tomorrow. Please bear with me.