Her Fandom

Kids are naturally geeks. I mean geeks in the "It's not what you love, but how you love it," sense. (Which is, incidentally, the only correct sense in my presence.)

What I mean is that kids know what they love and they throw themselves into it. Whether it's Superman or Angelina Ballerina; Legos or trains; princesses or ninjas. When kids figure out what they like, they go for it, full steam ahead. T-shirts, underwear, toys, toothbrushes. Cosplay? Kids invented cosplay.

Maren walked around the house for a half hour the other night wearing a Nemo pillow on her head, pretending to look for Dory. Brynna has spent more time watching Monster High videos than I have spent watching kitten videos. And I really like kitten videos.

So, right now, Brynna is into Percy Jackson and Greek mythology. Like full steam ahead into. Her birthday party (which is tomorrow) is a Camp Half-Blood themed party. The Ex's girlfriend got her a Camp Half-Blood t-shirt and a Camp Jupiter t-shirt for her birthday. She's going to be Athena for Halloween.

And it's so much fun to watch. Partly because she doesn't think she's a geek. No matter how much I try to convince her otherwise. But here she is, planning her cosplay and wearing her t-shirt while trying to decide who her godly parent would be if she were a demigod.

I can't call it her first fandom, because like I said, Kids. She's been a Barbie fan and a princess fan and a train fan and a Potterhead. For the most part, though, her really geeky tendencies have been an extension of me or her dad. She knows more Star Wars than most kids her age thanks to her dad. She can sing every song from the Buffy musical thanks to me. Donna Noble is her favorite companion and she loves the Weeping Angels. (We both watch Who, but I'm claiming it, because I'm the one who sometimes punishes the kids by not letting them pick what's on TV, and thus forced her to watch an all-day marathon.)

But this is full-force, self-propelled Geekdom, right here.

This is my girl finding her own place and wallowing in it.

I've been home sick the last two days and yesterday in a fit of panic over the upcoming party, I painted beads for her party. Nothing fancy. I took blue wooden beads and painted a trident on them with white nail polish. (Then, after she went to bed, I stripped it all off and started over because I painted them all on sideways.)

My mom brought her home so I wouldn't have to go out and when she walked in, she zeroed in on those beads like they were made of bright flashy lights. She saw nothing else. And, I gotta tell you, I was worried, because they aren't great, but she was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled.

I can't wait to see her tomorrow. Camp Half-Blood t-shirt, necklace and starry eyes. Prepping for her first capture the flag battle. That's my girl.

My very geeky girl.

It's About the Little Things

Yesterday, in church, I was reminded that it's the little things in the world that make the biggest difference. I want to change the world. I want to change the world so very badly. I want to be a foster mom. I want to donate to all the charities I love. I want to fix the educational system. I want to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and house the homeless. 

I spend a lot of time feeling helpless. I can't do those things. Because I don't have the money or the time or the right education or connections. Because I need to value my safety and my children's safety above the comfort of others sometimes. 

But this weekend, I realized that even in the absence of these things, I can do the little things that truly make the world better. The things that change the entire course of the world for one person. Because after all, that's what the world is, it's the collection of all the one persons. 

Here are a few "little things" that people have done for me recently. Things that I want to make sure I am doing for others. Things that matter. But that I sometimes forget in my quest to be better, do more, give more.

• My friend gave me an owl ring because I was having a bad day. It wasn't grand or expensive, but it made me smile and made the scope of my problems come back into focus. I want to be a ray of sunshine, even if that ray comes in the form of "Yeah, it sucks. Here's something happy."
• Maren crawled into my lap and proclaimed me "the bestest mommy in the history of evers." (You know, a couple of hours earlier, she had stood in the driveway and screamed that I was the worst mommy evers, but whatever, I take what I can get.) I try to tell people when they do amazing things, but sometimes I forget to tell them that what they do every day is pretty darn amazing.
• An 85 year old woman in church yesterday told me that my hair was pretty and that she liked the pink. It's just a little compliment, but it's the kind that matters, because it's the kind you don't expect. I want to compliment people on the things they assume I'll hate/never notice.

More often than not, in the face of the really big problems, I sigh and shrug my shoulders. What can I do? What could I possibly do? I can't answer that question with one big answer, but the small answer is whatever I can do. Because whatever it is: a warm fuzzy hat, a couple of dollars or an apple pie; I need to have faith that it will find the one person who truly needs that thing. The person who needs the smile or the warmth or the reminder of home.

Blood, Spit and Badges

Brynna bit through her tongue this weekend. Imma just gonna sit her for a minute and let you freak out...

Because that's what everyone else has done. Except for me and Brynna which I think is sort of the opposite of the way these things are supposed to go.

We were at this thing and Brynna was playing this game and it's all very complicated to explain, but she accidentally got kicked on the bottom of her jaw, driving her tooth up and through her tongue.

It was all very quick and quiet and I was looking the other way, so one of her friends ran over and said, "Brynna got kicked in the face."

