Other Mothers Bug Me

OK. I already know that I am going to get grief about this, but here goes:


I don't like most other women who are mothers.


It certainly isn't my own view of being a superior parent. Because I am not a superior parent. Some days I am barely an adequate human, let along a superior anything.


It's not because I view my life as more fulfilling or somehow better than other peoples lives.


Not at all. 


When I was newly pregnant and convinced that the whole world rejoiced at the miracle of life blossoming in my uterus since I was chosen to be a Mother ( with a capital M), therefore I was being inducted into the new status raising class of being able to say things with more authority because I had DONE THAT, I was pulled up short by my beloved ( if not cranky) midwife.


"Get your brain out of your uterus, Dawn. Billions of women have done this before you, and a billion more will do it after you."


Ah, Judy. My Cranky Lesbian Midwife. How I loved thee.


Judy was adamant that I was not special for being pregnant. She held no truck with coddling or suggesting extra time off from work. You were pregnant, dammit - not disabled. Even when I developed the whole "insulin 6 times a day dependent gestational diabetes" situation, she was not impressed. 


"You do it because you have to do it and thats the end of the discussion. Now stop crying and listen to how to give yourself the insulin."


Whenever I get one of those saccharine forwarded emails about the "joys" of motherhood, or the "specialness" of a child, I just cringe. Gah. Even worse? Watching women try to convince other women that somehow they are being let into a new and special club because they are pregnant...or recently had a baby.


A friend shared a facebook status update she had recently seen:


"I love watching my pregnant friends transform into mothers. I love how their updates go from being about them to being imediately about their joys and concerns of being a parent. Its awesome being a parent."


My first thought: "Spare me this shit."


And why?  Because it is really no different. There is no shift from themselves to the child,  this attitude retains the self-centered viewpoint of the securely righteous. Furthermore, this attitude seeks to exclude other women by implying that women without children are somehow missing something ( or worse, are being selfish and bad for not being parents).


Implicit in this statement is the societal double standard that women should be self sacrificing on behalf of their child(ren), thinking only about raising the next generation.  Of course, this little rabbit hole leads to all sorts of  debates between and amongst women. Working Moms versus Stay At Home Moms, Bottle vs Breast, Attachment parenting vs Free Range Parenting, Tiger Moms vs Sloth Moms.... A whole new and ever evolving way for women to fight other women. We get to put each other down with poorly concealed digs at the quality/quantity of our parenting, How Fun!


Can I also take issue with the word "Transform"? Did I transform? Become a beautiful Butterfly Mother? 


Hell No. I became crazier, more exhausted and prone to crying jags over things I can't control. I lost all sense of who I was for a couple of years until I fought and scratched and clawed the "Mother" skin I was trying desperately to stretch over myself to ribbons, letting Dawn back out. 


It is no more awesome being a parent than it is awesome being a wife, or a lover, or a daughter. My life does not revolve around my daughter, no more than it revolves around my husband. 


I do not regret being Emily's Mother, but I also do not define myself as such. I understand that this is a difficult concept for many people, particularly women who are mothers, to understand.  I suspect some of you reading are curling your lip up in vague distaste. 


However, I think I give my daughter a greater gift by retaining my essential quality as a Woman who refuses to be defined by my roles to Others in deference to the way She defines Herself. 


Women who are mothers aren't more special than anyone else, regardless of how many times we like to tell ourselves that we know more, or have loved harder or have sacrificed in ways that other people can only dream about. It isn't true and we don't help ourselves by perpetrating the lie unto other women.


Be on the lookout for my  follow up post: "Your Kid is not that Special".

The week is going to get better, right?

Today started like any other day.

Well, really it didn't. When today really started, at midnight last night, I was racing through the house searching for witch hazel and hydro-cortisone.  Why?

Well, money has been a bit "tight" here.  I've been minimally employed for about a year now and despite my best efforts at pretending I'd rejected such old fashioned concepts like "money", the dwindling amount in my bank account has finally caught up with me/us.

So, I have been looking for ways to conserve my output of cash. This has led to me putting things like "Salon based pubic hair removal" on the absolute back burner.

By Saturday, I just couldn't take it anymore. I mean, it had been nearly 3 MONTHS. Ladies, I implore you. Consider your legs or armpits after 3 MONTHS of neglect. It was like the heart of darkness in my thong. I decided to shave. I mean, millions of women shave, right?  This isn't rocket science.

So by Sunday when the terrible razor burn rash had spread EVERYWHERE, I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong. I had exfoliated. I used my bump stopped afterwards and continued to apply lotion all day. At one point on Sunday, as Terrance and I were grocery shopping and I was walking like my pants were literally on fire he stopped me to inquire if something was wrong.

"I don't know but if I don't get home and get these underwear off soon, I think I am going to die."

Sexy words in some contexts, but not when your wife is glaring at you with malice and speaking through her clenched teeth.

Which led me, eventually, to the racing through the house,opening cupboards and rifling through baskets of things desperate for some relief.

When none seemed forthcoming I did what any New England girl would do: Lotion up my crotch with Bag Balm and called it a night.

It seemed to help, at least enough to get to sleep.

When I did wake, it was to the dulcet sounds of

"Hrrgh- Hrrgh-Hrrgh"

and Terrance saying "OH MY GOD, THE CAT IS GOING TO PUKE ON YOUR RUG!" - while making no effort to save the rug from the forthcoming vomit.

Then he stared at me while I cleaned as much cat puke off the rug as possible, then put on pants and carried the rug outside to pack it in snow.

I also started a real job search last week. As in "Dawn now gets emails everyday with jobs that match her education criterion and then she gets to weed through all the places she doesn't want to live before sending off one CV a day to places that never contact her".

I suspect more than one of you feel my pain on this front.

And now I am going to apply more bag balm and figure out a way to save/earn money, because I am too old to have my crotch on fire for THIS reason.

And some of you wonder why we never had a 2nd kid

"Ain't nothin' cute at 2 a.m."

Actually, that was a paraphrase of what one of my best, oldest friends said to me at one point in her beginning days of motherhood.

I happened to have had experiences last night that made those words - the very words that made me laugh like a hyena in my car as I navigated traffic while listening to my voice mail- pertinent again. What she really said was "Between the hours of midnight and 6 am, the word cute does not exist in my vocabulary"

Last night, at 2 am, with my daughter howling in her bedroom and my husband howling from the couch and me - half asleep- wishing we had a much bigger house where I could escape from them both, I recalled that phrase.

