Not Afraid to Use It

Onward and Upward, Poppy In Hand

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 08 Nov 2013 18:36:00 +0000

My dear husband has had yet another job transfer. Onward and upward, we are now ex-pats. We've been in our new digs six weeks or so, and I've had my head down with the unpacking and attempting to keep the kids in upbeat spirits. Never did I think I would be living outside the US again, and being in a county that is so similar actually makes it harder. I feel fairly sure I blogged about this before, but moving to a country that is completely different from your own means you expect everyone and everything to be different. Moving to a country where so many things are similar means I end up letting my guard down and get caught out on things I am supposed to know because I look like I belong when really, I have no clue.

Case in point, with Remembrance Day right around the corner, everyone around me is wearing poppies on their lapels. I don't have a poppy, I don't know where to buy a poppy. I don't want to seem as if I am not being supportive, but fuck if I know where to go find one. As much as people in the US get their flag-waving on, I have never seen support for this holiday like I have here in Canada, and I would like to participate. This morning, one of the grandmothers at the school was sweet enough to offer a poppy to my son. He declined because he will be getting one in his classroom, I sheepishly stepped up and asked if I could have it. My daughter is reading at the assembly this morning, and I want to look the part. I am loving getting to see other sides of shared traditions, and I love that my kids are getting to learn other sides as well. Global citizenship starts at any age, and this move has already expanded our horizons.

Shaking Fists Skyward

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 25 Jun 2013 07:47:00 +0000

My husband called me from work a few weeks back, and from his first intake of breath I knew something was terribly wrong. He could barely choke out the news he had received--one of his friends had killed himself over the weekend.

No one seems to know anything of value. No why, just the where and how. All mutual friends are at a loss to understand. My husband is devastated, and I? I am angry. Spitting, snarling mad.

I am furious at him for hurting all of us like this. It makes me so angry to think of how this is going to be explained to his beautiful neices and nephews. At the loss of their innocence. At the guilt children internalize within themselves. My heart is in agony for my husband who has so few people outside our family to whom he feels close.

Within the confines of my anger is an enormous well-spring of sorrow for the pain and loneliness our friend must have felt. I spent the week after his death yelling at him through my ceiling. Shaking my fist skyward, I have shouted all manner of hypothetical questions at him. At this point, the only positive aspect to his being dead is that I can yell at him and he has to listen. My grief, my rules.

It brings to mind another man we knew within the past few years who also killed himself. He left behind a wife, two toddlers and a torrent of unanswerable questions. At the time, I had a frank conversation with my husband about the importance of communication and the perception of a successful life. Now that suicide has once again touched our lives so intimately, I sat my husband down to reiterate a few points.

I told him I was saying all of this for my own benefit, but that I needed to know he heard me. It was important for him to look me in the eye and hear me say that the only thing that matters is the four of us. That if the job and house should slip away, we would always be okay. No matter what. That the conditions of where and how we lived were far less important than us having each other. I also made it very clear that if he ever tried a stunt like that, I would revive him just to beat the everloving shit out of him.

This horrific news has reinforced my belief in the importance of telling people. Something as inane as seeing something at the grocery store and it reminded you of them. Nothing is inconsequential. You may think the people around you understand, but I am not taking that chance. It is so easy to take for granted that the ones you love KNOW you love them, KNOW you need them. I am devastated that our friend didn't know. There may have been nothing anyone could have done, that the darkness he felt could never have been brightened by any of us. We will never know, and that is the most painful bit of all.

Proper Apologies

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 19:45:00 +0000

I get that texting has become the norm for communicating with friends. Hey let's grab drinks. On my way. Running late. It's quick, efficient, and lets people respond in their own time.

And sometimes people hide behind it.

I was recently involved in a huge blowout with another parent. She handled an incident completely inappropriately and flipped her shit. There was screaming, flailing of arms, and threats which resulted in terrified sobs from my son who was one of the targets of her wrath. This was all done very publicly, and it took a lot of clean up on my part for my child to feel better.

