I Love, No Hate, No Love, No Hate, No Love... I am Ambivalent About September

Here is the deal with September. It has always been my favorite month. As a kid, I should have loved August (month of my birth and the beginning of school) but September was always a little better. A little cooler, a little more school-y, a little more like fall even though we've got another solid six weeks until it's really fall around here. September is peace to me. It's a feeling of being settled into a routine that you're still not sick of. It's all things good and peaceful.

Every year I look forward to September with an almost insane zeal. I start about January wanting September to be here. The other eleven months are preamble and epilogue to the glory of September. If there was a religion for September-lovers, I would become a nun.

I haven't grown out of that passion for September yet, but it's only because of this damn memory issue I have.

You see, I got married. And through no fault of my own, my beloved's birth occurred in September. Now, my uncle's birthday is in September too, so this wasn't exactly my first September birth, but it does have more impact. Also, his brother was born in September. This created a touch of strife for me, but mostly it added to the wondrous aura of September-ness.

Then, I spawned. In September, along (it seems) with half the planet. Brynna, her cousin and her best friend all have birthdays within 10 days of each other. So, there's this frantic birthday party run at the end of the month and it just so happens to usually coincide pretty precisely with my favorite autumnal small town festival. Which makes that kind of rough.

Additionally, I have a tendency to volunteer for things in September. 'Cause, yo, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but it's kinda my favorite month.

I am hosting my church group this Thursday for our September meeting, then, next weekend is The Husband's birthday, the big consignment sale I'm volunteering at, consigning in and shopping at, one of my very best friend's baby showers (for which I have not yet crocheted), I've got Scholastic orders for my daughter's school to deal with and that's all the first half of the month. I've mentioned, have I not, that the last half of the month is inherently crazy.

And then, it's October and my wonderful, glorious September is gone.

Every year it's like this and every year I forget that it's like this. Every year, I celebrate September coming and anticipate it's arrival like a kid anticipates their first trip to Disney. And every year, it gets here, I trudge through my to do list, barely looking up to appreciate the fun of all those birthday parties, my 17th guilt-free piece of birthday cake, the expression on my daughter's face as the leaves begin to change, that fall festival that I used to obsess so completely over that I walked to it the weekend before Brynna was born by myself, while The Husband was at work, without my cell phone.

Every year, I find myself trying to fit a few more pieces of pink plastic into my house and considering Halloween costumes and wondering where the crap September went.

And yet, by mid-November, I'll tell you once again that September is my favorite month, my favorite time of the year. I'll wax nostalgic about wearing shorts and flip-flops one day, a sweater and jeans the next, about standing out on the deck as the neighborhood across the street emerges from the summer foliage, as the leaves begin to change and fall, as Summer (that attention grabbing diva) takes one last bow and slips off stage allowing Autumn in her handkerchief hem and reds and oranges and browns and still greens move into the limelight for a few brief weeks. I'll tell you about how September makes me want to read outside, makes me want to walk miles and miles every day. About how September is always the month I make crazy decisions, like wanting to learn to kayak or thinking hiking while seven months pregnant sounds fun. About how September is, in it's essence, the geeky girl in me coming out to play. It's the month of TV premiers, of real back to school, of first tests and first papers, of new reading assignments, of bonfires, and field parties (even though I don't go to any anymore), of hot apple cider and heck, cold apple cider. A month of fair food and yes, birthday cake, now.

By January, I'm detoxing from Christmas and loving the winter, the snow (if there is any), but starting to think of September. And it's in that most terrible month of all, February, that I start to really wait for September all over again.

I know this is a whole lot of text to say that I have mixed feelings. That I am ambivalent. That again, I can't make up my freakin' mind. It's just who I am.

*Image by Ironshod (Anne Stokes). Check out more of Ironshod's work at her Deviant Art Gallery at http://ironshod.deviantart.com/gallery/. If you are a fan of fantasy art, this may make your day.

Woman, Wo-Man, Whoa-Man

Yesterday was Women's Equality Day. I missed it. As with most things in my life, it came at a time when I was already dealing with women's issues, internally if not externally.

I have recently been reminded that there are people who genuinely don't believe in equality for women. I tend to believe that most people who seem fight against it just don't realize how great the divide still is, not that they want women to be oppressed. Occassionally, I am reminded that most is not the same thing as all.