The battle lines had been drawn earlier in the evening. Daddy, once again, leveled some threat regarding the door being shut and her staying in her bed. "You're seven years Old! You are too old to be sleeping with us every night." and then it went on - as usual- to involve some thing that would be taken away if she didn't stay in her bed.

So at 10:20 p.m., my husband of 9 years and partner of 14, attempted to claim his rightful place in bed next to me. He also had some high hopes for a little love being sent his way, so he shut our bedroom door and sidled in next to me. Four minutes later -no lie- I heard a tiny thump in the area of my door. P-A-U-S-E. Knock, knock, knock- "Dada?"

Now, this is actually my husbands WORST nightmare - having our child walk in on us during any kind of intimate moment. So he leaps up like he has been electrocuted, scrambling for a towel or something he can put over himself. I yell "Emily - go back to bed!" and start to laugh ( very very quietly) because he now has his shorts on inside out and is making for the door to see what her issue may be. I know what her issue is......She telepathically picked up that our door has closed and we must be touching and that none of this involves her nosy ass.

Now she knows something is up. Her solution is to stay awake to prevent any more shenanigans from occurring on her watch. Now, I fell asleep before the Daily Show, and awoke again at 2 a.m. to hear them yelling at one another from their respective corners. She had been awake all that time, waiting for him to fall asleep so she can run into my room and get into bed with me. But he keeps intercepting her and sending her back to her room.

I get up - go to her room and say "It is Two in the Morning! Why on Gods Green Earth are you awake with your lights on?"

Emily: "Oh, it's two o clock? I stayed up a really long time."

Me: "Go to sleep!"

Emily: "OK Mama, good night"

seven minutes later, I open my eyes and she is standing in front of me, trying to get into my bed. Me: "Emily what are you doing?"

Em: "I had a bad dream"

Me: You couldn't have had a bad dream, you haven't gone back to sleep."

Em: "I haven't?"

Emily retains her crown as the master. She is betting that I am groggy enough to have forgotten I spoke with her a few minutes ago. Maybe if she sells this hard enough, she'll make it into my bed.

Terrance: "Dawn, is Emily in there with you?"

Emily: "Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" This is accompanied by her running back into her room and throwing herself on her bed.

Terrance: "I swear to god child, I will beat your ass if you get out of that bed again"

@ 4 minutes later... I hear the quiet foot falls of her trying to see if he is asleep on the couch from her bedroom. I think "This kid has the biggest, brass cojones EVER" In a weird way, I am proud of her tenacity.

She appears like a ninja.

Me: "Em, you are about to get in a whole world of trouble that I can't protect you from. Daddy warned you."

Em: Sigh. "Ok, I'll go back to my bed"

And where was she this morning? Tucked under my arm - fast asleep.

The master retains her crown.

Best Imitation of Myself

The time has come to share some of Dawn’s top “Don’t’s”, in the realm of parenting.  Because I am rapidly approaching Doctor of Education (Early Childhood)

Yes, Yes, we all know now about the dangers of throwing Bitty Baby shoes in your child’s direction. But these are some lesser know, but equally hazardous moments in my parenting career.

At this point I would specifically like to make a professional disclaimer. As an early childhood guru, many of these things I would have never suggested or done with the children in my care. I mean, I was getting PAID to rear these other children. No, these screw ups were entirely with my own child.


1. When your child is 3 weeks old and can’t possibly roll over, do not try to simulate your body with pillows next to her on the bed. You will do this in an attempt to move away from her, while she is sleeping so you can – I don’t know – Pee without holding her. Perhaps you will even attempt to seek nourishment. You will be sitting on the couch and hear a distant, but distinct noise. You will be chewing a food item. You will think “Hmm, that is an odd sound”, as you chew quickly. You will hear the sound again and think, “No, really, that IS odd”. You will trip over the coffee table as you realize that this is the muffled sound of you baby – screaming. She is muffled, cause she has rolled, face first into the pillow. Cause 3-week-old babies never roll.

But yours does.

2. In an attempt to “teach your child who is boss” you will attempt to Ferber her over the course of the week. You will find that your 11 month old has far more will power than you, as she is perfectly happy to scream bloody murder for six hours, without falling to sleep. She can sleep all day. She has nowhere to go at 7 a.m. But you do, you sorry Mo-fo.

As you walk in to her bedroom at the prescribed increasing 5 minutes intervals, your child will look at you with bottomless hatred and disgust. At 5 a.m. on day 4 of this marathon, you will pick her up and pop a boob in her mouth, take her to your bed and fall asleep. Cause this Ferber dude must not have slept in the same house with his kids. And he sucks.

3. Because you are the Director of the child care, your child will become a brutal biter, with many, many victims. These victims’ parents will address you – Director- and say things such as “I don’t know what is wrong with that Biter’s parents. I mean, they must not be doing a very good job at parenting”. Your child will continue to bite until she is three and her language has gotten better.


4.After watching Marie Osmond give advice on some talk show (cause before she went all crazy, she was an Uber mom), you will think it a good idea to snip the ends off of your child’s binkies. Cause Marie says that the baby will lose the pleasure of sucking the binky when the end is nipped. Your baby is 2 and needs to give up her binky…Right? Everyone says so.

So you do this. You present the modified binky to child, who loses her shit and begins to wail “YUCKY MINE! YUCKY MINE!” as she flops on the floor kicking and screaming. This goes on until your frantic husband finds an unmodified binky and says “What the hell did you do that for?” Your child gives the binky up at 5 when she is damn good and ready thank you very much.


5.When the monsters begin to live in the closet and under the bed, you read a Parents magazine that recommends making “Monster spray” by purchasing a small spray bottle and decorating it with glittery stickers. You will then present it to your fearful child and empower them with the knowledge that they can conquer their fears by using this “Monster Spray”. Then your child will be able to come to terms with the monsters ( which are only an manifestation of the child’s growing awareness of the dangers of the world – as they seek more and more autonomy), in a self esteem and empowering sort of way. You will buy this shit hook, line and sinker. You will make the bottle. You will present it to your child.