I received a text message from the woman later on that same afternoon explaining that she'd been having a bad day, and that she realized she had reacted poorly. I appreciated her candor, but things have been insanely awkward since that incident. Now, I did not expect her to apologize over and over and beg to make things right. However, her freak out was of epic proportions, and one text message pawning it off on a bad day and PMS does not cut it. We teach our kids to look the person they wronged in the eye and say they are sorry. All I wanted was for the next time this mother and I were in the same space for her to say to me, in person, Hey, I'm sorry about went down the last time.

Didn't happen. Not by a long shot. And I can see the attraction. Fuck something up? Fire off a quick SMS and never actually have to face the person you hurt. I am probably in the minority here, but I think that kind of sucks. I make an ass of myself? You'll probably get a text, eventually an actual in-person apology and probably a hug. I don't think this makes me an awesome person, I think it makes me accountable for my actions. And that's one of the examples I want to set. I hope my kids pay close attention because I want them to know that when their words hurt another person, part of the forgiveness process is to allow the other person to express that hurt. Not hide behind a phone and pretend like it never happened.

I'm Happy, Damn It!!

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 17:47:00 +0000

I think that most people don't reflect on the fact that they are happy until something awful befalls them. It usually takes an episode of grief and heartache to realize, damn, things were really good. How important to come to that realization before the other shoe falls. While you are in the moment.

Because guess what? I am happy. As a clam. Like a pig in shit. I am happy, and it feels so damned good. We've been in our new digs for nearly a year now, and it is the first time in long time I've felt this way. As in twenty-two years long time. For the first time since my parents first moved me out of my home state, I love where and how I live. I've got a fantastic circle of friends who want to hang and listen to my stupid stories. They can match, and often trump them. My kids are well-adjusted, and every now and then I even get to see my husband.

Life certainly hasn't been smooth these past eleven months, but I've had love and support from amazing people I never thought I'd meet. I am having fun, and I love it. I mean, how many people do you know will pick you up a couple of bottles of margarita mix from Costco just for the hell of it?

Food Bandit

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 18:35:00 +0000

So, here we are. Everyone has been on their best behavior. Polite and smiley and overly concerned for each other's feelings. Fuck that shit. The cracks are already forming.

In the two days they have been here, I have heard about how unsafe our swingset is. Yes, I know it's rickety. Yes, I know we need to re-anchor it. My husband, your son, actually has to be home to do it.

Yes, I know the cats have scratched the hell out of our couches. Yes, I know they are ten years old. Yes, I do know they look ugly when we have company. No, I don't agree (or care) that people will not like our couches and judge us for it. Yes, I've heard of slipcovers. Your son doesn't like them and doesn't want to pay for any. Yes, I will discuss it again with him.

Yes, I would love it if you made a salad for dinner. No, I did not mean just for yourself. I did not give you our single, last tomato only for you to put it on your own plate and not share it with any of the rest of us. Same goes for the cucumber at breakfast this morning. When I come back from morning school drop-off, starving for breakfast and coffee to cheerfully have you announce that you have finished off the remainder the breakfast food, damn. That's just not right.

Looks like I need to start hoarding food under my bed.

In-Law Olympics

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 15:09:00 +0000

After quite a long hiatus, here I am. We've survived four months in the high desert, and life is finally settling into a good routine. We've have bumps along the way, but most issues have been resolved and put behind us.

Which means the universe wants to throw me a curve ball before I become too complacent.

My in-laws arrive tomorrow. That's right, you know the ones. They haven't darkened our door in four years, and whatever the reason, they have decided to come and stay with us. For a month. We're not even done unpacking our crap, and we're now repacking to make room for two more adults in our household. We've moved the kids into one room in order to create a guest room and are now trying to consolidate all the things I just found space for in their rooms. I knew settling for three bedrooms would bite us in the ass.

So I will spend the day today continuing to purge vestiges of my daughter's existence from "their" room so there will be no issues of not feeling welcome. I have tried to cook and freeze meals so that we are stocked up in order to lessen the tension as to what to make for dinner. For Lent, I promised myself that I would not speak ill of my MIL. It has been very, very hard. I have not always been successful. If nothing else, it has made me much more conscious of what I am saying and how.