As I listened to this woman speak (yes, woman, I know) about women's issues, I was overcome with a desperate need to tell her. To tell her about laws that prevented women from leaving abusive relationship, that prevented women from prosecuting their rapists, that forced women into marriage before they were old enough to understand what marriage meant. Tell her about customs that mandated that women be treated like property, that women not be allowed to hold property, that widows faced starvation because of their inability to earn a wage. Tell her about lives spent, wasted, lost fighting for women, fighting for our daughters, fighting for a life without fear for women.

But I couldn't. I won't go into detail, but the time and the place was dreadfully wrong and the fact is that I am sure she has heard it.

Looking back at the women who were brutally murdered fighting for our right to vote, to own property, to marry as we please, to seek help when hurt by our spouses, it seems that we have come so far. Virginia Slims ads (does anyone remember these?) used to espouse that "We've come a long way, baby," showing ads and old photographs. They were a look into a cute, nostalgic past. A past that some experienced, and some did not.

It's true, we've come a long way. And my question is, "Does that mean that we stop now?" When Moses and the Israelites wandered in the desert, did they say, after 39 years, "We've come a long way, baby and this looks good?" When Clark W. Grisswold drove his family from Chicago to California, did he, without a working car, money or any hope of vacation, say, "We've come a long way, baby, let's go home?"

The fight is not over. The fight will not be over until women earn equal pay for equal work. Until women have as much health care coverage as men. Until women are just as likely to be hired as men. Until women do not make up the lion's share of our nation's poverty. Until child care, and health care, and early childhood education are treated like real issues in this country. Until women can do anything they want, anything they are gifted at, anything that inspires them professionally.

Today, I will remember the holiday that I missed and wonder how much longer a way we have to go. And whether it is possible to reach your destination when some in your party won't admit it exists.

It's not enough to say that we have come a long way when there is still such a long way to go. It's not enough to shrug our shoulders and say that it's better than it was. Our victories must be celebrated, but not the detriment of our future.

What I want for my daughters is for them to never be treated as inferior. For them to follow the life-path that they desire, without fear, resentment or desperation. I want them to earn as much as the men in their same positions, to not feel like a pantsuit and a bun might make them more hireable, to write letters to their congresspeople and fight for their beliefs and know that their opinions are weighed as voters, not as women.

*I just thought I would point out that opinions are like, well, you know the end of that one. It's always easiest to see your point of view and to demonize someone else's. This wasn't meant to be an indictment or an acusation, more a rambling from within.

Conversations with a Four Year Old

Me: I'm just saying...

The Husband: I know, I was being a dick.

Brynna: You shouldn't say "dick" daddy.

TH: Look of horror. You're right. I shouldn't say that word.

Brynna: Because it's not nice to make fun of people.

TH: Who am I making fun of?

Brynna: Granddaddy. His name is Dick.

TH: Well, actually...

Jessi: That's right, Daddy was making fun of Granddaddy and that's not very nice. Thank you Brynna.

______________

Jessi: Look, Brynna, we're in line behind Andrew.

Brynna: Oh, cool. Say "hi" for me.

Jessi: Okay Waits for Andrew to get out of his car. In the meantime, teacher comes to our car.

Brynna: I'm not getting out because you didn't say hi to Andrew for me.

Jessi: But, if you get out right now, you can say hi to him yourself.

Brynna: Oooh! Love you mommy, bye.

_________________

Brynna: I need a jacket.

Jessi: I know it's chilly right now, but it's going to get hot and then you'll be stuck dragging around a jacket all day. Are you sure that's what you want?

Brynna: I'm cold and I'm going to turn into a Popsicle if I don't get a jacket.

Jessi: Okay, okay, I'll get you a jacket. Wait here.

Brynna: Noooo. It's cold out here and I'll turn into a Popsicle and my lunch will turn into a Popsicle and then I won't be able to eat it.

Jessi: It's fine. You'll be fine.

Brynna: Noooooo.

Jessi: Okay, come in the kitchen, but don't go past the kitchen.

Brynna: Okay.

Jessi: goes to get jacket, returns Why are you in the living room playing with toys when I specifically said not to go past the kitchen?

Brynna: But I'm ready. Let's go. Oh, is that the jacket you want me to wear?

Jessi: Yes, why?

Brynna: It's kinda warm. It's gonna get hot today and then I'll be stuck dragging around that super-warmy jacket all day.

Jessi: Yes, yes you will.

Not a Meme - But Still Friday

There Was Drama

As a few of you may know, my husband, bless his annoying soul, likes to mess with me. (You know that when a Southerner says "bless his soul" it forgives everything you are going to say afterward, right? Like "Bless her soul, she's a heartless, bottom feeding, miserable waste of oxygen" should not be taken as an insult and can't be considered negative or gossipy. FYI)

The other day he was working on my car. I had a flat tire. My tires have all simultaneously decided to explode and I've been having massive problems with all of them. Certain family members I have believe that I have suddenly developed a penchant for driving over shards of acid-coated glass, but I believe it is more likely that rubber has decided it hates me. Bless it's soul.