Your child will react by shrieking, “The monsters are going to eat me!” (or a reasonable facsimile with the binky in her mouth) and screaming as she runs in circles. She will then attach herself to your body and attempt to climb up onto your head as she continues to scream about the monsters.

You have unwittingly acknowledged and confirmed the existence of the monsters, that you had heretofore staunchly refused to agree were real. You will have to show your child that you are throwing away the “Monster Spray” so the “monsters” won’t go all postal when they find out she has acquired such a potentially lethal tool.

Thanks Parents magazine. A real life saver there.

Ah, yes. Don’t do these things. If you do, your child will still be sleeping with you at age 10. Learn from my mistakes, people. Do not listen to child development experts like me! Throw away those magazines. Ignore those crazy Tiger Moms!

You’ll find your way, I promise.

Phoenix

There are grudges I have nursed for years. Kept their flames small and in the dark, feeding them occasionally on bitterness and blame, resentment and anger.

Logical Dawn? She doesn't entirely understand the Why of these grudges, some held against classmates from high school, or friends or lovers from long ago.  Some grudges, held for her Mother and Father, Logical Dawn understands better.

It is a flaw of Dawn, she knows. A twisting of anger not expressed, these tiny lights of resentment.  Seeds of self doubt and self guilt, nourished in the deep loam of things never said.

Dawn is an Old Soul, if you believe in those things. Her back is broad and rarely buckles. She continues to move forward, at the cost of her sanity and body, for she is a workhorse of unparalleled quality. The things she produces are exquisite creations, filled with the entirety of Dawn, poured into each word, each rug or quilt, each story. They are the beauty of Dawn distilled. She sparkles inside of these creations.

Until.

Until.

Until the quiet moments.

The quiet moments when she moves something and finds the chest filled with those resentments.

She falls to her knees and opens the chest, surrounding herself with the glory of Resentment. Bitterness. Anger. Blame. She is the white light of Fury and Righteousness. She bursts into flame. She glows.

Until.

Until.

Until Dawn stops burning, all tinder and oxygen used up.  Logical Dawn can finally be heard. "What is this all for?", she asks.

Mirrored faces looking at each other, until one falls to ash.

I rise, a phoenix.

Only this time, I do not close the chest. I do not hide it away. Not this time.

I don't need it anymore.

Rabbit, Rabbit

On Saturday, I heard Terrance call Coco. He serves the morning salad, and usually both rabbits are standing next to the bowl looking, disapprovingly, at whatever piteous human is Late in serving them.

But on Saturday, Only Jackson was by the bowl.

At 10 a.m., I heard him call her again. Jackson had eaten ALL of the salad and Terrance was worried.

It was at the second call that I got worried too.

I won't bore you all with my description of how much I love this rabbit. I won't tell the story of how I found her in the basement, abandoned in darkness and in filthy litter with no water. I won't tell you of how she charmed me by thumping her back leg at me when I stopped rubbing her nose, or her ridiculously sweet temperament for an animal who had been mistreated and neglected by the other humans she had known.I don't need to tell you that she helped me during a depression, her kind and quiet presence sitting in bed with me, or licking my foot in the morning when I was late with the salad.

When I found her, hidden under the bed, I knew something was very wrong. She was listless. While still conscious, she let me flip her over in a trance position without fussing or kicking- something she has never, ever, ever done. I checked for wounds. Nothing. I listened for belly sounds. Nothing.

Her lips were blueish and she just stared at me.

I am fortunate to have a Vet for Coco who only treats "Exotics" - we pet owners who chose not dogs or cats, but Rabbits and Ferrets and Birds, and Reptiles and Hedgehogs and Lizards and Spiders. When I sit in the waiting room, I feel a funny sense of community. No one looks surprised to see people holding rats, or walking around with birds on their shoulders.

I got Coco to the vet in less than 30 minutes. They took her temperature, and immediately put her into the incubator. She was Cold for a rabbit, 35 degrees C.  39C is where she should have been and her lips were quite blue. I talked to her and comforted her, reminding her that she was my girl.

The vet spent less than 5 minutes with me. Coco was dying.  Her body was going into shock and her odds were very bad.  80% of the cases they see like her die within an hour or so.

I could take her home to die...Or I could OK the treatment, with no guarantees of her survival.

Do it, I said. Treat Her.

 I brought her home today.  As I picked her up, the Vets, the Vet techs, and the front desk Staff all smiled at us. She had made it, against all odds this 4 pound rabbit had pulled through.

As I packed her into the car, I looked down in the snow.  Someone had lost their Blackberry. I picked it up and walked it into the Vet's office.

One good Karmic turn deserves another.

( and I finished the rug tonight - It will always be associated with Coco coming home to us)

An interlude in Pictures

I find that I forget to put pictures here. I load them onto facebook, or send them off to Envisage, but I rarely put them Here.

Hi! This is me walking to my massage therapist today. Yep, It is Cold in Montreal, but Hey. It is winter. And it is still January. It is supposed to be cold.

This is the foyer where I take my rug hooking classes. I really Love my rug hooking classes. I look forward to Tuesday All week.  And what else can make you say that about a Tuesday? Which brings me to:

My most recent rug. It is actually a bit more finished at this point, but this was last week. The rug I have planned for after this one will be my maternal grandparents farm.

Here is Coco making sure her likeness to up to her standards. She has not urinated on anything, so I have to take that as her saying OK to the rendering.

I am older. I am a bit worn, but I am still me. 

Life After

I have a habit of leaving my body.

Whenever I am feeling at odds with my life, I move into my head and leave my body vacant. A shell in which I inhabit, but barely live.

My head is a lovely comforting place. It is filled with lush chaise lounges, and reading lamps. The carpets are plush and there are ever percolating pots of coffee and tea that magically refill.  The temptation to live permanently inside my head is ever present, and I can happily live in there for undetermined amounts of time.
It is peaceful and safe and I don't have to feel anything.  Of course, the added bonus is that a majority of people simply don't notice my vacancy.

Generally, an illness or injury is what forces me back into my body. Like any structure left unattended, my body starts to break down. My blood sugar rises. I gain weight. My pap smears come back wonky. I get shingles or start to consume bottles of liquid ibuprofen at a truly alarming rate...You know, the sirens to pull over and get my collective self together.