In any event, it looks like MIL Monday will be up in full force again. I'm hanging on to the hope that this visit won't be a repeat of the last. For insurance, I've got my Guadalupe candles lit. That's what you do around here when you need a miracle.

Let's Get Together, Yeah Yeah Yeah

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 15:40:00 +0000

We are into our final two-week countdown to our move, and the past two months have taught me two lessons I didn't really want to learn.

The first lesson involved dropping the we're moving bomb. This was universally followed with the We gotta get together before you go! response. With all the enthusiasm and promises of help, I had hope that maybe this process wouldn't be too bad. Well, I've been on my own with the kids since the middle of September, and until this past Saturday I had zero dinner invitations. Zero. I understand families are busy, but this has been ridiculous. Any adult company, no matter how brief, would have been a much needed breath of fresh air. Now that we are into our final two weeks, I've had offers to take the kids so I can get things accomplished. I am deeply grateful for these offers and am taking advantage of them when I can.

I've come out of this phase realizing that if and when I have a friend that is going through a move, if I promise help I need to follow through. I will go to my friend's house and help with the bedtime routine so she doesn't have to go it alone, if even just for one night. I will bring her a bottle of wine and help her fold laundry while we watch some bullshit prime time television show. I will ask her how she is managing. I will give her a hug and let her know it's okay to be sad. That now that the kids are in bed she doesn't have to be strong.

The second lesson is that adults handle a move very differently. Now that we've found a house and the move is officially under way, my closest friend here has not asked a thing about it. Not the house, not the kids, not me. I have come to realize that in some way she needs to distance herself. It hurts, but I get it. We all have our coping mechanisms, and I do not begrudge her the way in which she needs to deal. I've been surprised, sad, and now resigned. I've realized that all the while I worried about how my children would cope, I never dreamed that the adults wouldn't be able to handle it. I don't love her any less, it just makes the journey a lot more lonely.

Paint Your Wagon

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 02:08:00 +0000

The day has finally come. Hubbie has gotten transferred and has started a phenomenal new position in...Albuquerque. So it's back out West for us. High elevation, dry heat and the beautiful Sandias. Pretty exciting stuff!

I'm hanging on every day while Hubbie tries to find us a place to live. I'd actually prefer to stay here in DC as long as possible as the kids are incredibly happy with their school, and frankly so am I. There are a lot of things I am looking forward to the move, but I'm rather enjoying aspects of this limbo. Hubbie is getting settled into his new job, the kids and I are fine.

Of course, there is drama because nothing normal ever happens around here, but for now we're getting settled into our temporary autumn routine and saving our strength for the changes to come.

The Check Is In the Mail

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 20:42:00 +0000

I may be flippant and irreverent, but I also tend to hold people to fairly high standards of etiquette. I could lie and say I won't judge you on a breach of protocol, but it would be just that. A lie. I don't expect perfect behavior, but I demand common sense.

A former friend of mine has lately barraged my email and social website wall with requests for donations to her upcoming pink charity walk. I say former friend because a month and a half ago, she IM'd me to ask about my trip to Sweden, and when my browser dropped the chat window sent me a snarky email informing me that I must have had something else to do and that she'd talk to me later. I hate to see what kind of voice mails she leaves when a cell call gets dropped.

So here we are, six weeks later, and she still hasn't spoken to me. Still, she has the gall to hit me up for cash to sponsor her charity. Really? I don't know what fucked up version of Dear Abby she's been reading, but I find that to be completely bad form.

So, honey, the check is in the mail. Oh, that's right. We're not speaking. Guess not.

Through the Door

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 15:14:00 +0000

This weekend was a blur of birthday parties. Three in one day, to be precise. Our party marathon went well despite the potential for meltdowns and ugly sugar high crashes. We'd made it through two, and the third and final party of the day was a pool party followed by dinner. The adults joined the kids in the pool, and having my husband present meant I didn't have to haul both kids into the ladies change room.

