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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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?
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?
Monday, October 5, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 2, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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.
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.
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