When I started the massage therapy  almost four weeks ago, I went in knowing that my body was holding an enormous amount of feelings. Like always, I knew things were terribly out of balance.  The headaches. The pain - all located in the left side of my body - head to toe. I couldn't verbalize entirely what was wrong with me, except that I knew it was something.

It wasn't depression. I know that feeling, for it has also driven me into my head. However, the place in my head in which I live while depressed is not a lovely place. There is nothing comforting about that place, as it is bereft of joy. There are no chaise lounges. There is no light. There is nothing there to nourish me. It is the rock  where Prometheus has his liver pecked out, wind blasted and barren. Living there was not a choice, but a punishment.

As I have lay on the table and had my massage therapist activate my meridian points, I have been forced to inhabit my body. Forced to figure out what I am holding in various parts of my body and then breathe through the pain as the points are worked until they release. Forced to stay in touch with what I am feeling, followed with why.

Following my massage last Thursday, I was crabby. Whatever had been worked through left me initially feeling a bit panicked and unsure. I didn't WANT to deal with any of this.

Finally,  late Saturday night it came to me. This thing I was desperately avoiding.

Grief. Not sadness, not wistfulness. Grief.

I will allow my body to fall to pieces around me to avoid grief.  To avoid feeling grief.

And why? Because it feels like failure. Failure on my part. My own blame points directly back at me for not being...whatever it should be to have avoided that grief.  I lock it up in my cells and blood and muscles and try to out wait it, or out think it.  I should have been smarter, I should have anticipated differently. I should have been less trusting. If I truly let go, then I have failed.

So, instead of feeling the grief, and then moving through that to life After, I refuse to acknowledge the tyrannosaurus rex of my grief as it snacks on my limbs.

In the moment of the massage on Thursday that this thought swept through me, I began to cry.  The words "This is my Life After..." were what came to mind. My Life After, which means that I will survive. I will thrive, even.

Then I packed it up for another two days until the energy of my body forced me to release the thought and look at it.  Not terrified. Not with tears, but simply to look at it.

It is scary to look at your grief, at least for me. Everything I fear is wrapped up in it, a churning mass of family and friends and lovers and expectations and disappointments over 40 long years.

I can no longer avoid it, so I must sit - face to face - and figure out a way to integrate Grief into my life. Not in a way that denies Grief, nor in a way that consumes Me.

My Life After.

I value your opinion about my parenting

My friend Marsha was recently sharing about an encounter in which another parent shared their opinion about her parenting....which is a rather dangerous thing to do to most women, but a particularly bad thing to do to a Blogger.

Cause we blab it all over the internetz.

So, in her honor, I created a new T-shirt.

Behold the front:

and the back?

I think it really says is all, don't you?

-25 points for religious knowledge, +150 points for literature knowledge

I wrote this over two years ago, but it is still shockingly the same.  Last week, during a fit of anger, Emily started cursing the object of her ire....using Greek Gods. Between this power, and her training in how to survive the zombie Apocalypse, it becomes clear that I am grooming my replacement.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On Friday, Emily went with a friend to a Christian "club" for kids. Apparently, they play games and hear Bible type stories. The plan was for me to pick the girls up from school - get them fed, and the father of the friend would pick them up at 6:30, take them to the club, and then return them afterwards for a sleepover.

Emily had already announced to the friend that Mom and Dad didn't "do" church. I have to suffer the pitying glance of a nine year old who, I'm sure, is calculating my descent into hell postmortem.

But hey. I'm no religious bigot. If Emily wants to go and check these things out, no problem. She has attended church with her grandmothers and aunts, so she has a vague inkling of the rituals.

This morning, after the friend had gone home, I asked Emily how she liked the church club.

"It was pretty good", she said.

"Oh. What did you learn?"

"Well, God touched people with lepers and they were healed."

I pause. As a former Roman Catholic, I know my Bible stories.

"I think it was Jesus, honey - and the people WERE lepers. They had Leprosy and Jesus isn't god."

She pauses. "Who was Jesus then, if he isn't God?"

"Well - he is the son of God."

She takes this in. "So Where does Mary come into this?"

"She is Jesus' mother - and God was his father."

She stares off pondering the union between invisible spirit and Human.

"So Jesus is half God, half mortal?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Yeah. I guess you could say that he was."

Her expression smooths into understanding.

"Just like Hercules."

Balancing

I've spent a large portion of the last three years feeling dissatisfied.

With everything - my life, my marriage, my body, my job, my lack of job, my dissertation, my lack of dissertation. I wanted more, I wanted less, I wanted different

In part, I could point to the need for a different medication for my depression.  Since I had been taking Prozac for ten years, I should have suspected that perhaps a medication fail was occurring. No, like always it wasn't until I was constantly sobbing ( at everything) and sleeping for 18 hours a day that I suspected something more was up than my cheerful glass half empty personality.

By nature, I am a cautious person. I hedge my bets obsessively. I play, replay and counter play scenarios in my mind until I think  I have every possible angle covered, every possibility vetted. I am also not, by nature, a person who believes in any kind of "power of positive thinking" bullshit. I think those people are trying to pull a fast one by redirecting your attention over "there" while the boa constrictor slides up you leg and tightens its grasp and opens its jaws.

I am also not a person who believes in resolutions, new years or otherwise. I don't start diets or go to gyms.

Things either Are, or they Are Not.

Last week I decided to go have a Reiki session.

My whole left side of my body had been going numb since the last fall, and I didn't think it was an issue for the chiropractor. It felt different, like something was blocked which, despite my very best efforts, could not be unblocked by myself.

I tend to be sensitive to energy. I know this sounds ridiculous, but on more than one occasion in my life I can feel when people with whom I am close are thinking about me.  Regardless of their proximity. I used to think it was crazy, but I simply accept it now. Sometimes it is lovely. A tingly feeling that starts in your scalp and runs over your body. Othertimes? Maddening. Some strange psychic violation that you can't block out.

After the Reiki session, the practitioner told me that my right side energy was lovely - like caramel. But the left side? She shuddered. "Some intense stuff going on there."

I know. I am holding all the pain and dissatisfaction and disappointment on one side of my body. By the end of the session, I started to cry as the left side of my body went numb. "I've cut off my left side", I said to her.

And I have. I did.

The following night was the first night I woke up without a numb left arm.  Two days later, I was able to forgive someone within my own heart and start to move on.

Balance is a funny thing. It can not come until you are willing for it to come.  Saying you want to be in balance will not make it so...it takes hard work, on a multitude of levels.