I'd already gotten my daughter rinsed, changed and out the door when one of the older girls came in with her clothes. She looked around, then just stood there. We made eye contact, and she explained that there weren't any changing cubicles to give her privacy. I offered to stand at the door so that no one would come in. That seemed to satisfy her until two more of the party-goers came in and started showering. She was clearly uncomfortable, so I told her I would be happy to hold her things so she could change in the toilet stall instead.

That was the process. She cracked the door and handed me her wet bathing clothes, I handed the towel through. She called out what she needed, and I discreetly gave her the clothes as she stuck her hand though the door frame.

As I pushed the items through, my eyes stung and I was happy for the privacy she had behind that grimy swim hall door. This little girl is beginning elementary school this year. She seems so big compared to the other kids at the party, but she is still just a little girl. I know her dad sent her into the ladies change room because she is old enough to dress herself. He had to contend with her little brother on the other side of the wall, and a seven year-old needs much less help than a four year-old. Except this is the little girl who lost her mother this past spring. Her mother died in January, and here it is August and she is so big and so little all at the same time. It hurt my head to think about the unfairness of it all. Her mom should have been helping her at this party, not me. She should have had the comfort of knowing that while her father was wrangling her spirited little brother, her mommy was making her warm and dry and safe and ready to hold her hand crossing the busy street to go back for balloons and too much cake. But there was no one. Just me and my stupid stinging eyes. I didn't want her to see any of those thoughts flashing across my face. And so the door stayed shut and I was so, so grateful for that.

She finished up, and I brought her out to the parking lot where everyone was waiting for us. All the parents helped herd the kids out to the intersection to walk back to the party. I announced in my usual, no bullshit mommy voice that we hold hands crossing the street. My kids grabbed my husband's hand, the little girl looked around for her dad. Her father was too far away and too busy with her brother, and so I held out my hand to her. And she took it. She only held my pinky and ring fingers. Too grown up to hold me tightly, young enough to not realize she could have just walked next to me. My face burned and my heart nearly burst on that walk across the street. I thanked her on the other side and told her that she'd done a good job being such a good listener. She flashed a smile at me and skipped to catch up to her dad.

The Best Girlfriend In the World

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 04:25:00 +0000

Sometimes you come across people you wish you knew on a more personal level. Someone who hits the cool factor in just the right way. My latest crush is a girl I'll never meet whose boyfriend I came across at the airport.

I saw him at JFK at the start of our trip. He walked past me, and I actually stopped in my tracks. Yanking out my camera, I stalked the poor man across the gates until he sat down. He got this embarrassed grin on his face when I asked to take his picture. I fucking LOVED this shirt, and when he said his girlfriend bought it for him I knew we were best friends in another lifetime. And kudos to him for being such a cool dude for wearing it. Wherever and whoever you are, man, you rock.

At Your Service

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:03:00 +0000

I thought I'd start with a few teasers, some of the small stuff my MIL pulled while on our trip. Whet the appetite a little bit.

Like my daughter puking the first day we were there. I sent the in-laws to the store for crackers to settle her stomach. They came back bearing cookies for my girl and a present for her brother. No present for the puker, and apparently cookies are supposed to help with nausea.

Or my MIL telling me all about the time she visited us for Christmas when our daughter was three. Um...they've never been to the US for Christmas, and the last time they were here girl child was 19mo old. This incident prompted me to email my husband telling him I'd fallen down the rabbit hole and not being able to find my way out.

I can tell you about how my MIL never read to my children, bathed them or made them a meal. FIL brought her breakfast in bed, on a tray, every morning we were there. I didn't get coffee unless he made it for her, one morning being told that if I wanted a cup of coffee there was leftover coffee in the thermos from yesterday.

I'm sure I'll remember more to tell in a future post, but let's cut straight to the finale. Hubbie was only able to come for two weeks Read: I was alone with inlaws for one week, he was to join us for the final two. The entire last week we were in their home my MIL did not speak to my husband. This woman, who had not seen her son in a year and a half, got mad and did not speak to him for an entire week.

For real.

What egregious error had my husband committed to warrant that silent treatment? While I took my parents on an errand, my husband had the task of checking out of the hotel and packing our week's worth of luggage into the car, all the while watching our two preschool children. Mother-in-law, whose baggage was next to the reception desk, wheeled said baggage to the front door to be loaded into her car when it was returned from the train station.