Anyway, I had gotten myself stranded at the post office and walked home, so The Husband went to the Post Office to fix my van. After he had been gone for a few days, or maybe an hour or so, he called and told me, fairly calmly that he was worried and might run to the hospital.

"Why?"

"Well... I don't want you to worry."

"Why?"

"I sort of, well, I was working on the van, and I had the jack in the wrong place and the car fell and it didn't so much crush my hand, but a little it did and it's kinda swollen and it hurts to move."

There was a naggling voice in the back of my head telling me that I would have heard his screams all the way up the hill. Another naggling voice informed me that if I believed him, I would, once again, be playing into his sadistic little hand.

Unfortunately, the voice in the front of my head was busy figuring out how I was going to get to the hospital, stranded without a car, and who was home to watch the kids so I didn't have to take them with me and what was still packed from last night's diaper bag, so I wouldn't have to spend too much time running around the house frantically trying to find a bib. A bib, a bib, my freakin' nation for a freakin' bib.

I panicked. I freaked. I totally flipped out. Brynna started crying because I was so obviously upset and I wondered if I could fit both kids into the stroller and walk back to the post office so I could drive him myself, and OH NO!! The stroller's still in the back of the van.

Then, he laughed. The psychopath laughed and told me it was all a joke. A cruel, awful joke. And, you know, I had taken it before. I had taken it and taken it and taken it and I just couldn't take it no more.

So, when he came home I was ready.


I was ready to make him pay. Pay big time. It wasn't pretty. And then I had to run.










But, you know, as ole Johnnny said. I made a good run, but I run too slow.













Prison was not good for me. But, there was time. Oh the time. Glorious time. Tons of time. And I wrote. I finally finished the Great American Novel, and it was as great as I'd always hoped it would be. Upon it's publishing, the movement started to get me released. There were letters and celebrity endorsements and, of course, a vigil.





Finally, I was released. Dane Cook fell madly in love with me. And I lived happily ever after.

















So, not a meme, but a fun idea, inspired by The Bloggess. I really, really want to turn this into an assignment, because it sounds like fun and I'd like to see this be the next big thing. Anyway, you people don't seem especially good at assignments. You know, only three people signed up for the Crafting thing and it didn't hurt my feelings at all. Only, you know. A little.

If you want to participate, fine. If you don't, FINE. Visit photofunia, for all the well... fun...

Firsts and Lasts

I may have said this before, but I believe that the great conundrum of parenting is that we miss the lasts. We are so focused on the next big thing, first tooth, first steps, first words, first day of school, that we miss the things that are slipping by, the last time she called me Mum-Mum, the last sloppy open-mouthed cheek kiss, the last tearful tickle smile, the last public hug, the last time I get to help pick her first day of school outfit.

Today was the first day of school for my Brynna. And the last first day of Montessori. The next first day will be in big kid school and the rules will be different, the clothes will be different, the stuff carried in will be different.

She didn't give me a goodbye kiss, but I think it's just because she was so excited she forgot. But, who knows, maybe the last day of school last year, was my last goodbye morning kiss. And I may have just missed it. Not realized how important it was. You can't live in fear of these things, but still...

She loves school. Like I loved school. She couldn't wait to go. She couldn't wait to get there. To run in and see her friends and her teacher and most importantly, if there were new works!! She is ready to go. Ready to work. Ready to learn. There was no fear, trepidation, concern, sadness, none. Just sheer, unfettered excitement and happiness. Soon, I'll go pick her up (there are only half days for the first week) and she'll be sad and upset to leave. At some point this year, I'll pick her up at school (which I only do rarely, because she goes to afterschool) and it will be the last time I ever pick her up at Montessori. And I may miss that, too.

Because you always believe there will be more. More sloppy open-mouthed kisses. More goodbye hugs. More days of fighting over whether or not it's appropriate to wear a short top with leggings. I want to say it's hard to let those days go, but the problem is that it isn't hard. It just happens, and one day you think, "Crap. When was the last time she slobbered all over my face when she kissed me?" And it's gone.

First days are the best. And she'll never realize that this was a last, too. I'm grateful for that. Grateful that this is a happy day for her, and a little grateful this is a bittersweet day for me. I may have missed the last day she looked too young for school, but I didn't miss the last first day.