Tomorrow I go back for another Reiki and massage session. I also cut out carbs from my diet, after spending the past 9 months dodging my doctor since my blood sugar levels were starting to creep back up.

2011 is going to be a good year. Not because I hope for it, but because I am making myself ready for it.

So Not Gay

At 12, Emily still debriefs me regarding the entire details of her day. 

Tonight, we lay in bed and she chatted merrily away about who said what to whom, who traded things at lunch and who was now friends ( or not friends) with whom.

She paused, and then asked, "Is there any other meanings for the word Gay?"

I looked at her. "Well, what do you mean? Besides what meanings do you mean?"

"Well, Angel told me that my hat was Gay..and I said "Do you mean my hat is Homosexual? Do you mean my hat is really Happy?" and she said "No, your hat is stupid" and I said "Well, than it isn't Gay because that isn't what Gay means."

I turned and stared into her beautiful deep brown eyes.

"I am so proud of you, you know. You are absolutely right. And using Gay as an insult is absolutely not Ok and Mommy is just so proud of you for standing up to Angel that my heart could burst."

I am raising an incredible woman. 

Death may take a Holiday, But Influenza does not

an oldie, but goodie, As I wrap, and shop and generally hold my head in my hands.  A "true from my life Tale, of Christmas 2007

'Twas the evening of Christmas, and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except for Dawn Rouse;

The stockings were empty,the gifts all unwrapped,

The cookies were eaten, I had not yet napped;

My child finally nestled all snug in her bed,

The two hours of sleep she'd gotten finally messed with her head;

And Terrance in his skivvies, and me, feeling groovy,

Had just settled down to watch a bootleg movie,

When out in the hall there arose such a splatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Terrance was out cold, I was all by myself,

To deal with the issue that presented itself.

The moon on the breast of the newly puked vomit

Gave the lustre of pearls to the puddles upon it,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But my own puking child, covered toe to ear.

The fluid spew forth, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment she was getting quite sick.

More rapid than eagles the vomit, it came,

That I whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Lysol! now, Pinesol! now, Bleach and Windex,

On, Comet! on Downey! And Thank God I bought another box of Tide!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now clean it up! Wash away! Wash away all!"

As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

My daughter sat before the toilet and cried.

And then, in a twinkling, I knew without doubt

That my evening would be fraught with effluvia all about .

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

More vomit flew out of her mouth with a bound.

She was wearing new jammies, picturing Hannah Montana,

which were now all tarnished with what looked like banana;

the bundle of toys she had flung on her floor,

Now looked as if they'd been involved in a gelatinous war.

Her eyes -- how they watered!! Her forehead all sweaty!

Her PJ's were covered, blankets, rugs and Poor Bitty.

Her droll little mouth was drawn up in an "O",

making it easier forthwith from the vomit to flow;

I leapt over puddles of still steaming puke

to reach my poor daughter and give no rebuke;

While trying quite hard not to step in the yak

I murmured kind words, held her hair, rubbed her back.

And where was my husband, I hear you all wonder,

A sleeping pill he'd taken had put him quite under;

Once finished, I started a nice steamy shower,

And pre pared her toothbrush with all of my power;

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,

And stripped down her bed, rugs, stuffed animals, towels, sheets, pillowcases, dear god, you can't believe how much stuff she actually HIT with her vomit....

My daughter I fetched from the shower with care,

and dressed her in clean clothes and braided her hair,

Her temperature I took, it was 104.

I knew that I needed to also clean the floor,

And stuffing the laundry inside of the washer,

I found the kids motrin, a bucket and water.

I knew for a fact that I would not sleep that night,

so I cleaned up the floor, separated colors and whites.

My daughter was sick, there would be no sleep for me;

And indeed there was little, between the puke and the pee.

But I heard Influenza exclaim as it drove out of sight

"Got you Bitches! Enjoy your puke filled Christmas Night!"

* and still it continues- Day Two. Maybe sleep tonight?

Sometimes a peanut butter cup is just a peanut butter cup

Terrance has been away since last Wednesday. Which means I have been single parenting since last then.

I honestly do not know how single parents do it. The constantness of  a 12 year old is exhausting.

To make matters MORE....Em had Thursday and Friday off, so she and I have had full on 24/7 togetherness since Wednesday afternoon.

I am wrecked. Exhausted, short on patience and wrung out. My throat is sore and I have a raging sinus headache. I don't sleep well when Terrance is away, so that means I don't fall asleep until about 3 a.m. or so, only to be woken by Rabbits, Cats and Child bright and early the next morning wanting food.

So when Terrance rolled in last night, I was grateful to see him.

So grateful that I walked out in the living room at about 10 p.m. and offered up part of my secret stash:

Me: "Hey - you want a peanut butter cup?"

Terrance: "What?"

Me: "Do you want a peanut butter cup?"

Terrance: "A peanut butter cup? Is that a code word for sex?"

Me: "NO. I am offering you a peanut butter cup - as in an actual peanut butter cup!"

Terrance: "Oh. Maybe we should make peanut butter cup our code word for sex."

Me: "NO, because when your daughter asks me for peanut butter cups, it will eternally ruin the joy of the peanut butter cup for me because it will be a code word for sex and will be said by my daughter and just Ewwww."

Terrance: "Ok."

Me: "So do you want a peanut butter cup -a REAL one?"

Terrance: "No, but I would like to have sex."

Me: "I give up."

Family farm

My paternal grandparents were farmers, in Ohio.  As long as I knew my Grandmother Rouse, she was in a wheelchair. She had developed Multiple Sclerosis sometime around the time I was being born and I never remember her anywhere but in the wheelchair, in the front room of her house.

Even then, she was a comforting and gentle woman. She was fond of the grandchildren who ran through her house, yelling and making chaos as a houseful of grandchildren can. We rode ponies, we picked cucumbers and plums and generally ran wild in the hills of their farm.

There were a lot of grandchildren in the Rouse family. The five children produced in excess of 20 grandchildren, with my uncle Jack being the most prolific. I am pretty sure there may be a few unclaimed out in the world who belong in my paternal family line through Jackie.

I took photos of the farm, which has since been sold, when I went back to Ohio for my Maternal Grandmother's funeral. I walked, alone, around the buildings and barns. Even though it was February, the smell of tractor oil and old hay and long dead animals permeated the air.