Apparently, my husband should have moved it for her.

He only found this out later that night when we couldn't figure out why his mom was avoiding us. When he asked his father, the response was that she was upset that Hubbie hadn't helped her move her luggage.

For real.

Let me elucidate:

There were no stairs involved. She did not ask my husband to help her (which he would have been glad to do if he even knew that she needed help). All he knew was that sometime during the time frame of packing our car and chasing after our kids, the suitcases were wheeled 25 feet from Point A to Point B. This generated seven days of silence from his mother.

One would think the story ends there, but here we sit two weeks later. We on our side of the ocean, they on theirs. Husband Skyped with his parents yesterday; or, as he corrected me, parent. FIL talked on camera to Hubbie and the kids. MIL? Refused to come on the screen, much less talk. Translation: She did not talk to her grandchildren. She "said hello" through my FIL, but sat there with her elbow in view but sat in stubborn silence the entire conversation.

I told Hubbie I was going to buy him a t-shirt with a bellhop on it that said "At Your Service" just to be an asshole. When I asked him how to say bellhop in Swedish*, he said he didn't know. And that, I told him, was the reason he was in this mess. If he were the dutiful, prescient son he was supposed to be she wouldn't have to be upset with him. Or maybe, she's just a grumpy old bitch.

*It's piccolo, fwiw.

Back to Good

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 15:38:00 +0000

We've just come back from nearly a month abroad. Sleeping on the floor for three weeks and calling it "camping" works well when you are five and three. Not so much when you are on the slide toward forty.

We survived lying gate agents, Scandinavian heatwaves, and a family wedding. We had a great time, and it has made the post-vacation jetlag worth it. Mostly.

Needles and Pins

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 04:02:00 +0000

I'm catching up on all my medical appointments now that I have a few days with my dad to help out. The eye appointment went just fine. My dental appointment today? I thought it was going great, until the dentist walked in and cheerfully announced I had a cavity.

No matter how grown up you think you are, there are certain sights and smells that take you back to that really awful childhood place. The dentist of my childhood was a very nice man. I would have loved him except for the fact that he pulled my teeth. Nearly all of them. For some ungodly reason, when my adult teeth started coming in my baby teeth hung on like some kind of bad joke. They wouldn't even get loose. I'd have two sets of teeth, and so off to the dentist I went and out came the teeth. Over and over again. At one point, because I was getting ready for braces, they pulled six of my teeth to "make room" for the adult teeth. I had gaps for year, with not even a hint of a new tooth in sight.

I know pain technology has gotten better, but as my dentist blathered on and on about fixing my cavity the tears just leaked from the corners of my eyes. I hated it, and I just couldn't stop. The hygienist finally noticed and chided the dentist for making me cry. Then he got upset because I was upset and he hates to make people cry. It was rather comical save for how humiliated I felt over not being able to control my tears.

Just the smell and taste of the numbing gel brought a fresh onslaught, and when it was time for the shot, the taste and smell of the Novocain was awful. But my dentist was right, he said he'd numb me up and he did. After hearing about my experience with not enough Novocain when my wisdom teeth came out, he gave me a double dose. When he said I wouldn't be able to feel my face until after 8pm, the dude was no bullshitter.

I am mostly recovered now, and I kept my story as simplistic as possible for my kids once I got home. They didn't notice that half of my face was paralyzed. Instead, they gave me hugs when they found out I had two shots. They were horrified to learn that my dentist didn't give me a prize. Not even a sticker. And you know what? Now I feel kind of cheated.

Crash Into Me

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 03:41:00 +0000

We quote a lot of TV and film around here. Last week I learned the horrible lesson to never use the quote I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight flippantly. I didn't get the flu, but I met some shellfish that didn't like me very much. Lots of vomiting ensued, and a week later I am still not completely recovered.