I ran over and she was curled on the ground, more or less fetal, definitely covering her whole face. After a couple of rushed soothing words, I told her I needed to see her face. I was very afraid of a broken nose, blood gushing from a face wound, half her head already turning black. I was not afraid she bit her tongue.

When none of those things appeared to be going on, I asked her to come with me to the restroom for some cold water and further inspection. She came along gladly. Somehow, miraculously, when Brynna was a very small child, I managed to convince her that a cold wash cloth or an ice pack will solve anything. I don't know how I did it and I managed not to do it with Maren, but it was genius.

In the restroom, her tongue seemed by far to be the biggest issue, with blood pooling in her molars and a nearly steady stream of bloody spit making it's way to the sink bowl. I pressed a cold compress of soggy paper towels to her forehead and took a dry paper towel to the tongue to get it to stop bleeding. And then another. And then another. There was lots of blood is what I'm getting at here. Finally, it started to slow down and I noticed that the fresh paper towel had blood in two spots.

I asked her if she could stick out her tongue and there I saw the real damage. While the cut on top of her tongue was almost a pin prick in size, the cut on the bottom was pretty large and a little gapey. It was also turning black. Looking at the side of her tongue, I could see the bruise spreading up and that's when I realized. This was one tooth. All the way through.

We got the bleeding to stop and I sent her back to the event with an ice pack and a cold Capri-Sun. She had a fun rest of the day and went shopping with me that night. She's fine, is what I'm getting across. It isn't as bad as it sounds.

And it must sound bad. When I have a crisis, first I react. I triage and I take care of shit. Then, when everything is okay, I panic. And I call my mommy. And anyone else who will listen, but mommy comes first.

On Saturday, I started the calls and almost everyone seemed more panicked than I was. To the point that I started to panic that I wasn't panicking enough. Thank goodness for the other adult present who said, "Look at her. She's fine," and even managed not to roll her eyes.

The funny thing is that my mom took Maren to football practice and I took Brynna to Girl Scouts. Who would you have expected to come home injured?

Happy Anniversary to Me

Today is my last divorce landmark date. (I think. I mean, I'm making most of this up as I go along.) Today is the one year anniversary of finally final. One year ago today, while I was working or something and not even realizing what was going on, a judge in an office somewhere decided that it was okay for the Ex and I to get a divorce and signed off on everything. It was finalized. And that became one of my favorite words in the English language.

Although, this past year hasn't been all that different from the year before it, I do feel a sense of accomplishment. This past year has been rough. Money has been tight and time has been tighter. I've had my ups and downs and my messes and disasters.

But I can't honestly claim to have survived this last year. I have thrived this last year. I've found myself and my home. I've taken control. I'm becoming not just the me I was before the divorce, but more of the me I was before the marriage.

A couple of weeks ago, Brynna asked me when I was going to start dating. I shrugged.

"But Daddy has a girlfriend."

"Yeah, but I don't have to do what Daddy does."

"But don't you want a boyfriend?"

"Not necessarily. I'm not opposed to the idea, but I don't want just any old boyfriend. I'm willing to wait because I'm happy with the way things are."

I'm not sure she gets it, but that's okay. The important part for right now is that I get it.

I stayed in a situation that made me unhappy for a lot longer than I should have. Because I was stubborn and I thought I could fix anything... But also because I thought I needed him. I thought I needed someone.

Turns out, I do. I need my family. I need my friends. I need my girls. And I need me. The real me, not the me I put on like a fancy dress to keep the arguments to a minimum. But I don't need him.

And knowing that brings me great peace.

Today I'm Losing

Sometimes I want to write, but I just can't find the words. Sometimes it's too much to even think about it. Sometimes it's too much to think about much of anything.

Today, I want to go back to bed. I almost always wake up like this, like I just want to stay in bed forever. Sometimes, I do. Not forever, but for the morning, once for the day. But, usually, if I get up and put on clothes, get the kids out the door and get tires on the road, I start to feel okay about things.

Mostly, by the time I get to work, I'm okay with the day. With the idea of being awake and facing reality. Sometimes, days like today, not so much.

Today, I don't want to be here. I want to be in my room, cool and dark, reading my book and watching TV and playing Candy Crush and pretending that nothing exists outside my flimsy hollow-core door.

Today, I want to give up. To throw my hands in the air and declare a time out for everyone.

I'm not sad. I'm not unhappy or lonely or mad or bereft. I don't really feel much of anything.

Which means that today I am losing.

I never say, "I suffer from depression." I always say, "I fight with depression," or when it's bad, "I struggle with depression." Because to me, suffering admits defeat. I am fighting a war, here.

A war that will probably never be all the way won. A war that can be lost or survived, but never won. And maybe that's as it should be. Maybe that's as war always is.