I peeked into the windows, trying to see if anything had been left behind. I tried the door handles to see if the house was unlocked.

I wanted to see if my uncle Edwards name was still engraved in the window frames in the dining room, a left over from when he was a young boy and the origin of a story of my grandfathers rage at finding his youngest son carving the window frames he had made., and the whipping delivered after the discovery.

I wanted to see if I could see the space where my grandmothers tapestry of JFK hung was discolored. Or the spot where the picture of Jesus praying could be discerned. I wanted to smell the house and feel like 5 year old Dawn. Maybe I would even go into the basement, a place I had never gone past the top of the stairs for fear of what might be down there.

No, Nothing. No way in. So I wandered the grounds, looking, thinking, smelling.  A house my grandfather had built himself, at the corners of four counties so my grandmother could look out of each side of her house into a different place.

A place where I had climbed trees with swings and eaten plums after being warned that too many would make me sick. A place where I had wandered the gardens to find cucumbers to slice and place in vinegar for dinner, only to disturb sleeping garter snakes under wide leaves.  A place where I had ridden horses, bareback, through fields, or sat underneath old trusting ponies slapping horseflies before they could bite. A place where I fell in manure, and got caught up in barbed wire only to have my aunt wash the wounds with Mercurachrome...leading me to believe that the cure was much worse than the injury.

This was my family's farm, and to honor them I made a rug of my memories. A rug that will live in my house, and the house of my daughter and granddaughters so they can see what I saw.

Winter Kills

I still have good days and bad days, although the bad days are blessedly fewer than earlier in the year they can still creep up and smack me down. This new medication is working well for me. I am no longer sleeping for 14 hours at night, only to fall back to sleep 2 hours after I wake up. Yes, the good days are claiming more of my time.

However, last night was a bad night.  A combination of a cold, stress and a wounded soul that was bleeding out into the void kept me awake for a majority of the night. Despite my melatonin tablets. Despite my Rescue remedy. When I did sleep, it was blurry sleep from which you woke startled and unsure of the surroundings. I find myself staring at the quilt on my wall, having no idea what it is until it slowly refocuses into something my brain recognizes.

I signed up to receive the reverb10 prompts at the beginning of December. I had no intention of writing on them, daily, but I was curious.

The prompt that came on the 5th was one that sliced into my very core: What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

Letting go is the hardest thing in the world for me. Despite years of therapy, despite years of a well honed rational voice which can balance and counterbalance issues, it is the things that I desire, the people that I love that I grasp more tightly. Thanks to an oldest child's point of view combined with sheer force of will to MAKE IT WORK, I have been known to be the last man standing on many a project or relationship. Long after everyone else has moved on, I remain among the ashes waiting for the resumption of normalcy.

I had a close friendship die this year. Die? Change? Suspend itself in amber waiting to be reanimated? I can't say for sure, except that it hurt me deeply. The more I tried to fix it, the deeper the gulf became, so that at the end when anger and pleading and crying and withdrawing and gift giving and promises and everything else I could think of hadn't worked, I found myself just sitting by the side of the relationship, puzzled and forlorn.

I suffer Beautifully. Exquisitely. I rend. I gnash, I weep.

I envy the ability of others to simply pick up and move on. Because it is not a skill I seem to possess, it can seem almost magical to me the way one can just get past the wreckage. I, on the other hand, linger over ever sliver of wood, every crack, every fissure. I create stories to make sense of what I see, regardless of if the stories are true or not. I need to make sense out of the senseless and these stories of How and Why and When soothe me.

In my child like view of the people of the world as either Friends ( and therefore people I love) and everyone else, there can be a wonderful directness. You are either part of my circle, my clan, my pack....or you are not.
If you are part of that circle, if I have accepted you as one of my own, then you are close to my heart. I open to you in a way that the rest of the world can not imagine, for I keep myself closed and at a distance publicly.

A lover once told me that when we were in bed, my face opened up. It became, he said, like the Promise of Summer.

But when it closed?

My winter can be colder and more brutal than Montreal in January, scrubbing every tender thing from the earth.

It is Winter now.

Fear the Patriarchy

So I am surfing ye olde interwebs while listening to my "remember the 80's" music channel - cause I loves me some Whitensake served side by side to Bronski Beat, when I head on over to CNN to catch up on the American news.

And read this little gem of a headline: More Education means more Faith in Marriage

Hmm. I am intrigued. Is this going to tell me that we highly educated folk are as superior as Glenn Beck is always telling us we think we are, and this is why we value marriage More?

Ok, you got me CNN. I will click thorough and read your news article.

Nearly instantly, I wish I hadn't. First of all, let's make sure we understand the definitions. Highly educated = 4 year degree.  Moderately educated = High school grad, and some college but no 4 year degree.  I assume that least educated = High school, but I wasn't able to suss that out from the article.

With each paragraph making me feel worse,it was this the 7th paragraph which sealed the ridiculousness of this report for me.

Ready? It was this:

The report cites an adherence to a "marriage mindset," which means religious attendance and faith in marriage is now a way of life for the highly educated.

BWHAHAHAHahahahahahah. Oh, my. So highly educated = religious attendance and faith in marriage?
What kind of magical thinking is being used in the design of this study. We do know that cause does not equal effect right?  That staying married does not equal faith in the god of your choice and religious attendance. That highly educated does not equal Staying married, and that each permutation of the equation is as ridiculous as the next.

The author, Bradley Wilcox, clearly has an agenda. That agenda includes Marriage between a Man and a Woman, with a fairly healthy dose of Christianity thrown in as a qualifier. Take a look at his publications list. See any noticeable trends? Religion, Religion and more Religion.

I like this next gem from the CNN article too:

"The retreat from marriage in Middle America means that all too many Americans will not be able to realize the American Dream," he said.

Wow, Brad. That is quite a stretch, eh.  Retreat from marriage kills the American dream? I bet it has to do with the damn gays and lesbians. I bet it is THEM who is robbing us of our American dream, and not a punitive social system that forces many of the "least educated" families to not  marry since it would out them over the income limits for services ranging from housing assistance, to food, to child care, to health care.

How about the exorbitant cost of a 4 year degree? Did that factor into your study? That with the gutting of the school grants (Pell grants) system that more Americans can't even think about affording to go to college?