It's has also been our first week of summer vacation. The kids and I have had a really nice time getting settled into a routine, and it has helped ease me into activity after feeling so badly. We've had a week of crafts and playing and taking it easy, so the last thing on my mind was a car accident. My husband says it's my punishment for taking the kids to the thrift store again. There I was, minding my own business, stopped behind a huge line of traffic waiting for the light to turn green when a guy plowed into the back of me. Thankfully, I did not hit the car in front of me, but my kids were screaming and frightened beyond belief.

The next hour involved standing on the side of the road arguing with an elderly Chinese gentleman who was not carrying insurance in the car. I'd called the police right away, but as we waited and waited no one arrived. I tried every stall tactic I knew because I did not want to drive away from the scene. In my world Call me tonight and I'll give you my insurance information over the phone is just not cool. The man became more and more agitated as it became apparent I did not believe in his integrity. My kids continued to howl in the backseat. I clutched a napkin with the man's information scribbled in blurry ink and tried to decide what the fuck to do.

When the blue light special arrived.

I have never been so happy to see a squad car in my life. The young officer got out, determined who was driving which vehicle, and asked us to turn over our information. Good lord did his expression change when the other driver tried to explain that his insurance was at home and not in the car. At that point, I didn't care what happened because I knew the dude was going to get a ticket, and I was off the hook. To further complicate matters, the sky opened up as only a Southern thundershower can and dumped buckets of water on us. I climbed back in the car and got my kids calmed down while the officer handled things on his end. It turns out my daughter was more worried about our car being smashed (which it wasn't) than anything being actually wrong.

So this week I have learned that when a friend asks me how well I do mussels, I am to answer Not very. That when the elderly Chinese gentleman calls at home to apologize profusely for hitting my car, ask if my children are okay, and give me his insurance information that there actually are people who follow though and aren't lying to save their asses. It's a good lesson to learn.

But I'm still glad I called the cops.

Happy Birthday To Me

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Sun, 30 May 2010 20:46:00 +0000

I get that having a baby is a lot about the mom. The chick either pushed or had sawed out of an orifice something the size of a watermelon. However, by the time the kids turns one there ought to be some focus on the child and less on the miracle of motherhood.

I have often given friends a congratulatory card on their child's first birthday that they "made it". No one died or suffered grievous bodily harm (and if you think I'm being flippant you haven't had those terrifying nights up with an infant who may or not be able to breathe). Passing that 12-month marker is huge; however, the focus and attention at a one year-old birthday party should be on the child or whatever topic of conversation the adults choose. It is not a mother-of-the-year ass-kissing party.

Apparently my sister never got the memo. My darling nephew turned one this month, and per family request I yanked my kids out of school and sports and flew the several hundred miles to attend the party. I did it for my daughter who adores her cousins and rarely gets to see them. I did it for my nephew even though he will never remember who was in attendance. I went even though people thought I was crazy to go that far for a one year-old.

My sister was a monstrous bitch the entire trip. Sitting like a queen in her chair, pointing and tell people what to do and how to do it better. I kept my mouth shut and chanted for the family, for the family but it chapped my ass that she refused to make eye contact with me. It was a slap in the face that she never thanked us for coming or told us it was good to see us. I still don't quite know what particular bug was up her ass that day, but needless to say I am back at my house safe and sound and very glad of it. I didn't expect her to fall over herself with gratitude for our presence, but a little common decency would have gone a long way.

I'm not being overly harsh here as someone else threw the party for her and cooked all the food to boot. All she had to do was show up. I don't know what she wanted from all of us, but she did her damnedest to turn a joyous occasion into a personal pity fest for herself. My kids didn't notice, and that's all I care about. Well, not really, but it sounds more enlightened that way.

Ace of Clubs

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 07 May 2010 02:36:00 +0000

The line between pride and braggadocio is a fine one when getting to know a person. A fellow mom makes it a point to tell me on nearly every occasion that she is a lifetime member of the NRA. Somehow, she manages to slip it into each conversation, and I have to say I have come to find it incredibly irritating. Why? Because I don't give a shit. Who cares? You paid money to join a club. Let me repeat: You paid money. You didn't earn the space. You didn't do something spectacular to receive an invitation.