Today, I'm losing. That numbness that seizes me and tells me that in 36 minutes I can leave work. In about an hour, I can be headed home. I can make frozen chicken fingers, green beans and fruit salad for supper. I can do the dishes and a couple of loads of laundry and make the kids take their showers. I can not do anything amazing at all and in four short hours I can have everyone tucked in and then I can go hide in my calm, cool room and surrender for the night... That tells me I'm losing.

Numbness, not sadness is the signal that I'm losing today's battle. Numbness and emptiness is what losing looks like.

And I tell myself that it's okay. You don't win 'em all. The mightiest army in history still lost battles. Tomorrow is another day in the trenches. Tomorrow, I will feel different than today, because no two days are exactly the same. Tomorrow, will be better. Or it'll be worse, maybe, but it will be different.

This is my Scarlet O'Hara, "As God as my witness, Fiddle-de-dee, tomorrow is another day."

But know this, I am not responsible for my actions toward the next person who asks me if I have "a case of the Mondays." There will be blood.

It's About Responsibility

Oh, no. Not pajamas.
Inappropriate!

This morning, I read this letter from a mom to her sons' female friends. I started out with the best of intentions. I was not sure I would agree with this woman's conclusions, but I felt sure that I would support her setting and enforcing online rules for her children. 

The premise of that rule is simple: you post a picture she doesn't approve of, you get blocked from her kids' feeds. Sure, okay. I can get with that. Makes some sense. 

But, then the details. It started with the girl in the pajamas. (Pajamas? I'm not sure I get why pajamas are inappropriate, but okay...) Then, the observation that she wasn't wearing a bra with those pajamas. (Um. I don't wear a bra with my pajamas either. I'm not sure anyone does except Victoria's Secret models and also... Um... Isn't a little creepy that this adult is trying to determine if teenage girls are wearing bras in their pictures?) Finally, the kicker (apparently), the sexy pose. Although, as the pose is described, it seems her back is arched and she's pouting. Hm...

Wipe that pout off your face.
Inappropriate!

Overall, I was reading this whole thing and feeling sort of mixed feelings. On the one hand, parental prerogative. Fine by me. I don't want my kids hanging with your obviously sheltered boys anyway. On the other hand, um... why shouldn't girls be allowed to be photographed in their jammies again?

Then, the kicker:

"Did you know that once a male sees you in a state of undress, he can’t ever un-see it?"

 Okay, now we have a problem. And let me tell you why. Because that is not my kids' responsibility. I am the mother of two lovely girls and they are not old enough for Facebooking and Tweeting and selfies, but they will be in the very near future.

They will have some specific rules about what can and can't be posted online. About what can and can't be sent to friends. About what can and can't be worn outside the house and that when you post a picture online you are outside the house, no matter where you are.

Are you wearing a bra under that suit?
Inappropriate!

Yes, they will. They will be responsible for their own behavior. They will live with their own consequences.

But the idea that this only applies to girls because boys just can't help themselves enrages me. Like, not just a little, but wholesale enrages me.

So, if my kid posts a picture of herself in a two piece bathing suit, she is opening herself up to never have a boy ever again what? See her the same way? Respect her? Control himself?

How far does this supposed lack of basic self-control reach? Is he allowed to rape my kid because he can't help it? Grab her? Call her a slut? Gossip about the horrible things she does to his friends?

Is your back arched,
young lady?
Inappropriate!

When did we decide that only women can be responsible sexually? Oh, that's right, it's always been that way, hasn't it.

That's why women had to wear skirts to their ankles. That's why women weren't allowed to wear their hair down. That's why women who were raped were regarded as unclean and shunned and rapists were, well, um, ignored. Except we've progressed past that, right?

Right? Only, no. Apparently not. Apparently, rape culture is bigger and badder than ever. And beginning at home. Awww.

So, here's the deal:

Moms of boys:
I will teach my kids right from wrong. I will teach my kids to stand up for themselves and to respect themselves. I will monitor their online lives and hold them accountable for their own actions.

I will also, unfortunately, teach them basic self-defense. I will teach them not to walk alone, not to ever leave their drinks unattended, not to ever trust a boy who says "If you love me, you'll..."

I won't teach them that anything other than yes means yes. Maybe another time does not mean yes. A short skirt and a beer in their hand does not mean yes. You're cute, but no does not mean yes. Check out my cute pajamas does not mean yes. Even saying yes once does not mean yes always.

I will do this regardless of what you do. But I would really appreciate it if you could raise your kids to do some things too. For instance, if your boys would take responsibility for their thoughts and actions and not blame them on someone else's wardrobe choices, that would be great. If your boys would think of women and girls as human beings and not soft, warm objects to drool over and imagine naked, that would be pretty cool, too. And have this conversation with them. Teach them, whatever words you use, that women are people and deserve respect and dignity.

Mostly, though, teach them that last paragraph that I'm going to teach my girls. Forget about no means no. Nothing but yes means yes is the way to raise a man. Otherwise, we're just talking about little boys who never learned impulse control.