Oh yes, here it is, Your heterosexual bias:

"On average, marriage plays a key role in securing the welfare of children," said Wilcox, who added that studies show "children are much more likely to thrive if they are raised in a married home with their own mother and father."

Studies also show that children are more likely to thrive in homes where parents ( and notice here that I don't exclude my gay and lesbian fellow parents and citizens) are in healthy relationships. Some studies even talk about the issue of family STABILITY, versus structure. So keep your moralizing to yourself. I can whip out as many studies as you to disprove every word you say.

I also really loved the last paragraph in which:

"He also called on society to do a better job of pointing out the advantages of marriage, particularly when it comes to having children."

Um, Brad? I don't know if you touched upon this in your sociological degree, but the World has been stressing the "advantages" of marriage to Women for the last 2000 years of recorded history.  Frequently, this has been "pointed out" on pain of death, regardless of a womans desire to be married. And I am not sure if you read up on the whole persecution/societal labeling and disapproval of women who bear children out of wedlock thing, but it was still going on well into the 1980's when I was a teenager, and girls who found themselves pregnant would disappear to special homes and be kept out of sight until after the blessed event.

Should I even try to get into the pre 1973 Roe V Wade estimated death rates of women seeking abortions for unwanted pregnancies? About 1.2 million women is estimated.  Want to guess how many of them were unmarried? I am going to bet 2/3rds of them.  And you know it was only in 1972 that we established the right of unmarried people to be given contraceptives, right?

I once wrote a pointed Blog in which I explained how research can be bent to serve just about anyone's agenda, using the discredited and retracted research about the link between autism and vaccines.

I know this because I am part of Your club, Brad.  The researchers of the world. The academics. I know the game and how it is played, so I know you do as well.

Therefore, I am calling you out for your clear bias against Women, your clear bias against Gay and Lesbian families, as well as your blatant promotion of Religion as some sort of glue that is going to save society. In my eyes, you are just another man wielding a stick of fear that parents are going to harm our children if we don't follow your rules, wrapped in religion and marriage. And you wonder why we may fear the patriarchy, Brad?

As far as I can see,  your version of the "American Dream" hasn't offered much of anything to a majority of our citizens. Perhaps the problem isn't marriage, but people like you telling us all how we should be living our lives.

I go to Rio

I had a completely new experience yesterday. Well, kind of completely new, in so much as I added an external participant in my previously "solo" endeavor.

I think that I have demonstrated that I am not a shy woman. What with my continuous and inadvertent breast flashing to half of New Hampshire, one would think that I would be perfectly comfortable and willing to do just about anything.

So I figured. What the hell. It was time to move to the professionals. Even with my Yoga, I was not able to contort into the positions it would require to do a bang up job.

I booked the Brazilian.

I mentally prepared for the Brazilian, much as I mentally prepare for the Pap Smear. Come on, I know you all do it. Are my legs shaved? Lotioned? Toes painted. God forbid we let our hoo-ha doctor see us with ashy legs and chipped toenails...not while they are eye to eye with our holy of holies ( Ha-Ha! a Pun!)

I took my ibuprofen prior to, as indicated by all the web sites on which I researched this procedure. This was to help with swelling and discomfort.I also gave myself a trim. I mean, yes, this was a professional, but there is no need to go in looking like I let everything go to hell.

I arrive and enter the spa. I maintain my air of casual aloofness. As if I expose my nether regions to strangers on a daily basis. That this is "no big deal".I announce to the thin, gorgeous receptionist that I am here for my "Brazilian". You know, me and the Brazilian? Old friends. Best Buddies.

I was escorted to the tastefully decorated waiting area, where I lounged on a chaise. I maintained my air of casual nonchalance. Why, I bet EVERYONE in this place has Brazilians!

The "Wax Professional" arrives. And speaks to me in French.

Fuck. Fuck, Fuckity, Fuck. I immediately tense up. I mumble, "Bon Jour, Hello" - which is my way of alerting all French speakers that I am not one of them. She smiles. She changes to English, heavily accented, but English.

Ok, remain calm. Be Cool. You can do this, Dawn.

I am escorted to a lovely room. And then the charade falls, the gig is up, the canary begins to sing. I am revealed as a Brazilian impostor. She asks "Have you had a Brazilian before?"

"Um, well no, well yes, I mean I have never had one done professionally, I've done them myself...but not very well, which is why I decided to just suck it up and have it done professionally, so I guess , kind of."

I stop myself. Hey-zeus, I am rambling. Her smile does not falter. She begins to explain the different versions of the Brazilian. The demi, the full, the front, the back. Do I want everything off? Do I want a strip left, a patch, a smiley face? Do I want the hair to remain on the lips, or all hair off the lips? I may have gone a little wild eyed at this juncture. Did she just ask me about my lips? Are we discussing my .....labia?

I smile.."Let's just do everything." Cause I can not discuss the benefits of hair on or off my "lips". I just can't. Not to mention that I am pretty sure I just agreed to bare my ass for internal waxing. But, I'm in it now. We might as well just go for the gusto.

Now. Here is where is gets REALLY funny.

She tells me to take off my skirt, but to leave my thong on. In my panic, I mishear her and assume that she wants me to take my underwear OFF and lay on the table. I mean, I don't want to seem prudish.

So I do it. I take everything off and lay down on the table. Midsection on, exposed. Trying to look as if I do this all the time.

And she sees me. In direct violation of her first order to keep my underwear ON, I am laying there panty free. She hesitates. She struggles for the question.

"You did not have any underwear on?"

I begin to ramble, apologizing at the same time. I thought you said..I didn't understand, I am SO SORRY. She hands me a paper thong, which I now most ungraciously try to wriggle my ass into, while still remaining in the prone "on the table" position.

I grow silent. I am the worst Brazilian wax client EVER. They are going to be talking about me in the "Spa break room" for ages: "And I told her to leave her underwear On, and when I came back she was laying there with her underwear OFF!"

The good news? My social shame had now made me forget what was about to happen next. I didn't even remember to tense up. For the waxing had begun.

It feels like what you expect. I had done this at home many times, so the sensation was not shocking. In fact, it was easier to take when you aren't doing it yourself - kind of like having someone else take out a splinter.