Mensa? Groovy. DAR? Pretty fucking awesome. Even so, any good accomplishment only gets so much mileage before it grows tiresome. I don't want to feel as if I am having the same conversation over and over again, we aren't playing a game of war. Back and forth does not a friendship make. You can keep your clubs and your ace in the hole. It isn't worth as much as you think.

Lessons In Self Control

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 04 May 2010 02:06:00 +0000

One of the books chosen for story time tonight was Sleeping Beauty. I have the habit of changing the stories up or switching languages to see if the kids are paying attention. They love trying to "catch" me when I "trick" them.

Tonight, we got to the part where the villian states that on her sixteenth birthday, Aurora will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die. To me, it makes much more sense for the curse to read "On the day of your sixteenth birthday, the princess will get pricked and turn into a man".

My kids laughed and "corrected" me No! No! No! She doesn't turn into a man! She is going to die! They are too young to go into the semantics of the word prick, so I hid my smirk and acquiesced to continuing the storyline in a more traditional fashion.

I still think I my version is better, and I can't wait until they are old enough to realize it.

It's Not Cool

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 01:31:00 +0000

Hey Mom,

It's not cool to roll your eyes when you look at the packets of snack crackers the kids are eating. I know you don't like anything with cheese, but how is making a face helpful? Don't you know how much the kids look to you for cues?

It's not cool to go shopping with all of us but only buy flowers for your granddaughter and not her brother who is standing right next to you. What the hell is wrong with you?

It's not cool to watch your granddaughter at soccer practice and cheer her on, yet during your grandson's practice take his sister to the nearby playground and miss all his three year-old moves. Don't you think he noticed?

It's not cool to bring tracing workbooks for both kids but only spend time with your granddaughter doing hers. Don't you remember that they are both in preschool?

It's not cool to help the five year old scoop and eat her dinner but when the three year old wants the same help to belittle him and ask if his arm is broken. What has he ever done to you?

Hey, Mom. It's nice that you want to come to visit, but you cause a lot of stress. When I take you to task on some of the things that you do, being defensive is not an apology. Explanations are not an excuse. I don't know why you do the things you do, but they are harmful and make me sad.

Sincerely,
NATUI the daughter

Sly Bitch Recognition

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 02:34:00 +0000

When I studied abroad and stayed with the Dragon Lady and her family, she made fresh-squeezed orange juice every morning. My roommate and I would sit at the little cafe table in her kitchen eating our yogurt and chatting of the day to come. The Dragon Lady would chat with us, squeeze our orange juice and hand each of us a delicious glass of sunshine.

It took me a few weeks to realize that some mornings, the juice tasted awful. There was something...off. Turns out that anytime I left the kitchen during breakfast instead of squeezing my juice she would fill the rest of the glass with water so she wouldn't have to use up her oranges on us. Since my roommate and I shared a bathroom, we were often up and down several times during the course of a meal trying to juggle the application of our morning glam.

One day, I was sitting in the little kitchen when my roomie breezed in and announced the bathroom was free. Relieved, I jumped up to take my turn. My chair was pushed back, I was poised to leave the room when I remembered: The juice. She is going to chince me on my juice.

I turned back around to sit down and said that I would wait until after I was done eating. As I reseated myself, my eyes met that of my host mother. There was a flash between us. She knew that I knew. Without missing a beat she kept on halving and squeezing the oranges. I sat down and finished my breakfast. That was probably the tastiest glass of orange juice I had that summer.

One Tit Wonder

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Sat, 10 Apr 2010 02:46:00 +0000

One of the more recent perks of being a parent is freezing my ass off in swim lessons. We've been teaching the kids on their own, but they haven't made the final leap to swimming independently. Hence, two kids in one class on Friday evenings. Me and ten other dimple-legged moms with 45° headlights in the shallow end of the rec center pool.

At the tender age of three, even after a full swim lesson my son is ready to jump and jump and jump off the side of the pool until we pack it in and call it a day. He doesn't really need me to catch him, it's more that it is fun for him to jump towards me as a target. I think I predicted my own fate when I warned him not to grab at my bathing suit. Wouldn't you know the very next jump his hand snagged the front of my swimsuit. Fabric down, tits up. I sank under the surface when I realized what was happening, but I wasn't fast enough. One of my girls definitely got a little hang time before I hit the water.

I don't think anyone saw, but I didn't look around to take a poll, either. The key to keeping your dignity is to not notice if other people noticed. You can't be embarrassed if you don't see the stares, right?

Parenting 101

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 02:39:00 +0000

Negative examples are an excellent way to parent. We see something awful or hear something that makes us cringe, and we are shamed into becoming a better parent.

This weekend we were at a birthday party, and one of the attendees was a shy little boy. He was so shy, that he was fighting back tears when his mom urged him to join the other children. After several attempts to nudge him over and across the room, she squatted next to him and in a terse voice began to chastise:

Do you see what you are doing? You are being different!

I blocked out the rest of her lecture because my brain completely stuttered on the world different. Of all the things she could have said to him, that was the word she chose? To make him feel badly for being different than the other kids? He's four years old for fucks sake! The damage this woman is wreaking on her son turns my stomach. He is either going to grow up to be the biggest sheep with no opinion of his own, or go so far off the path her head will spin around. Different? I'll show you different.

A little friendly reminder to be conscious of the things I say to my little ones. They are so vulnerable, and even when they act like little assholes they don't deserve to be belittled.

Still Relevant

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:17:00 +0000

This is as relevant as the day they made the video. It still touches me. It still makes me sad.

End of the Ninth Life

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 03:09:00 +0000

There are few aspects of parenthood worse than having to explain death.

One of my cats has not been herself lately, and over the weekend I had contacted a mom here in town who is also a veterinarian. We went to her clinic this afternoon hoping to get some answers. I have watched the decline in my cat's health over the past two weeks, and while I didn't expect the prognosis to be good it's hard not to hold onto a shred of hope.

Her lungs were filled with fluid, so much so that we couldn't even see her heart in the x-ray. Anything we could have done for her would have been stopgap. She might have lingered for weeks. She might have made it to the weekend. While I thought the news would be grim, I don't know that I had realized that this was it. I've had this cat ten years. I fought to adopt her when my husband-then-boyfriend traveled during the week, and I was alone in a country with no friends. We nursed her back to health from the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her previous owners, and we dragged her furry ass across two continents, an ocean, and three states.

To compound the news, it's spring break this week for our school system which meant I had to drag both kids with me. My five and three year old. What the fuck was I supposed to say to them? Bring the cat home and tell them they have until the weekend until mommy plays the harbinger of death and takes the cat away?

So, I lied.

I told them the doctor was going to keep her for a few days and give some medicine to make her feel better. That the doctor was going to call me or email me to let me know how she was doing but that she was very very sick. That she couldn't breathe very well and that there was a good chance she was going to join the other kitties living with God. So they kissed her head, told her they loved her, and got stickers in the waiting room while I stayed behind to talk about the medicine.

Being a parent sucks. And how to handle listening to tiny prayers hoping their kitty gets better is not in the manual.

Parking Lot Showdown

noreply@blogger.com (Not Afraid To Use It) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 16:04:00 +0000

My father got a taste of the preschool mommy wars this week. He personally hates how our school handles the morning drop off, so he makes a point of arriving early any time he has that responsibility. This time around, he arrived early and parked on the side of the parking lot that did not have any cars. He turned off the ignition, got out, started to open the passenger door for my son when a mom in a black van pulled up next to him. Right next to him. On top of him. So close that he couldn't open the door wide enough to unbuckle my son because she'd popped her own door open.

The lady hopped out of her van, walked around and breezily told my dad Just go ahead and let me get my kids out inferring that she'd get out of my dad's way when she was done. She stood there waiting for my dad to move to the side. And here is what I love about my dad. He just stood there. Looked at her. Didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just stood there and looked at her.

The mom stood there for a good ten seconds. When it was evident that he wasn't going to budge, she capitulated and said I guess I can get my kids out of the other side shut her door and walked around to the other side of her car. That's right! Get the fuck out of my dad's way! I was so proud of my him. I don't know who this chick was, but hopefully in the future she'll stay the hell away from my car.