Until we got to the aforementioned "Lips". Wow. That was a unique pain. As I am not a "yeller", I merely got very wide eyed and took a very deep breath in. She was talking me through it, and was being quite soothing, but still! Ouch!

And here is my second tidbit of advice. In your "pre-wax" prep, Don't trim any hairs too short. For you will be rewarded for your effort by individual tweezing of these hairs which are not picked up by the wax. Each and Every One. And it will feel like an eternity.

By the time we got around to flipping over for the ass section of the waxing, I was filled with endorphins and way past caring. This chick had just spent 35 minutes staring, with a large powerful light, and Tweezers at my Mons Venus. My ass was not going to phase her in the least.

"Voila!", she announced. And we were done.

I got dressed, and exited the room. She met me at reception where I resisted the impulse to Hug her. I felt as if we had just been through battle, together. Instead, I shook her hand, and left her a hell of a good tip. And booked my next one.

Originally posted in October 17, 2006

Child Abuse is no Cartoon

I'm sorry Facebook Friends, I will not change my profile picture to show how much I hate child abuse.

Aside from the utterly counterintuitive plea to put a human face on child abuse...by making my icon a cartoon, I don't need to put a human face to child abuse.

I was that face of child abuse.

When I grew up, I took care of children who had been abused by the adults who were supposed to love them. Deprived them of food and medical care, lived with known sexual predators, allowed the new babies father to beat up on the five year old child with another man....Oh yes, I know them all. Some overwhelmed, some addicted or addled, others just beaten down too far under the wheel of generational poverty or abuse to know a different life.

I read the files. I saw the court documents. I was screamed at by the parents who had been found to be guilty of these crimes when I refused to allow them to provide child care to other peoples children.  Not a cartoon character among them.

You want to help? Really?

Because it is going to involve sacrifice. Turning off your computers and getting out into your community, you are going to have to interact with other people who may make you very uncomfortable. You are going to have to do things like call in concerns to child protective service agencies, or maybe even offer to help a parent in a grocery store who looks overwhelmed instead of clucking to yourself under your breath.

You are going to have to offer up more of your salaries in taxes, so programs like WIC and food stamps, and school lunch programs can be expanded. You are going to have to vote for politicians who value quality early childhood education and care and high quality after school care so that parents who are working can know that their child is not home alone or on the street. You are going to have to subsidize higher salaries for the professionals who work in these programs so we know that the highest caliber of teachers are working with these children, because 7.50 an hour isn't much of a living wage.

How about donating money to your local fuel assistance program? Because it is hard to feel safe when you are freezing.

But you know all that, right? Cause you are so dedicated to stopping child abuse that you changed your facebook profile to a cartoon.

I am sure the abused children around the world will sleep easier tonight.

Sisyphus

Tomorrow is Parent Teacher Conference.

It is also the day I meet with the school psychologist and special education team who oversee Emily's IEP.

In many ways, one could assume that I am a pro at these meetings. I have been dancing this dance since she was  three years old and I asked for testing for her speech issues. Not to mention the whole multiple degrees in education thing.

The truth though? Is that I dread these meetings.

In past year, it was Emily's teacher that I disliked.  I dreaded having to sit in a room with her and listen to her talk about my child, whom we both know she didn't like. Well, to be fair she didn't like anybody who required her to put any effort into differentiated teaching, and my kid had the additional misfortune to have two parents who were educated about what Emily needed and prepared to be as loud a pair of advocates as ever befell this teacher.

I have no doubt that there was a celebratory drink and cigarette had by her the day she realized that we were insisting Emily be removed from her class.

Now that Emily has moved to a new classroom, this issue does not worry me. Her new teacher and I have met a number of times, both informally and more formally. We email, we send notes, we talk when I am in the school volunteering. I feel confident that she views Emily through a similar lens as her father and I view her.  Smart, Capable, Funny, Tenacious...but needing certain things in her learning environment modified in order for her to be successful.

No, it is the psychologist that I dread meeting this time.

The system in place for special education in Montreal is, quite frankly, abysmal. I can't speak for the French schools in the city, but the English schools? Just awful.

When I hand delivered Emily's IEP to the school when we arrived, I knew something was....Off. In the States everything is highly regulated, by law.  You have X number of days to assess, then X number of days to call a meeting of the team, then X number of days to implement.  Here? There is none of that.

In New Hampshire, Emily was receiving speech therapy, occupational therapy and specialized phonemic exercises. Here? I was told that the one speech therapist that is shared by the schools in my district would not have time to see my daughter. Besides, her issues were not nearly bad enough to warrant therapy. And Occupational Therapy?  After they stopped laughing, the answer was No.  When I asked about when the team would meet to discuss her IEP, I was told that someone would "read it" and "get back" to us.

Two years later, I finally got someone to talk to me about Emily's IEP when the school got a Resource coordinator.

It has taken me nearly two additional years to get the school district psychologist to see Emily. Two Years of calling in favors from people I know at McGill to get names of the right people to talk to, two years of writing letters to School District officials and government representatives.

In September, the school psychologist came in to "test" Emily.  Why? When her father and I have pointedly disavowed testing?

Sigh.  In Montreal, in addition to having a terrible special education system also has language laws.If we plan to apply for permanent residency ( which would give us health insurance...since we have been living here and playing taxes/filing income tax with Canada since 2006) then she would be forced into a French Immersion school.

Unless....Well, unless I prove to them that to be placed in French Immersion would be more detrimental to their system than is worth for them.  As in cost them far more money to service her special educational needs in French, in addition to all the other things.  If I can prove that, then and only then will they give me a waiver to keep her in English school. It's a game. A sick game of who has to pay and superiority of language and culture.

I hate that I have to play it. I hate that I even have to wade in the English versus French bullshit that goes on in this city. I hate that the English school system receives far less funding than the French schools which makes their special education systems even worse.

But I do it, because above all else, I must protect Emily's desire to learn. Above all else, I must make sure that she is in a place where she can learn. To do that, I have to wade into cultural issues that are far beyond my comprehension to fight for the right for my daughters education to remain in English.

This psychologist is a gatekeeper of that right, with her tests.

Tomorrow, I suit up again. My armor is a bit more battered from every battle survived and I am getting tired.
I must lock my mother love of my daughter away, far under the armor, so it can not be used against me or catch me unawares and expose my soft and vulnerable places.

Which remains, as always, Her.

My child. My External Soul.